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It’s been years. Years of therapy, of confidence building, of finally taking some charge in her life. She didn’t even know she HAD a Facebook account. But, here she was, staring at an email notification and the first thing that popped out at her and practically strangled her first thing in the morning was a friend request from Malcolm Tucker.
Malcolm. Tucker.
At first came the panic. The automatic, conditioned jolt at his name. Then she laughed, sharp and brittle. Spam. It had to be. Some scammer, desperate for her to click the link. As if she’d fall for that! She wasn’t stupid. Well, she had fallen for it three times before, but Katie and Ella had taught her what to look for now.
The laughing stops when she remembered she *did* have a Facebook. Mostly to keep up to date with her sister, who hardly texts or calls.
There it was. The friend request. Real.
Nicola slams the laptop closed. No. No way he expects her to…
The laptop slowly opens back up. Nicola winces and ducks down to look at the screen as it rises, as if making sure that the notification won’t jump out of the screen to deck her.
Still there. Still Malcolm bloody Tucker. She dropped the lid with a squeak, hands stinging like she’d touched a live wire. Honestly, if anyone could upload his consciousness into a computer just to haunt her forever, it would be him.
Nicola sat there at the little table in her new flat’s kitchen, staring at her laptop.
———————————————————
Nicola enters the restaurant, eyes adjusting to the change in light, standing in the doorway.
“Just one?” The hostess asks. Nicola blinks dumbly, finally getting out of doorway and into the restaurant.
“Oh, no I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone?” Nicola stammered, already drifting sideways, as though she could dissolve into the wallpaper. The hostess waved her on and turned to the next group.
She spots him immediately. The beard was new. It softened him, almost made him look human. But, she recognizes those eyebrows. The way he’s postured over the table like at his desk. Elbows propped on the table, fingers steepled, waiting to dissect someone.
Nicola can only stare as the anxiety flares up. A scorching heat coming up from her neck to her face. She clutches at her stomach, her breathing increasing.
She can turn back. She should turn back. Let’s turn back, Nicola, please. Her mind and rapidly speeding heart are begging her, but her feet are frozen. Everything is speeding up, and yet time is slowing down. Her pulse is deafening in her ears.
And when he finally notices her standing at the front, everything finally freezes. There’s no turning around now, he’s noticed you. Like a hawk swooping in on a mouse.
Malcolm Tucker. Malcolm Tucker.
What finally makes her legs move is a party of people trying to leave from the booth she’s next to. Nicola’s in the way of the aisle and she awkwardly scoots to the side. With a nervous, borderline hysterical laugh, Nicola moves around the party of people, and she’s suddenly standing right in front of the table Malcolm’s at.
The eyes are always the same. Sharp, always looking for weakness. She’s never seen them soften… well except when he was begging her to stay.
Nicola can’t help but to stare at him, keeping watch in case he pounces for the kill. Instead of striking, he raises his eyebrows and his glass of wine.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost” he smirks, all teeth that she knows bites to draw blood.
Time resumes and Nicola sits down, setting her purse down by her feet. She’s trapped now by social obligations. Her purse slips down her shoulder to the floor, resigned.
She wanted to tell him, Well, you are dead to me. But the words jammed in her throat. All she could do was stare at him as if the dead man really had come back to life.
Malcolm’s observing her just as much as she’s observing him. Years have passed. Years of therapy and jokes at her expense that hardened her. Her hair has grown back out, just past her shoulders and she’s sure she has more lines on her face. She wonders what he’s thinking, looking at her.
A clink of glass. There are two glasses of wine on the table, one in front of her. It was waiting for her. Bitter and presumptuous. Malcolm had clinked the glasses together to get her attention.
God she needs it. Nicola doesn’t want to think that he’s been waiting for her. She takes the glass and downs it.
“Ah, there she is. I was a bit worried you’ve found healthier ways to cope. For god’s sake, you can’t just guzzle down wine like that”
Nicola clears her throat, practically slamming the glass back down. Her eyes stay down, determined not to look at him unless she’ll lose her nerves.
“I’ve tried many things, ridiculous things. Tried to ‘find myself’ in the woods. All I found was bugs and no phone signal to get me the hell out”
She laughed wryly, “I even convinced myself to hug a tree. It was less prickly than you. Hell of a lot quieter”
Malcolm tilts his head and makes a small noise that could have been a laugh, could have been a sound of agreement. He leaned over to reach for the wine bottle to refill hers.
“Sounds like the divorce has left you a wee bit desperate for a tree”
Of course he knows about the divorce. He’s known everything about her. Malcolm had paid so much attention to her, it was stifling compared to the invisibility she had at home.
The wine being poured was even her favorite. She feels disgusting. She needs to leave.
Malcolm, of course, noticed the reaction. He’s been paying attention to every move and expression on Nicola’s face. Nicola’s lip flattening, her eyes dead as they watch the wine fill the glass. The classic look that told Malcolm that she wasn’t listening to him anymore.
