Page 10 of Only a Monster

Across the room, the late-afternoon sun splashed against the half-dusted painting. ‘I didn’t finish dusting the frame,’ Joan realised. There was half an hour of work left on it. ‘I’ll do it before we go.’

Nick’s voice was gentle. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’

Tomorrow. Joan didn’t know how to think about tomorrow. She could barely imagine tonight. She let her head fall back against the wall. The painting was nearly life-size, but from here it looked like one of the miniatures. It was a portrait of a man in Regency-era hunting clothes. He was standing under an oak tree, chin at a haughty tilt.

Nick followed Joan’s gaze. ‘Astrid calls him Hottie McTottie,’ he said, and Joan was surprised into a laugh. To be honest, though, she’d always thought the man in the portrait looked more cruel than anything. There was a corpse of a fox at his feet, and the tip of his shoe was on the fox’s neck. The artist had painted his eyes as cold and predatory. ‘They say he once owned the house,’ Nick said.

Joan pictured all the empty rooms around them. ‘Can you imagine what it must have been like when just one family lived here?’ she wondered. ‘So much space.’

Nick looked up at the ceiling: a series of skylights, interspersed with silver stars against evening blue. ‘I can’t imagine growing up here,’ he said. ‘My family had a tiny place when I was small. Eight of us in a two-bedroom flat.’ He sounded more relaxed as he said that—more like they were having a normal conversation.

‘Eight?’ Joan said, surprised. He’d spoken a little about his brothers and sisters before, but Joan hadn’t realised there were so many of them.

‘Three brothers and two sisters,’ he said. ‘My brothers and I all slept in the TV room until I was seven. But we didn’t mind. It was nice, you know? Cosy.’

‘Yeah,’ Joan said, thinking of when she stayed with Gran. She liked Dad’s serene house, but she liked living with the Hunts in summer too. She always had, anyway. She wasn’t sure how she felt now. She closed her eyes for a moment. The back of her throat felt tight with tears.

Nick hesitated. Joan could tell what he wanted to ask. She braced herself, dreading the question. But Nick just shifted slightly so that they were sitting closer, their arms touching.

They sat like that while Joan collected herself. ‘What’s your family like?’ she managed.

Nick hesitated again. She could feel his eyes on her. ‘We didn’t have much, growing up,’ he said. ‘My parents taught us to look after each other. To be good to each other. To help people in need. I believe it—I believe we should help people if we can.’ Someone else might have had a self-mocking tone—to show they knew it was hokey. But Nick just said it. Like he meant it.

Joan looked down at her hands—the hands that had stolen life yesterday. She’d always believed that too. Earnestly, like Nick. She wanted to be like that. She’d thought she was like that.

After that conversation with Gran, Joan had felt as if she was turning into something she didn’t understand. Now, talking to Nick, she wondered if there might be a way to find herself again. To just be Joan. Could she, even knowing what she was?

‘My dad always taught me that too,’ she said.

She told Nick about Dad and her extended family in Malaysia. About how she was an only child. And then—more tentatively—about being one of three cousins the same age when she stayed with the Hunts.

They talked for a long time. The conversation meandered from family to people at the house and then to anyone that occurred to them. When the words finally petered out again, Joan was relieved to find that the awkwardness was gone. The silence felt normal. Comfortable.

‘I don’t usually talk about myself this much,’ Nick said. He sounded uncertain, as though he was afraid he’d been boring her.

Joan leaned her head against the wall beside his. ‘I like talking to you,’ she said. She thought about how tentative he’d been when he’d asked her out. He was so good-looking. Movie star good-looking. There must have been people falling all over him at home, but he seemed as new to this as she was.

‘I like being with you,’ Joan said. ‘I—Nick, I really wanted to go on that date. I really wanted to. I got all dressed up.’ She wasn’t dressed up now, she realised wryly. She’d barely thought about clothes when she’d gotten up. She’d pulled on a dress over a tank top and bike shorts.

‘Yeah?’ Nick smiled, a little shy. ‘I got dressed up too. Not like a suit, but . . . there was a nice jacket.’

Joan turned her head to look at him properly. ‘Yeah?’ she echoed. The curators had put Nick in a Regency costume once, when one of the professional actors had been sick. The trousers had been tight around his thighs, the jacket straining around his muscled shoulders.

Joan heard the rhythm of her own breath change first. Nick touched her cheek and then Joan couldn’t breathe at all. She’d never kissed anyone before. Nick’s warm hand shifted to tilt up her head. She felt Nick’s shaky breath—a warm puff against her mouth. He was nervous too.

Joan’s breath caught as his mouth touched hers. Nick lifted up just enough to smile at her again. She smiled back. She suddenly didn’t feel nervous at all. She pushed her hands into Nick’s hair and kissed him. She felt warm and shivery all over. She shifted her weight, sliding her hands down to—

She jerked away fast, shocked at herself. She couldn’t touch his neck.

‘Hmm?’ Nick seemed dazed from the kiss. ‘Joan?’ Then he sat up a little, frowning. ‘Did you hear that?’

Joan registered it too then. Tires crunching over gravel. It was a sound she’d never heard here. Cars weren’t allowed this close to the house. Lights washed in through the windows.

Joan scrambled to her feet and so did Nick. The sun had started to set. How long had they been sitting here, talking?

There was a black car in the courtyard below. ‘I didn’t know they held functions here,’ Joan said. Three more cars were arriving. A distant warning bell went off in her mind. Where had she seen cars like that before?

Nick still seemed to be feeling the kiss. He took a deep breath, visibly gathered himself. His thick hair was rumpled from Joan’s hands. ‘We should probably go.’

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