bookish_dragon | The return of Concerta

Continued from here.

The bar was seedy, but the drinks were cheap. Even so, I was sticking to drafts, while Michael nursed his second whiskey. "My parents are insane," he said, finally.
"Yes, they are. Not as mad as mine, though." I downed my drink, pushing the empty glass over the bar. "I can't believe that they want me married off this badly. So far they've never given out an ultimatum."
He ordered us some more drinks, ignoring the fact that I hadn't paid for any of them. I hadn't gotten my pay from the news agent's, and didn't want to go back to collect it. I wouldn't get it anyway. "What do you do?" I asked. "You don't work in the city."
"I do work there." He flustered under the look I gave him. "In the mail room of a bank," he added. "How about you?"
"I'd lounge around living on the taxpayers' money if I'd have Jobseeker's Allowance. But things always seem to come up whenever I want to apply for it. So I am just being a burden on my hardworking parents." I doodled patterns with the condensation from my glass, and didn't have to look at Michael to know what he was thinking. 'Lazy cow.' I thought it myself often enough. I shrugged. "Worked at a news agent's, but I got sacked today."
An arm snaked around my waist from behind. "I know a way you could earn some money," a voice said behind me, "pretty girl like you. Be really good and there might be something extra in it for you."
I turned around, trying to get out of the embrace but failing. This man in what had been a good suit, but which was now covered in dirt and red wine-stains, was standing there, breathing fumes into my face and leering. "Go fuck a keyhole," I said. "I am not a working girl."
He leaned in closer to me. "Never said you were, love. But you need the money, and I need a woman. How's about a trade?" His arm intensified its grip on my waist.
"There's not enough money in the world." I twisted to get out of his grip. He wouldn't let me go, and I kicked him in the shin, hard. He stumbled for a moment and swore.
Behind me, I could hear Michael standing up. "Leave her alone." He was trying to sound firm and authoritative, and not getting there.
My assailant scowled at him. "Stay out of this, you minge!" I swung and hit him in the face. He staggered back, letting go off me. "Why, you little tramp..." He made to hit me, but I stepped back, grabbing Michael's arm.
"Let's go. Now." I pulled him towards the exit, and we left the bar. The man did follow for a short while, but we managed to lose him. Michael walked me home, and left me on the doorstep. We didn't talk on the way, just about generalities like the weather. He didn't say goodbye and I let myself into the house. It was dark and silent. Not even my father sitting in the living room, waiting for me to come in so he could lecture me about breaking curfew and walking out of dinner. I went to bed, not sleeping for a long time. I lay staring at the ceiling, replaying the day's happenings.

I woke up to an argument. My parents were down in the kitchen, rowing for all they were worth. I got worried. They'd never done that when I was around to hear it. My mother was hysterical, by the sound of it. "This can not be. Not now! David, it is too soon. What are we going to do?"
"Madeline! Compose yourself," my father snapped. "We will think of something. Be quiet, you will wake Concerta, and she must not find out." They stopped talking. I heard a door open, the one leading to the garden I guessed. I got out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen. I made myself coffee while looking at my parents wandering about the garden. It wasn't big, but my mother's real pride and joy. She spent a lot of time there, tending and pruning and trimming and scolding everyone who dared set foot in there without her permission. I hardly ever went out there. Greenery didn't do it for me. My father was trying to distract her by pointing out that the hedge was getting uneven, and that her violets were in need of watering. He looked up and I waved, causing him to look away again. I was busy making toast when they came in again. There wasn't a sign that they had almost been shouting earlier. My mother was looking composed as ever as she washed her hands, and my father avoided looking at either of us.

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