The Nature of Cruelty (2 page)

I know what most people would be thinking: the little fucking
shithead
. That's not what I thought at the time, though. At the time I told him to piss off, held in my tears, ran from the house, and locked myself up in my bedroom, where I cried for days. I was so easily upset as a kid, hyper sensitive to the tiniest little thing.

This is just one example of hundreds of others. It's strange how the people who end up in your life can shape you for the worst.

I've managed to grow up and gain confidence without him in my life these past six years. I'm actually unsure as to whether I should be going to London for the summer to live with his sister at all, because I'm inevitably going to run into him at some point. The problem is, Robert is and always will be my “look how great my life is now” person. You know, that one individual from your past who you really want to run into when you're looking drop-dead gorgeous, just to show them how much better than them you really are. 

I know, it's irrational and foolish, but I want Robert to see me now with my clear alabaster complexion and my hourglass figure. I want him to know that despite him always telling me I was stupid and ugly, I'm now an attractive grown woman, about to start my doctorate after receiving first class honours in my degree and my masters.

Unlike me, Robert dropped out of school at eighteen just before completing his Leaving Certificate. He was lucky, though (or spoiled, depending on how you want to look at it), because he walked straight into a job in PR provided by his precious daddy. Robert has the perfect personality for public relations, because, like his father, he can make you believe he's the most trustworthy, honest guy around, yet underneath it there's selfishness and little else.

“It's late,” I say to Sasha, who's still chatting down the line. “I'm going to go get some sleep.”

“Okay, then, talk to you tomorrow, kid.”

I roll my eyes at her pet name for me. She seems to think that just because she's two years older that she's so much more grown up.

I click the “end” button and rest my head against my pillow, while memories of Robert's cruelty drift through my mind, causing my heart to stutter.

As I walk through the arrivals gate at Heathrow one week later (rape alarm safely secured in my carry-on bag), my eyes immediately pinpoint Sasha, who's galloping towards me with a massive smile on her face. She scoops me up into her arms and gives me a long, squeezy hug.

Sasha is around 5 foot 11, which makes me feel like a short arse, since I'm only 5 foot 3. The long, dark brown hair she had as a teenager is now cut short and dyed a honey shade of blonde. Both she and her brother have what I like to term the “wow” factor in looks; when you walk into a room, they're the ones who are most pleasing to stare at. Of course, Sasha is the only one who's pretty on the inside.

Not only are we polar opposites looks-wise, we're also polar opposites when it comes to fashion. Sasha is quite tomboyish with her jeans, boots, and leather jackets, whereas I like to describe my own personal style as “granny chic.” I enjoy finding old stuff in secondhand shops that your granny would have worn back in the day and pairing them with something modern. Pretentious, yes. I'm not doing it to be hip and different; these are just the sorts of clothes I find appealing. For instance, right now I have on a cream knitted cardigan with fake pearl buttons, a calf-length, flower-print skirt, and green Converse.

“I can't believe you're finally here,” Sasha enthuses. “Come on, let me take some of your bags.”

I'm currently laden down with a wheelie suitcase, a massive handbag, a laptop case, and a backpack. Sasha and I make our way to her car, where she stuffs all of my luggage in the boot and then drops down into the driver's seat.

“Whew, I need a cigarette after all that,” she says with a grin, making a show of wiping her sweaty brow.

“If you didn't smoke so much, then you'd probably be better able for the heavy lifting.” I laugh and secure my seatbelt.

“WOT-EVA,” Sasha replies loudly, whipping out her packet of Marlboro Lights. I watch her as she savours the first drag before resting her arm on the back of my seat and pulling out of the parking spot.

“So,” I say to her on the drive, “whatever happened with Tim? Or was it Jim?”

Sasha goes on a lot of dates with a lot of men. Tim/Jim was her latest.

She purses her lips. “Tim. He was okay, I suppose. He's a photographer where I work. Nice bloke and all, but he didn't exactly blow me away.”

“Another one bites the dust, eh?” I smile, and she grins at me out of the corner of her eye, then turns up the volume on the radio when “Changes” by David Bowie comes on. We both laugh as we sing at the top of our lungs, sailing down the motorway.

