Saving from Monkeys (16 page)

Nan wasn't dead.
I knew that instantly, and the relief made me choke out a weird sort of gasp. Who cared that Elliot and I had kissed? Who cared that I thought I knew what Elliot's big secret was and that it made me feel like dirt? Nan was alive!

Elliot
straightened and I walked over, realising that, for once in his life, Elliot Sinclair looked anything but pretty. His skin was grey, his eyes bloodshot and his usually so perfectly crafted flop of hair was all mussed up.

"She's had another stroke," he said when I arrived in front of him, not needing me to ask. "I was calling her all last night, after..."
He shifted his eyes away and then dug his hands deep into his pockets. "She was in hospital," he continued quietly, "but she's back home now."

"Because she's better?"
I asked, hoping, really, really hoping...

He looked at me clearly expressing a 'no' he neither wanted to say or I wanted to hear, and then leant down to take the bag hanging limply from my hand.
"Let's go."

I trailed after him as he headed off across the outside courtyard. My legs felt rubbery and strange, like they weren't quite sure what this whole walking thing was about. Elliot, in
direct contrast to my wobbly state, was the most physically in control I'd ever seen him. His shoulders seemed broader, his strides forceful, as if he was planning out every smack of his foot against the pavement.

Exactly as I had on that fateful 'morning after', I looked around for Elliot's sleek little European motor when we reached the car park. Through my freaked out haze I felt again that little tickle of intrigue when I saw the strangely normal car he stopped beside. I'd forgotten about that part of the mystery and wasn't quite sure how that fit in with my theory.

Not that I got a chance to follow up on it, though, as Elliot suddenly swung round to look at me, his expression thunderous. "Not today, Rox," he said tightly. "Just drop it."

I nodded curtly and he threw my bag in the boot (it had a boot, a small part of my brain couldn't help pointing out, Elliot had a car with a boot!), before gesturing for me to get in the passenger side.

It was going to be a long drive.

~*~

"I'm kind of wishing this place would suddenly go all Sleeping Beauty on our arses."

It was the first thing Elliot had said in three hours, beyond asking if I wanted anything when we'd stopped for fuel. Even when I'd tried to surreptitiously tuck a $20 note into his bag as my share of the petrol, he'd only plucked it back out and thrown it back onto my lap without a word.
But now here we were, the mystery red car idling outside the large gates to the Sinclair house, and he'd suddenly got chatty.

He rubbed a hand across his pale face so his voice was muffled as he added, "If it got all swamped with thorns, that'd be just fine with me."

"If wishes were kisses we'd all be pregnant," I murmured, feeling a little stab of pain as I repeated one of Nan's oft used phrases. "Besides," I added hurriedly as I remembered the word 'kiss' around Elliot was seriously inappropriate, "my mum's in there."

"They just fall asleep, don't they?" He tipped his head back to look up at the fancy gates barring our way, not seeming to have noticed my 'kiss' slip-up. "100 years of shut eye wouldn't do them any harm and, by the time they woke up, we'd be
long gone and not have to deal with any of this."

"It's tempting," I admitted, my chest clenching at the reminder of what 'this
’ was. "Got a spindle and a cursed princess handy?"

"No," he admitted glumly.
"You?"

"Nope," I said, feeling now that I just wanted to get inside and face whatever it was we needed
to face. "So I guess we just have to get on with it."

"Great," Elliot sighed, reaching out and typing a pin onto the
keypad that released the gates in front of us, "
today's
the day you decide to shelve your craziness and be all mature about it?"

"Seemed like the time."

We stopped talking then because, as the gates opened, the Sinclair house loomed into view, the large windows burning with the reflection of the midday sun. It wasn't a pretty house by any stretch of the imagination, but it was an impressive one and that, at the end of the day, was what mattered around here.

Two floors, 6 bedrooms and 8 bathrooms were the stats. Why on earth any house needed more bathrooms than it had bedrooms was a
continual mystery to me. Maybe it was something to do with Elliot's best friend's proclivity for vomiting; an abundance of tiled areas had certainly made my job easier.

Added to these basics were a multitude of living areas, 2 fully kitted out kitchens, and a hangar-like garage. In fact the only thing the Sinclair house
didn't
have was any kind of garden, as the mcmansion so thoroughly filled the block it sat on.

"It's not much," Elliot said sarcastically, pulling his car to a screeching halt on the sea of concrete at the front door, "but
it's home."

I clambered out of the car and acknowledged that the curl of nausea that had been twisting more and more tightly the closer we got to the Sinclair house, had reached its peak. This house made me feel sick at the best of times, now with Nan...

Elliot grabbed our bags, and then we both went up to stand in front of the solid wood door.

"We might have been looking at this all wrong," the way he was grunting suggest
ed to me that Elliot was feeling the same nausea I was. "No-one knows we're here, yet. I could start the engine, you could run inside, grab Nan and we could make a break for it."

"And go where?" I asked
. "It better be somewhere with a no extradition deal because your mum would have us sniffed out in a second. Or at least you and Nan," I corrected myself fairly, "I don't think she would worry too much about my whereabouts."

I froze then, my mouth still open, as the intercom by the front door crackled faintly. In the next seco
nd, Elliot's mum's voice said calmly, "Are you planning on coming inside at any point or are you going to stand about all day on the doorstep like flighty Jehovah's Witnesses?"

Clapping a hand over my mouth in horror, I looked across at Elliot who,
despite everything, was looking faintly amused.

“
You know," he said, as he reached up and slotted his key into the lock, "sometimes this place crosses the line between cold and unloving to just plain creepy."

"And how," I agreed, following him in as the door swung open and admitted us into the large entrance way.

