Off Limits

I grip the crystal tumbler in my hands, feeling my anger and determination surge, and I pitch the glass hard against the wall. It breaks with satisfying immediacy, shattering into thousands of tiny pieces that mix with the slosh of amber liquid running fast down the wall before landing with a thud against the tiles. I drag my hand through my hair and stare at the destruction with a sense of satisfaction.

I’m good at ruining things. At breaking them.

That’s what I need to stick to.

* * *

I don’t think I’ll ever eat again. Grandma has no such qualms. She reaches for another oyster—it must be her tenth—and swirls it inside lips she’s painted bright red for the occasion.

‘What’s in Australia?’

I stare out at the little street, watching a small black car reverse—badly—into a narrow parking space. ‘Work.’

‘Always work...’ She sighs.

I nod absently.

Jack will be there, too. After not going to Tokyo, I don’t suppose there’s the smallest hope I can get out of it.

‘I promise I’ll do something fun. Just for you.’

My insides quiver as I imagine what that could be. Jack. Doing Jack would be fun.

But even as my pulse is stirring and my heart is beginning to race my brain is demonstratively reminding me of Jack’s particular brand of cold fishery. His ability to walk away from me right after we’ve shared mind-blowing, simultaneous orgasms is as offensive as it is unique.

Am I crazy to be letting this happen?

Yes, hisses my brain. He’s told you he’s using you. He still loves his dead wife. Jesus. You’re a fool.

‘Grandma...’ I pause, my lips tight as I dismiss whatever the heck I’d been about to say.

She swallows the oyster—Grandma is the only person I know who actually chews the slimy little devils first...shudder...like phlegmatic explosions...ugh. Her gaze is cool and direct.

At eighty, Grandma is every bit as beautiful as she was in her youth. Lined, ephemeral and pale now, but with a glimmer in her eyes, a wave to her silver shoulder-length hair and a smile that is punctuated by straight white teeth—all her own. Her nose is straight, her eyes wide-set, her figure as svelte as ever. And she dresses in a fashion which somehow straddles the latest in trends without coming across as an attempt to be youthful.

‘Something’s on your mind.’

I shake my head and reach for my bread roll. Only I’ve already fingered it anxiously, reducing it to a pile of wheaten crumbs and ash.

‘When Grandpa died, did you think about finding someone else?’

She snorts. ‘There is no one else.’

The words make me smile, yet they are also sounding the death knell for the hope I hadn’t realised I’ve been carrying.

‘No one?’ I tease.

‘No one.’ She expels a sigh. ‘Your grandfather was... What we shared is impossible to explain.’ She sips her champagne, her eyes growing even more intensely watchful, if that’s possible. ‘Have I ever told you about how we met?’

I shake my head, even though I know the story backwards.

‘Liar!’ She chuckles.

We’re interrupted by a waiter, but Grandma dispenses with him quickly, placing an order for another bottle of champagne and then fixing me with that steady grey gaze of hers.

‘He was sitting on the lawns at Huntington, his knees bent, his chin resting on them. His face was resolutely turned away from me, but as I approached his eyes shifted, locking to my face. It was as if he was telling me all his secrets and begging me to help him in that one single second. He looked at me as if he knew that I was the only person on earth who would be able to dig through his shit and find the kernel of the boy he’d once been.’

Grandma is looking over my shoulder now. The story is one she’s told so many times that it comes out word for word as I remember it. Still, I lean forward, the invisible threads of magic and history curling around me.