Page 6 of Hex House
Owen nods. “Still at Edinburgh. Programme Director now, actually.” He raises his glass then lowers it. “No way of saying that without sounding like a wanker.”
Siobhan smiles. She takes a generous glug of wine and feels it fur her teeth, staining them dark. When she puts the glass down it’s already empty.
“So,” Owen says, refilling it, “the last I heard, you and your brother had that incredible documentary commission. What was his name again? Hugo?”
“Theo.” Saying his name is like pressing a bruise.
“How is he?”
“We don’t really talk anymore.”
Owen leans back into the leather, swirling the liquid in his glass, holding it by its stem. He hasn’t taken a sip yet. “I’m sorry to hear that. You made a good team, I heard.”
Siobhan shrugs. The last time she saw him, Theo’s clothes were covered in blood and he had mud tracked up his bare calves from running through the woods.I don’t even know who you are anymore, he’d screamed at her. “Creative differences,” Siobhan says, shaking her head to rid herself of the image.
“The commission though,” Owen says, blowing air out through his lips. “I was so pleased when I heard about that. You really deserved it. What was it – six months on-location filming? A year?”
Siobhan keeps her eyes on the table, on the complex grain of the wood, its whorls and half-faces. She feels likeshe’s in an old silent movie, waiting prone on the tracks for the train to come.
“The cult!” Owen says loudly, slapping his free hand on his thigh. “I remember now, out in the middle of nowhere. All very top secret and mysterious. You can tell me all the gory details now though, right?”
“No,” Siobhan whispers, too quickly. Owen blinks, raised eyebrows betraying his surprise. Under the table, she forces her fingernails into the flesh of her thigh, gasping as one of them bends all the way back. She doesn’t know what she’d expected, inviting him out for a drink – of course he would ask about this. “And it wasn’t a cult,” she manages to say. “It was…”Go on, Siobhan. Whatwasit?“It doesn’t matter. The doc didn’t really come to anything, anyway.”
“That’s a shame,” Owen says carefully. “I get it though. Sometimes the stars just don’t align. I’d still love to see that footage, if you’re ever happy to share. I don’t know if you remember, but I co-founded a production company a while back. We’re always on the lookout for fresh ideas.” He takes a long, deep sip of wine. “And to be honest, you always stood out to me, Siobhan. Distinctive style. Uncompromising.”
Siobhan’s stomach tightens. It always does when she receives a compliment, though it’s been a while. There’d been a time when she’d been led to believe that she was a different sort of person, an exceptional one, even, after she graduated. She’d won an award for her short film based in a domestic violence shelter, the same one where she’d lived with her mum and Theo for a year when she was three. After that, professors and peers alike seemed in a rush totell her that they’d been the ones to sense her potential early. People can be possessive over talent, and she’d felt like a prize to be fought over. There were job offers floated, emails constantly landing in her inbox about projects that might be a good fit for her and Theo, who’d graduated a couple of years before. Siobhan had basked in the golden glow of things starting and gaining momentum with little effort on her part. This, she’d thought,thisis the way my life is going to be now. I’m going to be a filmmaker.
Then, of course, came the letter. How had they gotten her address? She’s always wondered, not that it matters now. Her name on the envelope was blotted in places, as if it had been written out slowly, the ink pooling from a proper fountain pen. Siobhan couldn’t remember the last time she’d received a letter that wasn’t a utilities bill, and seeing the scratchy handwriting felt strangely intimate, as though the sender were standing in the room with her and looking over her shoulder, their breath on her neck.
We have a special opportunity for you, Siobhan. Here at Hex House.
Hex House. She’d laughed when she read that, thinking, fleetingly, that it must be a prank. A jealous course mate maybe; someone who hated all the positive attention she was getting. But there had been something about the letter that felt true, somehow – earnest.
We know about your work. We would like to invite you to stay with us.
The letter had seemed to throb in her hand, to demand an answer, though there was no return address. She read it over and over, sitting at her desk at home, training her eyes to focus on each word and not skip ahead.
You’re very special.
You’re exactly what we need.
How easily that simple flattery had reeled her in, spiked her curiosity. But it was the ending of the letter that had really cemented what she did next. That strange, out-of-place turn of phrase that had made her feel cold all over.
Would you like to come inside?
She often wishes she could go back to that moment. ScreamNo, no, no. Rip up the letter. Throw it away, forget about it. Become a different person entirely.
“Siobhan?” Owen prompts.
The door to the pub opens and lets in a gasp of cold air, bringing her back into herself. She doesn’t want to talk about any of it anymore. She wants to be here, now, in a dark room with expensive wine and a man who may or may not want her. She’s flush with alcohol, lazy in a bold sort of way. Each movement feels predestined and out of her control. She puts down her wine glass and places one hand on either side of Owen’s face. He flinches only slightly. His skin is warm, the suggestion of stubble breaking through. His eyes widen for a half-second, then glaze over with something else and Siobhan recognises it instantly for what it is: the first flickering of desire. She knows now, and so does he, what they have the potential to be to each other. She might as well have said it out loud. She might as well have carved it into the table with a knife.
“Stop talking,” she says instead, barely loud enough for him to hear, and she sees that desire grow brighter. This is another one of those moments, she knows, when one thing slides into another; a moment she’ll look back on as oneshe should have handled differently. Her life seems full of them. “Go and get me another drink,” she says, and takes her hands away.
***
Later, Siobhan wanders alone through Edinburgh’s knotted streets. She hadn’t let Owen walk her home, wanting him nowhere near the flat, so had led him in the opposite direction instead until she was too tired to make conversation anymore.
“This is me,” she lied, when they got to the top of Leith Walk. “My flat’s just round the corner.”
