Page 42 of The Square

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - CHRISTINE

I’m standing inthe corner of Eliza’s kitchen—which is quite nice. In fact, the whole fucking place is English-countryside quaint and perfect. So perfect I feel like gagging—while Danny and Eliza sit at the kitchen table overlooking a massive back garden where Alec’s daughter is busy drawing a hopscotch grid on a dark, slate pathway which I can only imagine leads somewhere magical. Like a smaller-sized, but dimensionally correct replica of this estate, hidden in the woods and surrounded by those wood fairies—what do you call them? Pixies. Yes. There’s a fucking mini-mansion playhouse out there at the end of that path surrounded by pixies. I’m sure of it.

The storybook childhood home. That’s what this place is.

I am seething with rage.

Also, possibly, jealousy.

But definitely rage.

I don’t hate many people. I don’t, in fact, give any fucks about most people one way or the other. So having feelings of rage and hate towards Eliza is a big deal for me.

Russell has been called. Courtesy of Danny, not Eliza. Because Eliza is still going on about how in no bloody dream world is she lifting even a pinky finger to help Alec out of whatever mess we’re all involved in.

But in between those declarations—which come with side-eyed glances my direction, like I’m the reason for her feelings about Alec and she is not the reason for my feelings about her—she has mustered up a pot of tea in an actual fucking china teapot (like, come on, OK?) and a plate of cookies that appear to be, yes, you guessed it. Homemade.

I’m drunk on rage.

Because she has the nerve to answer that door looking fucking fabulous. Like the years haven’t touched her and there’s been no falling off rooftops, or hidden guns under floorboards, or losing one’s memory of betraying one of the two people you love most in the world, since she gave birth two-something years ago.

And—and—she has that beautiful little child playing out there in her magical back garden of this huge, quintessentially English estate like she’s never known a life of strife, and hardship, and disappointment.

Rage.

Also, possibly, jealousy.

The Watson twins, Brenden and Charlie, show up first, not Russell. And there’s a big production as mini-Alec comes running in to wrap her arms around her uncles’ knees and blabber on about hopscotch and jacks, and do they know her new friend, Danny? Who can also play hopscotch?

I think I’m the only one listening to her, because Brenden is shaking Danny’s hand, like they are old friends and not old enemies, and Charlie is, along with Eliza, side-eyeing me as I keep my distance in the corner.

But that’s because Charlie and I had an almost-thing once upon a time, and he’s probably wondering if I ever told Danny about that.

This shit is gonna get complicated.

Gonna?

I laugh, which makes everyone turn to look at me, not just Eliza and Charlie. And Brenden says, “Hey, Christine.”

And I manage a small wave without uncrossing my arms from their defensive position across my chest.

Because the fact of the matter is—all this is my fault. I have no delusions about that. This whole thing is my fault.

Mostly for taking up with Lars, even though I still don’t really remember that part. But also because things got messy a couple years ago when I found out Eliza was pregnant with Alec’s baby.

Really. Fucking. Messy.

And then the whole goddamned production starts all over again when Russell arrives, then again when Theo comes. Only when Theo comes, mini-Alec jumps up into his arms and he twirls her around as she giggles.

So I guess Theo is the favorite uncle.

What must it be like to grow up with a favorite uncle? And giggle when he showers you with love?

I wouldn’t know.

Rage.

But my rage is tempered when Russell says, “OK, let’s get down to business.” And he looks at Danny for… what?