Page 37 of Anything but Easy
Her dazed expression cleared and she threw back her head, that glorious laugh filling the room. I stared at her, my chest constricting almost painfully. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.
And, just like that rollercoaster, she scared the shit out of me.
Chapter 15
Don’t throw it away
Kira
“Henners?” I called through the door again. “I’m not going away, you big knobhead.”
Now, maybe calling someone with clinical depression (due to a chronic disease that they felt was destroying their life) aknobheadwas not an accepted approach, but I’d been standing in that freezing fucking corridor for twenty minutes and I was losing patience. Why did rich peeps live in such cold houses? Was thatwhythey were so rich? Because they never turned on the chuffing heating? My flat might be a tad bit shit, but I heated that fucker up to a comfortable twenty degrees whatever the weather. If living in a multi-million pound terrace in Westminster meant freezing your tits off, you could count me out.
“Cockwomble,” I sing-songed, which gave me an idea. “Okay, maybe you’re not going to open up for me, but I’ve decided you shall suffer for this.” I braced my hands on either side of the door and started singing the guitar intro toShould I Stay or Should I Go? by The Clash, beating out the drum rhythm on the wood.
“I should let you know at this point,” I paused to say after the first couple of lines, “that despite the lyrics I’m about to sing, I’m not actuallyaskingfor your advice. I’mgoingto stay until you open the door or are driven insane.” As I launched back into it, the door flew open and Henry’s infuriated eyes locked with mine.
“I’m warning you,” I told him, threateningly, “I once sangCareless Whisperat Libby for over an hour to get my own way. That’s alotof George Michael. EvenIcan’t listen to that shit anymore. If you don’t talk to me, then that’s what you’ll get.”
“Ugh!” he cried, pushing back from the doorframe to barrel into the living room. His hair was dishevelled, he was in dire need of a shave, and, by the smell of him, a good few days past needing a shower. “What the fuck do you want from me? I’m taking my meds, aren’t I? You don’t have to keep hassling me.”
“I’m not your doctor, Henry,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest as I watched him storm over to the sofa and fling himself down on it. “I’m here as your friend.”
“Whatever,” he said under his breath and I narrowed my eyes at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You expect me to believe my brother’s not paying you? That he hasn’t been paying you from the beginning? Bullshit. That was just a show you both put on for me to make me think that you were myfriend.”
“It is not bullshit you . . . you . . .badger’s arsehole,” I shouted at him, and he flinched, his eyes going wide. He stared at me for minute and, thank you God, I saw his lips twitch – it was faint and it was masked quickly, but it was there. “Stop being a dick.” I flung myself down next to him and elbowed him in the ribs.
“I’m not sure Barclay’s dragged you here to call me a cockwomble, a knobhead, a dick and abadger’s arsehole. What the fuck kind of insult is that, anyway? You’re soweird.”
“If your brother was paying me, do you think I’d come here, insult you – and, btw, my insults are creative and awesome,notweird – shout at you and physically assault you?” I elbowed him in the ribs again then reached up to his chest, put my hand on the thin material of his t-shirt, pinched along it hoping to gather chest hair, and then gave it a yank.
“Ow! Shit!” he shouted, pushing me away from him and scooting down the sofa as far as he could get. He pulled his t-shirt away from his body and looked down it. “You just pulled a clump of hair out of my goddamn chest, you lunatic.”
“Well, you were pissing me off.”
He sighed, eying me warily as he pushed up from the sofa to collapse into the chair opposite. I jerked forward as if to make a dash towards him and he flinched. I grinned. He rolled his eyes.
“What will it take for you to leave me alone?” he asked.
“Er, I’m not going toleave you alone,” I sang the last bit – it was just too easy. Henry let out a groan. “So best get used to that fact. I am, however, going to serenade you until you comply with my wishes.”
“Which are?”
The grin I’d been sporting since managing to extract actual chest hair dimmed, and I leaned forward on the sofa.
“Barclay tells me that you’re not leaving the flat. That you’ve stopped even coming up to the main house for meals. He’s worried about you.I’mworried about you.”
“Listen, I’m not going to boycott my meds like before, okay? You don’t have anything to worry about. I just need to be alone.”
“You know it’s not just getting the tablets down your throat that I’m concerned about, Henry. I think you’ve sunk back into a clinical depression.”
Henry snorted. “Being an antisocial wanker does not equate to clinical depression, Dr Murphy.”
“No, no it doesn’t,” I said, before softening my tone. “But you know what does? A feeling of hopelessness, difficulty with sleeping, lack of motivation, thoughts that it would be better for everyone if you just weren’t there anymore, lack of appetite – all of thosedoequate to clinical depression, Henry.”
