Look Back at Me (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 1)

Shame and Hunger

"What do you want to eat?" he asked, when she stepped out of his bathroom.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

She walked into the drawing room, looking around. What a cacophony of colours and styles, she thought. There was a massive, curved velvet sofa, of deep navy blue. It probably cost him a couple thousand quid. It looked endlessly comfortable, just asking for one to stretch on it, or settle to watch telly, which was of course present as well - a ginormous monstrosity on the wall. The media unit under it with all those gizmos he was so fond of - with its metal frame with pitted golden finish - clashed terribly with the sofa.

"You haven't eaten anything all day," he said walking after her and leaning his shoulder against the archway. "I bet you didn't have breakfast before I picked you up."

She shook her head, walking behind the sofa, letting the tips of her fingers slide along the top of its back. The texture was endlessly pleasant. So Rhys. Two armchairs in the room - a rattan papasan and a leather churchill one - couldn't be any less coordinated - even less so with the three triangular nesting tables, which looked vintage, and were almost buried under bits and bobs that he tended to produce and scatter on every surface around him: keys, little tools, magazines, buttons, cables and wires and earphones for his many devices, sunglasses, small pieces of paper, pens, keychains, receipts, small change, sweet wrappers, empty and still containing candies, mostly his favourite Walker's toffees.

"I don't eat much," she said with a shrug.

Just as she expected there were no plants in his house, but it wasn't bare or unlived in. The sofa had cushions and a couple of throws on it; and there were photos in nice frames on a drawer unit by the wall. She quickly thought that the drawers were most likely empty, or contained some odd rubbish. She couldn't imagine him folding linen and tablecloths, and neatly organising them inside - but once her eyes fell on the faces in the pictures, she forgot her sarcastic musing. They were all there, his whole family - in official pictures from weddings and christenings, and some candid shots outdoors, black and white photos of his parents and their siblings, the formal portrait of his grandfather. Her gaze jumped from one to another, and she smiled.

"I remember this one," she said and pointed at the photo of Di Holyoake, Rhys' cousin, holding a chubby infant in her hands. "That's baby Philip isn't it?"

"Yeah," Rhys said, very close to her, and she jolted. "He's eleven now. So tall. And blond," he added.

Viola laughed. "You say it like it's a bad thing." She looked up at his mane. "I like your longer hair too."

He smirked.

"You need to eat, Vi," he said. "You had a long day. I get it you're dieting, but–"

"I'm not dieting," she interrupted him, and frowned. Her light mood was immediately gone. He 'gets it?'

"Alright, you don't eat carbs or something," he said, "You still need to eat."

It had been an emotional day, she was tired and still feeling at sixes and sevens after her melt-down - and that's why instead of giving her usual polite evasive answer, she hissed, "I'm not dieting, Rhys. I have an eating disorder. And it's not carbs that I don't eat. It's any food."

Confused expression ran across his face, and then he frowned.

Viola took a measured breath to calm herself down, and said in an even tone, "You see, that's one of the things I truly didn't miss in the last ten years. Your swift judgement. You aren't a therapist or a nutritionist. You are not a medical specialist. As I would abstain from judgement on constructing a bridge, I would prefer you to keep your comments on my recovery to yourself."