For a split second he winces, but then he covers it up with a laugh. “You are fiery these days, aren’t you?” He glances at my hair, which has curled a little because I slept on it damp. “I suppose it matches those locks.” His eyes move lower and stay there. “Now, that’s a good look for you.”
I narrow my eyes, not knowing what he’s getting at, before I glance down to see I’m braless. Feeling indignant, I reply, “What, breasts? I should hope so. Women are generally supposed to have a pair.”
He gives me a vague look that’s almost a grin, but not quite. “Nipples, too.”
“Huh?” I say, embarrassed now, rubbing at the back of my head. Two seconds in Robert’s company, and I can already feel a headache coming on.
He leans in closer, and I jump back instinctively. He keeps coming, though. His breath whispers over my cheek when he gets close enough, and he says, “Women have nipples, too. And I can see yours.”
Okay, that’s the last straw. I push him away from me, hard. Then I get up and push him to the door, and then out into the hallway. “Stay away from me, Rob. I’m serious. I’m not getting sucked into your games this time.”
He’s laughing now. “Sasha’s downstairs. She told me to call you for dinner. Chinese, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. And staring at me while tapping your fingers is not the same thing as calling me.”
He shrugs and then asks randomly, “Do you remember that one Halloween when you dressed up as a witch?”
His question brings on a chill. I know exactly which Halloween he’s referring to. I was fifteen, and he was seventeen. Sasha and I were drinking a bottle of cider up in her bedroom while Rob and his friends partied downstairs. Their mum had been gone out to visit relatives. I didn’t get as drunk as Sasha though, and when she passed out I decided it was time for me to go home.
Making my way down the stairs, I bumped into Robert. Before I could react, he had me pushed up against the wall and started kissing me; his hands felt like they were everywhere all at once, groping at me feverishly. Even so, it was a slow, romantic sort of kiss, his lips pressing tenderly to mine. I didn’t know how to react, so I pushed him away and then saw he was laughing. When I asked him why he did it, he said it was because he felt sorry for me and he thought I should get kissed at least once in my life.
Pulling myself back to the present, I stare him down and ask sharply, “What about it?”
“I’m sorry I did that. It was a dickhead thing to do.”
“Yeah, well, dickheads tend to do dickhead things, so it makes perfect sense, really.”
He ignores my comment and questions me seriously, “Was that the first time a boy had ever kissed you?”
It was. I never stopped thinking about it for weeks afterwards. Reliving the moment of hope when his lips touched mine and I thought he might actually like me, and then the sinking feeling of despair when I realised it was all a joke to him.
I look away now. “I don’t want to talk about this. Tell Sasha I’ll be down in a little while.” I turn away and go to shut the door, but he puts his arm out to stop me. His eyes take me in. “I was a cruel prick to you back then,” he says. “I’m sorry for that.”
I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve never been able to tell whether or not he’s being genuine, and this instance is no different. I simply nod and start closing the door again. He moves his hand just in time before wood knocks against wood.
Okay, so far I’ve painted Robert in a fairly unpleasant light. All of the things I’ve said about him are true, and although he doesn’t deserve my sympathy, on some messed-up level I do feel sorry for him. Having Alan Phillips for a father did a bit of a number on both Robert and Sasha. He’s the kind of man who expects achievements from his kids, constantly piling on the pressure. He’s also got a tongue on him like a jack-knife – brutal and cutting.
I once had to spend days comforting a miserable Sasha after he told her on one of his rare visits that she needed start wearing a dress every now and again. At the time I didn’t get why she would be so upset over such a minor comment, but it wasn’t just one comment, it was a buildup of them over years and years. Not to mention he rarely showed up for her birthdays and other special occasions, so she was insecure as to whether or not he actually loved her at all.
The same goes for Rob. However, while Sasha internalises her insecurities, Robert makes himself feel better by generally being a wanker. The one thing they share in common, and what they’d both deny if asked, is that they are constantly vying for their father’s approval. I’m half convinced that the only reason Sasha chose the celebrity gossip aspect of journalism for her career was to please Alan. In the same way, Robert works his arse off as a PR specialist at Alan’s agency, hoping to win his father’s esteem.
Pulling myself from these thoughts, I retrieve my insulin case from my bag, bring it into the en-suite, and close the door. I was diagnosed with diabetes when I was seven, so ever since I was a kid I’ve been focused on taking care of myself and staying healthy. I have to take my insulin shots three times a day before meals and regularly monitor my blood sugar levels (usually several times a day, too). It’s all second nature to me now.
I try not to get down about it; it’s a chronic, incurable disease, but it’s not like I’m missing a limb or anything. However, it does make my life a little harder than most. Unlike other twenty-two-year-olds, I can’t just go off on a weekend bender and drink myself into an oblivion, because I wouldn’t just get a killer hangover — it could actually kill me. In essence, if I’m not careful I can get sick very easily. It’s taken years for me to perfect the balance needed to stay as healthy as I can.