It was all exactly as I'd last seen it, but I still felt a weird swooping sensation like I was 10 again and coming into this intimidating house for the first time. As it always did, the place felt empty and our footsteps bounced hollowly off unadorned walls. Elliot's parents had wanted the breadth when it came to their estate, but had no interest in interior design and had left each room to be furnished with the absolute basics.

Nan's house, I'd noticed on the few occasions I'd visited, couldn't be any more different. It had been crammed floor to ceiling with what she called her knicks and knacks; interesting things she'd picked up during her interesting life. It was like Elliot's mum had deliberately set her house up to be the exact opposite of her mother's.

I was startled by this sudden insight into the psychology of Elliot's family, but didn't have long to dwell on it as my mum suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs in front of us.

"Rox!
Elliot!" She called, and I was hard-pressed to tell which name she was more delighted to exclaim.

She was looking immaculate as always; her blonde, streaked
now with grey, hair pulled tightly back and her black trousers and white shirt perfectly ironed. She was old school about her job; she believed you should always present yourself at your best, despite what grubbiness you might be up to your elbows in. It was this attitude that had scared me off cursing, practically for life.

Still, despite her insistence on decorous behaviour, it hadn't stopped my mum practically shouting our names and clattering down the steps towards us. I hadn't seen her in months and, with the spectre of Nan's condition looming large in my
mind, I wanted nothing more than some good old fashioned maternal comfort.

I rushed forward and met her halfway, feeling her fold me into her arms with all the comfort of warm, fresh dough. I felt tears spring in my eyes and squeezed her tighter, wondering in that one second why things had been awkward between us.

"There's my clever girl," I heard her croon as she stroked my hair. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," I murmured shamefacedly, only now
realising that that was true.

I'd chosen to not come home in the holidays, had to force myself to call her and, when I did, had nothing to say. I had basically shut my mother out of my new and improved life, I was a terrible daughter.
The comfort of the hug disappearing with the punch of guilt, I stepped back, suddenly feeling I was unworthy of the embrace.

I thought I saw mum's face fall slightly at my withdrawal, but then Elliot was there and her beam returned.

"Hello, darling," she held her arms out to him and Elliot stepped forward and squeezed her tight, practically lifting her off the floor with his bear hug. It seemed he was happy to give and receive affection from my mum where I couldn't. Well, bully for him.

"Mr
s Sinclair's in her study," Mum said when he'd set her back down. Her eyes shone with happiness at seeing us both, so it was kind of sad that she'd chosen to say the one thing guaranteed to ruin the moment.

"Screw her." Sure enough, Elliot's face hardened in an instant. "Where's Nan?"

"It's been a long time since you've been home, Elliot." The censure in my mum's tone caught like a barb in my skin. She was basically talking about me, after all, it'd been a long time since I'd been home too.

"I don't care-" Elliot started to say, but my own guilt made me snap,

"Go say hello to your mum, Sinclair." Seeing the surprised looks they both turned my way, I added, "It'll take two seconds and then you can see Nan without the hassle."

"Fine," he said, his expression suggesting it was anything but, "come on then." And he gave me a nudge towards the stairs.

"What?" I stared at him, completely nonplussed. "Why would I go with you to see your mum?"

"Consider it petrol money." He gave me another nudge and, feeling trapped by my own insistence that I owed him for that, I obediently headed for the stairs. Looking back, my heart sank as I watched my mum picking up Elliot's and my dropped bags without complaint. No 'Daughter of Year' award was likely to come my way anytime soon.

Mrs Sinclair's study was on the second floor at the end of a long, typically sparse, corridor. Rather than focus on my concern for Nan and guilt at the distance between my mother and me as I walked down it, I thought about how strange it was that Mrs Sinclair was home. She was such a workaholic, I realised I couldn't think of any time I'd seen her in the house during daylight hours. For all I knew, she was a vampire...or at least a nocturnal possum or something.

We stopped outside the door to the study, which was, as always, firmly shut. If Mrs Sin
clair was a teenager it would’ve had a sign on it saying something like 'keep out' or 'enter at your own risk'.

"Ready?" I asked Elliot quietly, knowing that this reunion was not going to be anywhere near as sweet and huggy as the one downstairs had been.

He nodded jerkily, and then pushed open the door. Without thinking, I jumped in front of him and went forward as the front guard. If I had to earn the petrol money through being a buffer then buff I would.

My mother had done a particularly good job with the polishing that day, and I saw Elliot's mum in the crystal clear reflection of her desk's surface before lifting my eyes up to see the woman herself.

"Hello, Mrs Sinclair," I said with a polite smile, stepping forward, still making sure I was shielding her son.

"Hello, Roxanne." Mrs Sinclair was good at remembering people's names, even those of the lowliest of her acquaintance. I'm pretty sure she'd done one of those management courses where they teach you techniques to do this. It said something about her that I was sure
that's
how she remembered my name, rather than the fact that I'd pretty much lived in her house for 8 years.

She was a small woman, petite, but powerful, with Elliot's same dark eyes and confident presence. She was also scary as hell.

"And hello, Elliot, I assume you're somewhere back there." In one short sentence she'd said everything she needed to about what she thought of being greeted by me first, and not her son. Mrs Sinclair was pissed off, but way too ice-cool to show it in any other way than passive aggression.

I heard Elliot sigh, but then he pressed his fingers briefly onto my arm both to guide me slightly out of the way, but also, I think, in thanks for at least attempting to cover him.

"Hello, mother." He moved his hand as if he was going to wave, but changed his mind and plunged it through his already messy hair. "Nice new surveillance system," he nodded to where we could see a small monitor mounted on the wall beside her desk. "Do all your guests get harassed if they don't immediately come inside?"