The Disastrous Love Lives of the Delaney Family

3.4 Cecil Beaton

Actually, it's not. There's an exit through the other room. The one that's become the make-shift dressing room. The one that currently occupies Bronwen Saylor. While we've all been out here, waiting, she's remained in the dressing room, doing God only knows what. I mean, the door is open and if I had wanted to know, I could have looked to see, but I know Bronwen. She's reading a book. I don't need to see her doing that to know that's what she's doing. Ever since she was seven years old and could read without anyone helping her form the sounds, she's had her head in a book. 

It's astounding to me that she became a model. She's incredibly intelligent. Not that models aren't brainy, it's just Bronwen could have gone to university to study astrophysics. But she didn't. I often wonder how much of this modelling malarkey is Bronwen wanting to do it and Martha wanting Bronwen to do it. Let's face it, my sister can be quite domineering. She's a woman who knows what she wants. Very opposite to me. I haven't a clue what I want. 

A lot of Martha's decisiveness comes from the fact that she and her husband had some misunderstandings before they got married and after they reunited, Martha took to 'radical honesty.' Dad says it's an excuse for Martha to speak her mind and offend people under the guise of being honest. I think he's right. Not that I know the difference between being honest and rude; I tend to offend without meaning to. It's just that Dad's normally right about everything. 

Having to choose between exiting via the studio or exiting via the dressing room should be an easy choice. In theory, it is. Go through the dressing room. Fewer people, less noise. Logically, it's the way to go. 

No one has ever accused me of being a logical person, however. My brain, as Levi likes to say, is wired a little differently compared with the neurotypical people of this world. He's not entirely wrong, although he can only say that about me; I doubt he's met many neurodivergent people and he lacks the research and scientific background to assign such a diagnosis to everyone, but I'll concede that he's right about me. 

I know going through the dressing room is what I need to do. It is. If only Bronwen wasn't in there. See, while there are more people and noise in the studio, I have to consider that while not a talker, Bronwen is an observer. She sees everything. Every fucking thing. This, combined with the fact that she doesn't speak, makes me feel uneasy. She doesn't make me feel uneasy; it's the fact that I don't know what she's thinking when she looks at me. 

I never fully understood her before last November but then she did something. Her actions in trying to kiss me were a statement that I heard better than any words she's ever said to me, even if I don't fully know what she was trying to say. In my mind, a kiss (aimed at the lips, no less) is a statement of intent. The person likes you in a physical sense, maybe even romantically. If they didn't view you like that, they wouldn't have tried to plant a smacker on your lips. Bronwen was drunk, though. Alcohol makes you do stupid things. It's how Mum and Dad ended up with Sera. It's how Dan and Sophie met.

It wouldn't surprise me if most of the romantic relationships in the Delaney family were triggered by alcohol. 

I'm a Delaney. Technically. On Mum's side. 

Bronwen was drunk when she tried to kiss me. 

Ergo, she thinks of me romantically and wants us to be in a relationship.

That's my illogical brain at work. Even I know that... no, I suppose I don't know, I'm just guessing. We've never talked about the almost-kiss. There was a quick 'I'm fine' on the doorstep, and then she flew away. It's irritating. 

My feet begin to carry me before I know that the rest of my body is involuntarily following. I walk, at pace, to the dressing room, opening the door without knocking, and closing it with a loud thud behind me.