When we pull into the driveway at Sasha's house in Finchley, I have to do a double take. The place is fancy with a capital “F.” It might not seem so fancy to people who are used to it, but I'm not used to it.

It's a fully refurbished, four-bedroom, red brick Edwardian house with bay windows. I have a soft spot for bay windows. Oh, and those little round ones you sometimes see on older buildings. This place doesn't have a round window; however, that doesn't take anything away from its appeal. Sasha's been living here by herself for the past year. The place belongs to her dad.

“I can't believe your dad's owned this house for years and has never even lived in it,” I exclaim.

Sasha shrugs. “He sees property as an investment, or some shit like that. Sometimes he buys houses and keeps them until the time is right to sell so that he can make a profit. Don't ask — that stuff goes right over my head.”

“I can imagine. You're not exactly Mensa material,” I reply jokingly, as Sasha slots her key in the front door and we make our way inside.

She grins at me. “Shut up, cheeky.”

We leave my bags in the hallway and go into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. That's when my heart practically stops beating, because standing by the counter, taking a bite out of a sandwich, is Robert.

The last time I saw him was two years ago, and that was only from far away when I'd looked out the window and seen him visiting with his mum. I've built him up in my head so much over the years that he almost doesn't seem real. The bruises beneath his eyes from the “husband bashing” he took are almost healed, and his dark brown hair looks a mess. He's wearing a rumpled black dress shirt, a loosened silver tie, and grey pants. He is dishevelled but beautiful, looking like he just got home after a night out.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Sasha asks, annoyed. She knows how Robert's presence might make me feel uneasy, so she's clearly pissed off that he's decided to let himself into her house (not to mention helped himself to a sandwich).

Despite all of the times I imagined seeing Robert again, and how I thought I would be confident and breezy in the face of his arrogant stare, I find myself reverting back into my tortoise shell. My cheeks blaze red as I let my eyes drop to the floor, just as his deep brown gaze locks in on me. There's a calculating look in his eyes, like he's figuring out some new and creative form of torture. Only now that he's an adult, his abuse will probably be ten times more elaborate.

“Well, look who it is,” he declares. “Tampon all grown up.” He grins and dusts some breadcrumbs from his hands, eyes travelling over my body in a strange way. His brow furrows a little then as he takes his time lingering over my face.

“Tampon” is one of the cruder names he thought up for me over the years. “Ginger minge” and “Fanta pants” were close seconds.

“Call her that one more time and you’re dead. I told you Lana was coming today,” Sasha informs him coolly. “You're not supposed to be here.”

I glance up just as Robert drags his gaze away from me to look at his sister. He grins with teeth. “Yeah, about that — you know how Kara moved into the penthouse a few days ago?” he asks.

Sasha nods impatiently and gestures for him to continue.

“Well, we had a fight, decided to break up, and now she's locked me out of the apartment. This was the closest place I could think to go.”

Kara is Robert's long-term, on again/off again girlfriend. I take it they were having one of their “off” periods while Robert was with the married woman. Although you never know with him. Sasha's told me all about Kara and how she and Robert have this intense, drama-fuelled relationship. They're always getting into fights and cheating on one another, then enjoying passionate reunions. I don't get why people can't just fall in love and be happy with one another these days.

“What the fuck, Rob? It's
your
apartment, not hers. If the two of you had a fight, then it should be you kicking her out.” She pauses to run a hand through her short hair, making the ends go all spiky. “I don't need to be dealing with this right now.”

Robert puts on what I have come to think of over the years as his “puppy dog face,” which always seems to win Sasha over.

“I would have kicked her out, but she was acting like a hysterical nut, throwing shit all over the place. I decided it was better to leave before she tried boiling my bunny. Oh, please, Sash, just let me stay here for a few nights.” He puts his palms together in a begging gesture.

Sasha smirks at the “bunny boiler” comment. “What about the place in Finsbury Park — can't you go and stay there?”

“Nope. Dad's got the builders in. They're installing new pipes or something.” Robert crosses his arms over his chest, a very faint smug gleam in his eye. You wouldn't recognise it if you weren't used to studying him, like I am. He knows she's about two seconds away from giving in.

