Between You and Me: The bestselling psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming
greets each and every person in the room while I just stand and wait for someone to remember I’m still there.
‘And this is Charlie!’ Sal turns to me, arm outstretched to point at me in the corner. I muster up a smile, raising my eyebrows at Sal, who doesn’t seem to notice quite how uncomfortable I’m feeling. The sisters all turn towards me and I feel as if I’m something under a microscope.
‘Nice to meet you, Charlie. I’m Julia. I’m the oldest, believe it or not.’ Laughing a ridiculously tinkly laugh is the smallest of all the girls, a petite little thing with dark hair tumbling down her back. ‘And as I’m the oldest, I’m the one in charge, so watch it!’ She laughs again as Sal and the other girls join in. What’s that supposed to mean? I make a mental note to let Sal know when we get home that I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that by anyone, regardless of whether they are part of Sal’s family or not. Sal introduces me to the rest of the sisters, who are all as loud and boisterous as each other, and we all descend on the dining room for Sal’s mum’s amazing Italian feast. Maria passes me the huge tray of pasta and a serving spoon.
‘Charlie, is that all you’re having? You’ll waste away! Here, have some more.’ Sal’s mum heaps another two spoonfuls of creamy pasta onto my plate.
‘Thank you, Maria, but please. That’s enough.’ I hold my hand up to stop her from loading any more on to my already full to bursting plate.
‘Well. If you’re sure. There’s plenty more if you change your mind.’ She moves away from me and attacks some other poor soul with her serving spoon. Jesus, they like to eat. Every plate is piled high with pasta, homemade garlic bread, gnocchi and salad. Sal, having returned home like some sort of prodigal son, is seated at the other end of the table from me, next to the head of the family, Giovanni. He, like his wife, is large-framed, which comes as no surprise seeing how much the entire family like their food, but instead of the tumbling, glossy dark curls shared by the rest of his family he has only a smattering of grey hair around the sides of his head. He is considerably quieter than the rest of his family, seemingly more content to observe and chime in every now and again, his hand reaching for his wife to pat or squeeze each time she passes by him and I realise that Sal must take after him. Sitting where I am, between Maria and Paola, one of the middle sisters, a barrage of questions is hurled at me.
‘Charlie, what do you do for a living?’
‘Where are you from, Charlie? Do you come from round here?’
‘Where do your parents live? Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘Are you the oldest or are you the spoilt baby like Sal?’ This last question is greeted with howls of laughter, as if it’s the funniest thing ever. Sal pulls a face, making them all laugh even harder.
‘I’ll be a corporate lawyer eventually, I’m from Lincolnshire, and no I don’t have any brothers or sisters.’ I keep my answers short and sweet; the less said about my family the better. If I don’t give out any information, hopefully they’ll all get the message. Sure enough, the sisters soon lose interest in me once they realise they’re not going to get my entire life story in one meal, and go back to regaling me with tales of Sal’s childhood and reminiscing about how they had such fun doing this, and has Sal told me about when that happened, etcetera, etcetera … They all talk over each other and it’s difficult to get a word in edgeways. Sal sits there, next to Giovanni at the head of the table, grinning like an idiot, completely failing to realise that I am not enjoying myself.
‘Come on, Sal, you can help me do the dishes while the others finish quizzing Charlie. You’ve got out of it all summer so far.’ Julia jumps to her feet, and pulls Sal up by the hand. Sal grins at me and mouths, ‘OK?’ as Julia tugs Sal away into the kitchen, Maria trotting behind carrying an armful of dirty plates from the table. I shrug and turn my gaze coldly away from Sal. What else can I do?
Finally, after what might possibly be the longest evening of my life, in which I have had to suffer hours of inane jabbering from Sal’s entire family and have batted away countless attempts to discover all manner of details about my life, the meal is over and we are free to go. I endure kisses from Maria and all of the sisters, while Sal is hugged and squeezed to death and they all behave as if they aren’t going to see each other for years and years. This is all completely foreign to me, and I thank my lucky stars that Sal hasn’t asked to meet my mother yet.
‘Well? What did you think of them? Aren’t they amazing?’ Sal waves frantically at the gathering on the doorstep, before turning to me once we are safely seated in the car and heading back towards our house.
‘Honestly, Sal? It’s all a bit much, isn’t it? I mean, your mum treats you like you’re five years old. And you’re not a fucking god, you know, despite what your sisters might think.’ Sal reels back slightly and couldn’t have looked more shocked if I’d delivered a slap across the face.
‘What? Nobody thinks that! We’re a close family; I didn’t see them all summer because I stayed in London with you! It’s not normally that intense, to be honest; it’s only that they were excited to meet you. And my mum is just … a normal mum. She likes it when I go home; she likes to cook a big meal and spoil us all. She’s excited that you’re going to be part of the family. They were just trying to make you feel welcome.’ Sal doesn’t look at me, choosing instead to concentrate hard on the road.
I stare out of the passenger window, biting my tongue hard in order not to give rise to the anger that is bubbling away deep inside my belly. I’m not going to be part of the family. I don’t want to be part of the family. Your mum didn’t even seat us together at the dinner table, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want Sal’s sisters and mum poking their noses into our business, knowing everything about us. I want it to just be Sal and me on our own, always. I don’t have anything to do with my family, and I’m OK. We don’t need Sal’s family in our lives, not to that extent. Signalling to take the turn leading to the motorway, I resolve that the less we see of Sal’s family, the better.
SAL
I take my time clearing up the vegetable patch after you storm back into the house, believing that the longer it takes me to tidy up, the longer it gives you to calm down and see sense. The majority of everything that Maggie and I have grown is completely and utterly ruined, plants and bits of vegetable strewn across the whole fenced-off section of garden. I get to work on clearing the patch, piling everything up in one corner to be burnt next time we have a bonfire. The only items worth salvaging are a few straggly carrots that I put to one side, so I can at least tell Maggie we have something to cook. It’s slow, painful work as the fingers on my right hand have started to throb now that the initial hot, sharp pain has subsided and they are already swollen and awkward. I’m ninety per cent sure they’re broken. By the time the sun sets and the garden is filled with shadows, I’m done, sweat making my T-shirt cling to the small of my back. I look towards the kitchen in the hope that the room is in darkness and you’ve already gone upstairs to bed but I see the warm, yellow light spilling from the window and your silhouette cross in front of it, a glass of whisky in your hand. I sigh heavily, but I can’t put it off any longer. The night has turned cool despite the heat of the day now that the sun has disappeared below the horizon and I am only wearing a thin T-shirt. I shiver and struggle to my feet, feeling stiff after sitting for so long. Wearily I trudge my way up the garden path to the kitchen, where I know you will be waiting for me.
You look up from your seat at the kitchen table, hair tousled and eyes bloodshot, when I walk in through the back door. I head straight for the medicine cabinet, screwed to the wall behind the kitchen door, and start rooting through it for strapping and cotton wool.
‘You shouldn’t have made me do that, Sal.’ Your voice is low, and you studiously avoid looking at my poor, broken hand. ‘I warned you so many times not to lie to me, but it’s like you can’t help yourself. It’s like you deliberately do it, because you want me to lose my temper and get angry with you. It has to stop, Sal. I’ve been thinking and