“Right. Can we pretend this is a normal lunch now? As if I hadn’t undone your little tree cult therapy?” Malcolm gestures to the menus in front of them.
“Yes. Let’s do that. Preferably something soothing and not something that screams a cry for help” Nicola eyes the risotto, about to suggest it before Malcolm speaks up.
“So, risotto” It’s amazing how much Nicola wants to strangle a person for being so in tuned. “I on the other hand, will have a little cry for help.”
“So your usual of cigarettes and satsumas?” Nicola parries back.
“Nah, cigarettes are a nasty habit. Drinking is much better” he refills her wine glass to puncture the point with a half grin.
Nicola made a noncommittal noise. She hates how much this takes her back. Like nothing happened. Well, old habits, as they say. And, Malcolm’s sole attention is … addicting. It always has been. But, she can’t forget what he’s done. The brutal backstabbing. It was a regular Shakespearean play with Malcolm. He whispered in her ear like Lady McBeth and betrayed her like Iago.
Nicola scoffs out a laugh at the absurdity of this situation.
“What are we doing here, Malcolm?” Nicola finally asks, her voice resigned. She’s not panicking. But she’s not giving him hell like she always planned either. This whole thing has her system off guard.
Malcolm raises his heavy eyebrows and she already knows he’s going to say something sarcastic. His hand seemed to have a life of its own, flapping
“I asked you out. We’re out”
A small bit of heat raises in the back of Nicola’s neck just at the wording. One could interpret that as ‘asking out on a date’.
“Yes, but why?”
Malcolm shrugged and leaned back into his seat now looking anywhere but at her for once. “That’s what friends do. Catch up?”
Nicola barked out a laugh sharp enough to sting her throat. “Friends?” The word tasted like poison. They were never friends. She’d once fooled herself into thinking so, in the rare moments he seemed to have her back. Maybe even something … closer than friends. But no, she was just another pawn.
Malcolm’s eyes flicked back to her, cold and calculating. That was the Malcolm she’s been looking for. He lurched back over the table and Nicola lifted her chin in challenge, not flinching.
“I don’t do this shite with anyone”, he hissed. Malcolm had a small, small, SMALL list of people he was trying to right. He had written Nicola’s name down without even thinking and he was surprised when he finally registered her name. Pleasantly surprised. On his side of things, his memories of Nicola were entertaining and good. Nicola seemed like someone who would get swallowed up in politics. And yet, she marched on with her head held high with every situation thrown at her. He’s proud of her even now for not taking his shite. Sure, there were her fuck ups, the massive headaches she’d give him. But, it was just the business.
This conversation is finally going down to the root of the issue. Nicola’s resigning. Malcolm had humiliated and destroyed her so thoroughly, everything that she thought they had evaporated in an instance. And he was right. Nicola wasn’t made for politics. God, she wanted to. She wanted to make a difference. But, there were people like Malcolm who seemed to be infused into the system that would get in the way. And Nicola realized, it wasn’t necessarily that Malcolm was right, everything he says is dramatic and aimed to hurt, it was that Nicola didn’t want to be like him. Another gear stuck in the machine that can’t ever be freed.
Nicola took in a breath, “Malcolm, what you did…,” she shook her head, “if we were ever anything, that was over when you set up your little goodbye speech for me”.
A scoff slipped from Malcolm’s sharp mouth. He leaned back as if she’d swung at him, eyes narrowing.
“You’re still on about that? Jesus. I thought your little tree hugging, finding yourself shite was meant to knock that out of you.”
Nicola’s lips parted, the comeback forming, and he smirked subtly. Waiting for it, wanting it. And she recognized it. The bastard. Nicola closed her mouth again, jaw tight, and sat in silence.
Therapy had taught her one thing, stop reacting. Her quick tongue had only ever dragged her deeper into panic, into fights she couldn’t win. And fighting with Malcolm was like fighting a wall made of diamond, you only ended up bloody.
The smirk faded when he noticed. He wanted her to snap back, to prove she was still the same Nicola. But she wasn’t. Maybe he had broken something in her. Maybe that was the change.
Nicola drained her wine glass and set it down with finality.
“Restroom,” she said briskly, pushing back her chair and grabbing her purse. She didn’t look back.
So many panic attacks had happened in restrooms. So many with Malcolm at her side, pretending comfort while he calculated the angle. Not today. He didn’t get that anymore.
Her reflection in the mirror looked hollow eyed, worn. Tired. Tired of circles. Tired of every conversation being a performance, every moment a sparring match Malcolm had to win. She had wasted too many years letting him be the loudest voice in the room.
Nothing would change. And that maybe was closure enough.
When she finally came back out after what seemed almost an hour, Malcolm was gone. His own wine glass drained and the bill paid. Nicola sank into the chair anyway. She felt like she finally won. But… she didn’t feel good about it.
Therapy said this was progress. It felt more like indigestion