Her Melting Point

Panto Me Over

When they came into the kitchen, Jackie froze in front of the table, staring at a cup of tea Alexander had made for her while she was letting Stephen in; as well as a small plate with lemon slices, the honey jar, and a cake stand with three mini raspberry maränger bakelse, her favourite sweets from the Serpent's Nest, that he must have picked up before coming over.

Their dishes were gone, and the sink was empty; so he'd definitely rinsed and put them in the dishwasher, just as he always did. Calling him 'helpful' would be understating it: he was a capable and proactive house guest.

A sudden realisation struck her: somehow, without her noticing, in the two weeks that he'd been basically lodging in the cottage - as funny as it sounded in their particular situation - they'd divided housekeeping jobs. Both cooked; he hoovered; she tidied up. Washing up was split in half. He cleaned Tartufo's toilet, having started it. She cleaned the bathrooms; he took out the bins. They'd done the bare minimum the night before, exhausted physically and emotionally. More so, they hadn't even needed to discuss it. He'd changed the sheets, she'd started the washer. She'd cleaned up in the kitchen, he'd fed Tartufo. They'd brushed teeth together; she'd been making faces at him in the mirror; and he'd snogged her, while she'd squealed and pretended to try to escape his frothy minty kisses.

Stephen's voice brought her back to reality like the proverbial bucket of cold water.

"Jackie?"

"Yes! Sorry, I sort of–" She shook her head. "Um– Would you like some tea? The kettle has just boiled."

"Yeah, I guess," he muttered. "Ta."

He'd pushed his hands in the pockets of his trackies, hunching his back. His shoulders rose from time to time, twitching uncontrollably, as if he was cold.

"Where's your– um– guest?" he asked, and Jackie paused, her back to him, the kettle in her hand. "It's Dr. Amorsolo, right?" he asked. "I've heard from–" He didn't finish the sentence and cleared his throat.

Jackie poured water over the tea bag and put the mug where Alexander's plate had been a few minutes ago.

"No, it's not Bernie," she said grudgingly. "Please, sit."

She sat down, and he joined her, taking the chair across from her.

"It's not? But I thought–" He peered at her. "Everyone was saying–"

"Stephen."

He shrank, although she'd kept her warning tone as soft as possible.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. I just–" He threw an anxious glance behind him. "So, there's someone– And he– they are in the house, I reckon." He turned back to Jackie. "Sorry, I'm being an arse. I should be– I am happy for you, Jackie. But I didn't expect–"

He pressed his left hand over his mouth; and her heart clenched painfully. This looked familiar. He was left-handed, she remembered now; and she had seen this gesture - his fingers as if digging into his jaw - so many times before. There had been so few peaceful, happy moments in their relationship to balance out the excruciating conversations like the one he seemed to aim for presently. 

"I had a row with Eddie again tonight," he spoke after a few seconds. "There's been a lot of it– all the time. She told me about you two, you know; how she'd gotten you drunk, and– I'm sorry you had to go through that, Jackie." He lifted his sunken, feverish eyes at her. "She can be so–"

"Stephen," Jackie interrupted him. "I don't want to listen to this. I am not discussing your wife with you."

He looked at her, his expression vulnerable.