The Debt & the Doormat by Laura Barnard Read Free Book Online Page B

sarcastically as he finally releases me.
    I resist the strong urge to punch him in the stomach and run to the toilet before I wet myself, already feeling it releasing from my bladder.  Thank God he didn’t actually find me having soiled myself.  That really would have been something.
    I walk back down the stairs feeling about a stone lighter.  He’s still in the hallway waiting for me, a blank expression on his face.  He probably just wants to swim in my embarrassment.  I walk down the stairs, tensing my body, ready to tell him to get lost.  He smiles crookedly and catches me off guard by grabbing my hand. 
    ‘What are you doing?’ I shout, throwing his hand off.
    He turns round in disbelief, his forehead wrinkled in anger and confusion as I glare at him.  He grabs my hand again, roughly this time and practically drags me down the hallway into the kitchen.
    ‘Get off me!’ I shout, wriggling to get loose.  I’ve had enough of being dragged around today.
    ‘Just sit down here will you,’ he says, almost throwing me on one of the kitchen chairs. 
    I hold my hand protectively and look down to see that it's red. 
    ‘You’ve bloody bruised me, you idiot!’
    ‘Oh please.’  He rolls his eyes.  ‘Anyway, omelette, fried or scrambled?’  He holds up two eggs from the fridge, smiling angelically.
    ‘What?’ 
    What is with this erratic behaviour?   
    ‘I’m offering to cook you some food.  Do you want some or not?’ he asks slowly as if he were speaking to a toddler.
    ‘Oh, um...yes.’
    Why the sudden kind gesture?  Maybe he’s a manic depressive who has different personalities.  Maybe I met Ryan yesterday but now I’m speaking to Freddie.
    ‘Which?  Omelette, fried or scrambled?’ he asks again, sighing heavily, as if to portray what a massive inconvenience I am to him.
    ‘Oh, um...scrambled would...be perfection,’ I blurt out, my tongue almost shaking with nerves. 
    Scrambled eggs would be perfection ?  I could have said ‘yes, I’ll have scrambled eggs please,’ or ‘whichever you prefer,’ but no-no-no-no-no.  For me, scrambled egg is perfection .  I loathe myself.
    ‘Do you want a tea?’ he asks, flicking the kettle on as he smiles to himself.  Smiling at what an idiot I am. 
    ‘Yes please,’ I say cautiously, watching him carefully.  I’m totally un-nerved by how nice he’s being.
    ‘Do you take sugar?’
    ‘Yeah, four please,’ I say absentmindedly as I carry on surveying my sore wrist.
    ‘Four sugars?  Fuck.  No wonder,’ he snorts.
    ‘No wonder what?’ I demand. 
    Freddie has left the building.  What is his problem?  If I wasn’t so starving I’d tell him to stick his food up his arse.  He mutters something under his breath and, although I can't hear it, I’m sure it's not something complimentary.
    I sit in awkward silence watching him whip up scrambled eggs on toast for both of us.  He places it in front of me and, although I’m terribly fussy, I actually approve of them.  People tend to either do them for too long, letting it go rock hard or not enough and serving yellow snot.  But his are perfect.
    ‘Do you...’  I stop myself, wondering if he’d take the piss out of me if I asked for ketchup.
    ‘Do I what?’  He gets ketchup out of the cupboard and squirts it all over his eggs. 
    Oh my God.  I don't know anyone else that does that.  He looks at me confused, and I realise I must look like a social retard.
    ‘Oh...nothing,’ I say trying to sound in control.  I squirt the ketchup all over my eggs and then tuck in, feeling like I haven’t eaten in days. 
    ‘So…’ he says, suddenly serious, ‘I guess Jazz told you that I’ve had previous things with Izzy and Grace?’
    Things with Izzy and Grace?  What does he mean by that?
    ‘But I just wanted to let you know that you’re safe,’ he winks, his mouth full of eggs. 
    Oh.  Oh, I see.  Jazz never told me I was moving in with a man whore. 
    ‘Oh thanks,’ I say