‘What it is is not for you.’
‘Is . . . is that MacDonald’s?’ The question is barely out of his mouth when he almost launches himself across the table. Meanwhile, I can feel my lip curling in disgust.
‘That’s what it says on the bag, doesn’t it?’ She whips the bag away before he can reach it.
‘MacDonald’s?’ I repeat, my response oozing with disgust. Disgust that goes unheard as the pair begin to bicker over the contents of the trans-fat filled bag.
‘I didn’t bring lunch for you,’ she says, holding the brown paper bag tighter.
‘Heidi,’ he says, infusing this with what I imagine sounds like charm to him. ‘You know you’re asking for it.’
‘Ta guele,’ I snarl. Shut it.
‘Relax,’ he replies, unmoved. ‘Mickey D’s milkshakes bring all the boys to the yard.’
‘Yeah, well, this milkshake isn’t for you,’ she retorts.
‘You can’t get a boy all raring to go and expect him to turn it off like that. Not when there’s a Big Mac on offer.’
Chin high, she swings the bag behind her. ‘A lucky guess. And why do you keep calling me Heidi?’ Though her voice is strong, the high colour of her cheeks gives away her disquiet.
‘The braid and the scarf thingy in your hair,’ he answers without missing a beat. ‘You look like you should be running through meadows with a St. Bernard at your heels.’
Rhett is usually pretty good on his feet, but it’s fortunate that she’s wearing her hair as she is, or perhaps fortunate that he chose to say it within her hearing today. Heidi isn’t meant as a compliment; it’s just a way that he gets to goad me. Remind me of where this all started. The knots he’s convinced I’m tying myself in. The fact that she worked in a strip club. Like I even give a fuck. ‘Come on, love,’ he resumes. ‘Give up the chips.’
‘No fries for you. Is he telling the truth?’ She angles her gaze my way, seeking my reassurance. This doesn’t come as a surprise. What does, however, is the sudden prick of conscience I experience.
One more lie I’m complicit in.
‘Would I lie to you?’ he asks, hands out like a priest giving a sermon. ‘Yesterday, you looked like a sexy assassin. You had your hair poker straight and tied up on top of your head. You know what I called you then?’
‘No, and I don’t think I want to.’ Despite her cool tone, he answers anyway.
‘Villanelle.’
My mind is still whirling that he called her sexy, though I somehow register his response. ‘Like poetry?’ Why does it feel worse to me that he thinks of Rose as poetry over sexy? Why? The man can barely recount a limerick.
Rhett glances my way, looking as confused as I feel. ‘Poetry? It’s a program on TV. Fuck hot Russian assassin? Lesbian undertones?’
‘Well, this has been . . . real.’ Rose shakes her head like a horse shaking off flies.
She dumps the bag on the table again as Rhett dives for it, sliding into the chair at the head of the table with a triumphant, ‘Yes!’
‘There’s a shake, Big Mac, fries, and twelve chicken nuggets,’ she says, rubbing her hand against her forehead. ‘I didn’t know what you wanted—’
It wasn’t greasy fast food, and I’m sure my expression conveys this perfectly. The only thing I had any intention of eating this afternoon was her.
‘—but maybe you can share or something.’
‘I don’t want fast food.’ I’m aware how petulant I sound, but this isn’t faked disappointment. Fast food or a slow screw—or even just a few minutes with Rose in his arms—which would any man choose?
‘Yeah, well, I don’t want to spend today pandering to rich people, but here I am anyway.’
‘That’s your job,’ I point out, none too nicely, I fear, judging by her expression. But the way she’s looking at me doesn’t keep me at bay.
‘Lucky me, huh? I get to nanny for babies in grown-up bodies. Babies in control of a large portion of the world’s wealth, yet they can’t even order a salad or a sandwich for themselves.’
‘You don’t have a dog and bark yourself.’ That was an unpleasant analogy and one I wish I could inhale, dispel, but fuck it, this isn’t how I planned my day to go. She said she was too tired to spend time with me Sunday and can barely look at me right now. And now I’m being a bastard to her when all I want to do is take her in my arms and kiss the hurt from her face.
‘Rose—’ Even her name doesn’t sound as gentle as it should.
‘No one could ever accuse you of having a silver tongue,’ Rhett mutters. ‘Ignore him. He must have low blood sugar.’
‘I do not need you to make excuses for me.’
‘Your funeral. You can’t help some people.’ He holds up the flaccid looking burger as though in thanks. ‘If you ever want anyone killed, Heidi, just give me a shout. Anyone but him,’ he amends as her eyes flick my way again.