Sasha looks to me with an apologetic expression. I shrug. Perhaps living in the same house as Robert for a couple of days will finally enable me to move past the hold he seems to have on me. It's like I have this urge to triumph over that hold. Show him that he means nothing to me and can't make me feel like crap with a simple condescending look any longer.

Sasha walks over and places both of her hands on my shoulders. She ducks down so she's at my eye level. Her voice is sincere when she asks, “Do you mind if he stays, kid? Just say the word, and I'll kick him out on his arse.”

I try to come across as nonchalant, like the idea of sharing the same space as Robert is a mere blip on my radar, when really it’s a gigantic flashing red light blurring my vision. “No, I don't mind. This is your house, Sash.”

Her brown eyes take me in. They are the exact same brown eyes as Robert's, even though they aren't identical twins, yet somehow hers don't make me feel quite so insignificant.

Sasha lets out a long breath, still deciding. She seems to come to a resolution. “Okay, then.” She turns back to Robert. “You can sleep in the back bedroom. And if you make a mess, you'd better clean it up.”

Robert smiles deviously. “Thanks, sis. You know I love ya.”

I resist the urge to snicker sarcastically. Robert wouldn't know love if it hit him square between the eyeballs. A second later, as Sasha goes to put on the coffee machine, Robert looks at me with an odd mixture of challenge and confusion in his eyes. Perhaps my acceptance of him staying here has taken him by surprise. I repeat a mantra in my head.
You're a strong twenty-two-year-old woman, Lana Sweeney. You can do this. Robert Phillips is nothing. He has no worth.

There's a small, awkward silence as Sasha digs some cups out of the cupboard. Robert continues eating his sandwich, and I sit down on a stool on the other side of the marble countertop. He has this way of making the room feel smaller, his presence alone sucking up all the space. His eyes flicker up to mine, and I force myself to hold his gaze. I will not allow him to cow me.

“What happened — did you walk into a wall or something?” I ask, feigning concern and resting my sweaty palms on top of my thighs. I need to show a strong, confident front if I'm ever going to survive these few days living with him. With my sanity still intact, that is.  

His expression turns hard. “No, actually, my girlfriend's been beating on me. I had to call a helpline.” His sarcasm knows no bounds.

“Hmm, normally I'd be shocked, but somehow I can believe you'd drive even a saint to violence.”

Robert lets out a little snicker and shakes his head. He finishes off his sandwich and goes to rinse the plate in the sink. When he turns back, he's smiling at me with his white teeth all showing. Okay, I never realised how creepy his smile could be.

“What are you grinning at?” I ask, trying to ignore the goose pimples on my arms.

Sasha hands me my cup of coffee and looks between the two of us questioningly.

“I think I'm going to enjoy having you around, Lana,” he says, his voice low. This is weird. He never calls me Lana; he always calls me by one of the many derogatory nicknames he deigns to think up.

“Rob, you better not start any of your usual shit with Lana. She's here to relax before she starts her Ph.D. She doesn't need you playing your games.” Sasha points her finger at him. “Seriously, I will fucking end you if you begin acting like a brat.”

Robert glances at me and raises one dark eyebrow. “You're doing a Ph.D.?”

I glance away and then back at him. “Uh, yes, when I go back home.”

He laughs. “Well, who would have thought you'd turn out to have a brain inside that little head.” He claps his hands together. “Come on, sis, let's show Lana to her new room.”

“Get lost, Rob. We're having coffee, and then
I'll
show Lana to her room. You shouldn't even be here, so you can make yourself scarce.”

I take a sip of my coffee as the two siblings square off. A moment later Robert slides right up next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Aw, come on, I haven't seen my good friend Lana here properly in years. I want to stick around and play catch-up.”

My lungs freeze a little. His warm, muscled arm is on me, and I don't know how to feel about it. What new trick is he hatching? He's being nice, which is a first, but I don't believe it to be genuine. He can't have changed that much in six years, can he? To be honest, I'm sort of intrigued by his unexpected behaviour. Don't get me wrong, I'm not falling for it, but I want to see where he's going with this.