I'm Normally Perfect (re-upload)

Chapter Fifty-One

For Valentine's Day we had a special supper and baked a ridiculous cake and exchanged cards. We usually reserved Valentine's gifts to sweets, so we were set for chocolate for some time, though Alex did get a bottle of Godiva liquer that was quite good, if I may say so. Only after a glass of that could I be persuaded to sleep in her room, I always felt cuddly after consuming alcohol. As she was pouring me into bed I vaguely registered that those horrid books weren't too very far away, but I was too warm and cosy to care.

The next evening, when I was in my right mind and we were doing the washing up she asked if I'd be sleeping in her room and I declined. She said, 'You do run hot and cold.'

'I like sleeping in my room sometimes, that's all.' I tried to keep my voice casual, I didn't want her to think it was anything to do with her.

'I understand.' Though it seemed she was being extra rough with the cutlery as she put it in the drainer.

Next morning she issued her, 'Have a good day', a bit more clipped and nearly slammed the door to the garage on her way out. I hated it when she was upset with me and decided that I'd better resign myself to the fact that those books were there so I got up the courage and went into her room. I addressed the small stack of books: 'All right, you're filthy, but you're Alex's and I sleep in here sometimes and you're just going to have to get over it.' The books didn't respond. They simply sat there, being smug in their ability to make me uncomfortable by their mere presence. It had been several weeks by the time I faced them down and I couldn't even remember precisely what I'd read, as it had only been a few lines before I'd slammed the book shut. I sat at the edge of her bed and looked down at the books, amazed at how inanimate objects could unsettle me so. I picked up the second book on the stack, Delta of Venus by Anais Nin. Didn't she write poetry or something? I took a deep breath and opened it to the first page. This wasn't so bad, it's like a regular story. Oh! I slammed the book shut. A regular story with dirty bits in it. It was well written up to that point, though. Probably best not to look at any more of the naughty books, just knowing they were there was enough to upset me, knowing what they said was far more information than I needed.

I got no writing done that day, as I couldn't concentrate worth anything, and so began unpacking the boxes on the second floor, which was where we were keeping everything that didn't have an obvious place. Most of the things were antiques so I was extra careful with them and tried to figure out where Alex would like them most. The china I placed in the glass fronted cabinets in the dining room, which we hadn't yet used. It was so gothic and ornate in there it was intimidating. I felt as if I was having my last meal before being shipped off to the Tower.

At supper that night Alex asked me if I was all right, perhaps I was coming down with something.

I forced a laugh, 'No, no, I'm fine. I thought we could go to bed early and watch a movie or something.'

She smiled, 'You're sleeping in my room?'

'It would be nice. If you want me to, of course.'

She only smiled in response and happily tucked into her chicken. After supper I told her to start her bath and I'd be up in a bit. I wanted to enter the room and face the books without an audience. Those bastards weren't going to keep me from snuggling with my Alex.

During this time I regularly received agents offers, they all guaranteed that they could get me lorry loads of money and make me world-famous, though I didn't particularly care about money and I most certainly didn't want to be famous around the world. Now, if one of them promised to keep me financially comfortable and hidden away from the public eye, that would get my attention. Simon rang at least once a week, 'Just to see how my favourite writer is getting on,' and to report on the sales figures, which were climbing at a steady rate. They were planning on me going on another tour during the summer, oh joy. And Raymond had been talking to some publishers in America and France. God, would that mean I'd have to tour those places, as well? France didn't bother me so much, but I wasn't keen on returning to America. Even though the country was huge I rather thought of it as the place my family lived. Though they were on the very edge of the eastern coast the entire country seemed like theirs. Montana was too close to my family. Hell, Alaska was too close to them.