Page 13 of Hex House
“You made it.” He beams, as if surprised, as though she hadn’t texted him just ten minutes ago to let him know she was on her way. He reaches out one arm, perhaps for a kind of side hug, but Siobhan meets his outstretched hand with a bottle. He looks down and she relishes the way he tries to hide his disappointment. She’d chosen the cheapest she could find, a bottle without even a grape variety on the label, simply block letters reading ‘red wine’. Just to see what he’d do.
“Wow,” he says. “Never tried this one before.” He grins again and steps to one side to let her in.
Siobhan walks down a spacious hallway and into an impressive kitchen, all butcher’s block counters and abstract art above the Aga. The room is warm; it smells of butter and melting cheese. Colourful children’s drawings are pinned to the stainless-steel fridge, ‘Uncle Owen’ scrawled unevenly on each. There’s an enormous window at one end of the room, bigger than she is tall. She’s drawn to that window; it pulls her over. Through the slightly steamed glass, Edinburgh’s dusk lights blink back at her. Beyond the city is the sea, and in the other direction, the quiet villages and towns to the south. Somewhere lurking in all that loose countryside, somewhere on no map and with no address, is a house that until this morning, she’d almost convinced herself couldn’t really exist.
Haina is dead.
Whoever Zara’s source was, they must be legitimate to know Haina’s name. Siobhan wonders which of the guests might consider talking to another filmmaker after what happened last time, or whether it’s someone she’s never met, someone who only arrived at the house once she’d left.
No. No point in thinking about any of that tonight.
Siobhan takes a seat at the island, where Owen has laid out neat little dishes of olives and nuts. He appears behind her to peel her leather jacket from her shoulders. He drapes it on the back of her chair then returns to stir something bubbling on the hob. “Hope you like fettuccine Alfredo.”
Siobhan stabs an olive with a toothpick. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Oh, it’s just pasta. With cream and Parmesan.”
On the wall, next to his head, is a magnetic strip from which hang more knives than Siobhan has ever seen in one place: great big cleavers and mean little blades like scalpels. He sees her looking at them and clears his throat like he’s about to make a joke. Before he can, Siobhan says, “You cook a lot?”
“More enthusiasm than skill, I’m afraid, but yes. Though I rarely have anyone to cook for.”
Siobhan rolls the olive around on her tongue. It’s so salty it makes her mouth pool with saliva. Owen turns back to the stove, stirs the pot, picks up a bunch of parsley then quickly puts it down again. He’d seemed so confident when he’d messaged her this afternoon – sure and assertive. Now he doesn’t seem to know where to look or what to do with her. She’s out of context in here. Something essential about her is at odds with his bookshelf of curatedcookbooks and the fresh sourdough loaf by the toaster. He knows it and she knows it. It makes her feel bold.
“I’ll pour the wine,” she says, reaching for the bottle.
“Ah! Of course, sorry, I should have done that. What a shoddy host.” He reaches into a high cupboard and brings down two glasses. They’re impractically large and sparkling. She wonders if she imagines that his hand is shaking slightly as he sets them down in front of her. She pours for them both and they clink their glasses just a little bit too hard. “Cheers,” she says.
He leans against the island, loosening a fraction. He sips the wine, barely disguising his wince at the taste, then says quietly, “You know, I wasn’t sure whether you’d come.”
“No?”
“I didn’t know if it was a bit, you know… weird of me, to ask.”
“Why would it be weird of you?”
Owen holds her gaze for a long second, as if her words are a knot to untangle, a test to pass, then looks away with a contained laugh. “Oh, you know. You used to be one of my students.”
“Used to be.”
He shrugs, wipes his hands on his apron. “I just hope it isn’t inappropriate. I would never want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“It can be hard to know where the lines are,” Siobhan offers, keeping her voice flat.
Owen hesitates, clears his throat. “Obviously if I was still teaching you, I would never—”
“Do you think it’s inappropriate?” Siobhan interrupts. She swivels on her stool so that she can face him, and herknees brush the front of his apron. “Do you not want me here?”
The thick knuckle of his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. It’s dizzying, to know she can make a grown man this nervous. “Of course I want you here.”
The room has started to feel a little too warm. A bitter smell is coming from somewhere, and Siobhan glances over his shoulder at the hob. “I think something might be burning.”
Owen blinks, as though she’s woken him from sleepwalking, then slams his glass down so hard on the island that the wine sloshes up and over the sides. “Shit, the sauce.”
It’s almost endearing to watch him panic, muttering to himself as he scrapes the bottom of the pan and turns up the extractor fan until it’s too loud to talk over. Siobhan gets the sense that things are constantly slipping out of his control, that it might even be a source of insecurity for him, this inability to keep his composure. She leans back, sipping her vinegar wine.
“Right,” Owen announces theatrically a few minutes later, once he’s plated up. His cheeks have grown ruddier and his forehead looks damp. “Bon appétit.” He sets a steaming bowl of pasta in front of her. It’s piled high and topped with parsley. She could probably live off a serving this size for a week.
“You’ll have to excuse the burnt bits.” He takes a seat opposite her on the island. As Siobhan takes her first mouthful, she wonders how long it’s been since she had a hot meal. Probably the last time she was at her mum’s. At home, she lives off cereal and coffee, the occasional instant ramen, leftover popcorn from the Showroom. The pasta isthin and silky, the sauce almost indecently decadent, thick with cream and Parmesan, only a hint of burnt bitterness. The liquid splashes her cheeks, her white T-shirt.
