I have this weird little thing I do where I drum out the beat of a song on my box while I’m singing. It’s mostly so I have something to do with my hands, because I hate just standing still, and I’m not much of a dancer. Even though there’s nobody there to see me, I feel self-conscious.
My latest music obsession is Adam Ant, probably because his songs are so percussion-y, which gives me plenty to do with my drumstick and box combo. Plus, his songs are just plain fun to sing. See, I’m not really a music sexist like Robert said I was. Sticking my iPod into the dock, I scroll down to my set play list. “Stand and Deliver” is the first song, so I turn the volume up and press “play.” Then I pick up my drumstick and box, and lose myself in the music and the beat.
For the next few hours the whole house becomes my stage. I march up and down the stairs, singing “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen at the top of my lungs. I climb up onto the kitchen counter, belting out “Running up That Hill” by Kate Bush. I jump from sofa to armchair and from armchair back to sofa while rapping along to Warren G’s “Regulate.”
Yeah, I like a bit of G-Funk as much as the next person.
“This Ain’t a Scene” by Fall Out Boy comes up next, followed by the grand finale, “Paper Planes” by MIA, which is perhaps the most fun song in the world to try beating out on a wooden box.
These times, where I’m alone with nothing to amuse myself but my own voice and a makeshift percussion instrument, are when I feel the most free. In life, it’s other people’s opinions that imprison us, so eager to fit in as we are. In an empty house I have no one to impress but the four walls around me.
By the time I’m done I’m too exhausted to think about Robert at all. I run a bath and relax for the rest of the evening, wrapping up in a soft fleece robe afterwards. It’s late when Robert and Sasha get back from their dad’s. I hear them come into the house, chattering softly down in the kitchen.
A few minutes later Sasha pops her head in by my door. “Hey, kid, how was your day?”
“Great. I just chilled out and did nothing,” I tell her, only half a lie.
She comes into the room now, slipping off her boots and flopping down onto my bed.
“I’m wine sleepy,” she says past a yawn.
“Did you have fun at your dad’s?”
“Not really. He had his new girlfriend around, who, might I add, is only twenty-seven years of age. I had to drink half a bottle of wine just to tolerate her skinny gold-digging arse. Oh, and get this, her eyes practically burst from their sockets when she saw Rob for the first time. Then she was flirting with him all though dinner. Dad didn’t even notice because he was too busy criticising me for giving that story about Molly Willis to another writer.”
“Oh,” I say, my heart stuttering just from hearing about someone flirting with Robert. “Well, your dad’s never been very understanding about stuff like that. But I wouldn’t worry on it. I mean, it’s not like it was going to make a huge difference if you wrote it or someone else did.”
“Dad doesn’t accept me giving up opportunities, no matter how small.” She sighs and props a pillow under her head.
“Seriously, Sasha, you have an amazing career for someone so young, even if I do happen to think you work for the newspaper equivalent of the devil.”
She laughs at that, and we’re quiet for a minute.
“So,” I begin, “what did Rob do about the girlfriend?”
“Well, he had the decency not to flirt back, which was something. But still, the whole situation was depressing as fuck.”
“What was depressing as fuck?” asks Robert as he casually enters the room. He sees me in my bathrobe and grins before coming to sit with us on the bed, slipping off his shoes just like Sasha did. In certain ways they’re so alike it’s scary.
“Melanie’s nonstop attempts to flirt with you. Please don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”
“Oh, I noticed. It’s a pity Dad didn’t.”
“What on earth is he doing with that bimbo anyway? I just don’t get it.” Sasha sighs.
“I could think of a few things,” Robert answers, waggling his brow.
Sasha kicks him softly with her foot. “Ugh, that’s disgusting.”
“Disgusting, but true. I hate to break it to you, sis, but our father is a horndog, always has been.”
“Ah! I don’t want to hear it,” Sasha exclaims, grabbing the pillow from under her head and holding it over her ears.
“Fine, fine, I’ll say no more,” Robert tells her, his hands in the air.
I chuckle, mainly because it’s true. Alan Phillips is very much the ladies’ man. I guess that’s where Robert gets it from.
“Right, I’m going to drag myself to bed before I fall asleep in here,” says Sasha, standing up and making her way out of the room. Once she’s gone, Robert’s attention turns to me, and there’s an air of anticipation about him.
“I think I’ll hit the hay, too,” I say with a big, over-emphasised yawn, crawling under my blankets. “Get the lights on your way out, would you?”
He reaches forward and grabs my foot before I have the chance to get fully under, his hand caressing my bare shin.
He moves up to the top of the bed, tugging on the tie of my robe. “So, what have you got on underneath this?” he asks, eyes roaming my fleece-clad body. “Please say nothing.”
“I have a nightie on,” I reply, pushing his hands away and tightening the robe around my waist.
“Oh, even better,” he goes on, and the next thing I know his hard body is on top of mine and his mouth is on my neck.
“Uuurgh,” is the surprised sound that escapes my mouth.