The Disastrous Love Lives of the Delaney Family

3.6 Irving Penn

Bronwen stayed for two nights. The first night was because I didn't trust that her blood sugars were in range. The second night, I insisted that she stay because I couldn't be sure she wouldn't do something that stupid again. 

I let her sleep in my bed. It was a strange sensation, having someone in my bedroom. For as long as I can remember, I've never let anyone into my personal space; it's too intimate having a stranger see how you live. In retrospect, I should have insisted that Léa or Sera go to stay with their boyfriend and Bronwen could sleep in their bed, but there was also the illogical voice in my mind that was loudly telling me that it was ok to let Bronwen stay in my room. The reasoning was, "It's just Bronwen."

I was on the verge of insisting that she stay for a third night but Bronwen politely yet firmly told me no, she wanted to go home, and have a long, hot shower (I didn't understand this bit because she's had a long, hot shower in my flat already), and then get into her own bed (this I understood because my bed is not her bed). The second she left, wearing one of Sera's dresses which was a few inches too short to be considered appropriate, I was left standing in the hallway, staring at the back of the door, unable to move.

I've been frozen in the same spot for about an hour, alone with my thoughts. Why had I let her leave? Would she get home ok? Why do I feel like I'm missing something? Why do I feel... empty?

Deciding that I don't have any of the answers to these questions, I force my feet to move. From the coat peg, I grab my jacket and throw it on after some warring with the sleeves, pick up my keys and pat the back left pocket of my jeans to make sure that I have my phone with me. I leave the flat and make my way across the city, taking public transport for the longest parts of the journey, and then walking on foot for the remainder, until I find myself standing outside the front door of my childhood home.

While Mum and Dad insist that it is still my home and I can come and go as I please, I find it weird to walk in when they're not expecting me. Owen had once been sent home from school (sick) and arrived at the house in the early afternoon, hours before he was expected, and he walked in on our parents having sex in the drawing room. Ever since, he's refused to go into that room, preferring to stay in the living room. He also insists that he's mentally scarred from the experience. 

Martha scoffed when she'd heard and told Owen it was a good thing he wasn't around when they first moved into the house because they christened more or less every single room. The only place they hadn't had sex in, to the best of her knowledge, was the mews cottage at the bottom end of the garden. Owen now occupies the mews but he isn't entirely convinced our 'depraved' parents haven't had sex in there. 

It's something that haunts him. 

To avoid the same fate, I press the doorbell and wait. Seventy-eight seconds later, the door opens, my father's tall, broad body filling the doorway. He frowns from behind his glasses, which he pushes up to the top of his head, his blue eyes staring at me. Silently, he opens the door wider and motions for me to enter, telling me that he's working in the kitchen.