We Could Get By

xxii.

“Mister T!”

Nellie's voice bounced off the walls and echoed in rings through the quiet of the parlor. Unless Sweeney was holed away upstairs, he would have heard her that time for certain.

If Toby was here, he'd help me. Wouldn't even be havin' this problem.

Socks lazed nearby, blinking languidly at Nellie from the safety of his perch. He was just waiting for Toby to return from the docks with fish for his dinner. She heaved an exasperated sigh.

“Don't s’pose you could help me.”

Sock licked his front paw daintily, as if she had never spoken at all. Perhaps, as far as he was concerned, she hadn't. That seemed to be a recurring frame of mind in Nellie's house these days.

“Mister T?”

Mrs. Lovett gave a loud huff and planted her hands firmly on her hips. Even the light frills of her dressing gown felt like some unbearable weight resting in delicate little folds on her chest, mocking her. Her knees hurt, her back ached, her feet had swollen in the confines of her shoes. She felt so helpless just then, standing in the middle of the parlor, that Nellie thought the tears might just dribble right out of the corners of her eyes.

“Sweeney Todd, you get ya great useless arse in ‘ere!”

There was a beat of silence, then the distinct shuffle of Sweeney's feet across the floorboards. His face appeared in the parlor doorway, thick eyebrow arched in obliging curiosity. Nellie had to keep her face from crumpling; she was so overwhelmed with love these days, it seemed, that she could just barely keep it contained. Love and gratitude and, more often than usual, absolute, unbridled irritation with the man she loved more than anything on earth. He breathed too heavily when he slept. When he managed to eat, the bites he took were annoyingly small. He hunched too much when he sat. He brooded over the newspaper like it was his job. He took far too long in the bath. He seemed to spend more time holed up in his shop than with her.

“What?”

“Mister T., can ya get that for me?” Nellie pointed at the knife that had clattered to the ground just minutes earlier, its blade winking in the light, mocking her. He gave her a look, and she frowned deeply. “Don't ya start with me! Can't even see me bloody toes, let alone stoop down to pick that up. Ya want a smack? I don't have no patience left.” That had been a recent development; when Nellie glanced down, all she saw was the roundness of her stomach ballooning under whatever she happened to be wearing. It should have excited her, she felt, but it only made her screw up her face at her reflection in the mornings and avoid glancing at herself in windows.

Sweeney made a big to-do about bending down to retrieve the knife, though when he took note of Nellie's clear disapproval, he leaned in to press the ghost of a resigned kiss against her lips. She only deepened her frown when he drew back to study her, and Nellie thought she saw the faintest flicker of concern crease his forehead.

“You're jus’ humorin’ me, Mister Todd,” she said, scooting him away with a dismissive wave of her hand. “‘S all it is. ‘Poor crazy Nellie, always cryin’ an’ gettin’ irritable,’ ya say.”

Nellie breezed past him, knife in hand, and set about chopping vegetables for dinner. Sweeney did not leave the parlor as she had expected. Instead, he sat and fixed his gaze on her. Whenever she found herself becoming unreasonably irritated with him, she tried to remind herself of the way his sinewy arms felt around her, his fresh, clean smell, the way his rare genuine smiles made him seem a decade younger and an eternity happier. She tried to write a list, stamped on the smooth surface of the cutting board, of all the things she loved about Sweeney. It was not, at that moment, working half as well as she had hoped.