Unveiled

Placing my fingers in the centre of the porcelain, I hold it in place and proceed to draw around the plate, smiling as I do. ‘Perfect,’ I announce to myself, standing back and eyeing the rest of the table. I’m way too proud of myself, and it’s obvious on my crafty face. I do them all – each and every single thing on the table. It all gets circled with the Sharpie, perfect lines everywhere marking the perfect place for that piece of dinnerware.

‘What the fucking hell!’

I swing around at the sound of the distressed voice, armed with my Sharpie, and in a ridiculously stupid attempt to conceal exhibit A, I hide the Sharpie behind my back, because there are a million other people in Miller’s flat who could have been responsible for the defacing of his table. The look of horror on his face is like a reality check. What the hell have I just done? His eyes are wide and disbelieving as he carries his naked body to the table, his mouth agape as he scans the area. Then he picks up a plate and looks at the circle. Then a glass. Then a fork.

I chew madly on the inside of my cheek, bracing myself for the imminent meltdown. His bare arse hits the chair and his hand delves into his hair. ‘Olivia.’ Disturbed eyes lift to mine. He looks like he’s seen a ghost. ‘You’ve scribbled all over my table.’

I look to the table and lift my thumb to my mouth, transferring my chewing to my thumbnail. This is silly. It’s a table. Anyone would think someone had died. On an exasperated sigh, I throw the Sharpie to the side and approach the table, where Miller is back to lifting items to see if I really have marked everything. I’m not sure whether to confirm it or leave him to continue examining to discover it for himself. ‘I’ve made our lives easier.’

He looks at me like I’ve grown horns. ‘Really?’ He drops a plate and I smile when he pokes it roughly until it’s within the guidelines. ‘Please, elaborate on that.’

‘Well . . .’ I take a seat next to him and think of how I can word it so he’ll appreciate it. Now I’m being silly. This is Miller Hart. My obsessive fruitcake. ‘Now I can lay the table so there’s no risk of your sweet girl screwing up your –’ I purse my lips – ‘particular ways.’

‘Sweet girl?’ He looks at me incredulously. ‘You are far from sweet, Olivia. Right now you’re akin to the fucking devil! Why would . . . what the . . . Oh, Jesus, look at it!’ He waves his arm around aimlessly, then drops his elbows to the table and buries his face in his palms. ‘I can’t look.’

‘Now I can set the table just how you like it.’ I avoid saying need. This is how he needs it. ‘It’s the lesser of two evils.’ Reaching over, I take his hand so his head is no longer supported and he has to look at me. ‘Either I constantly fuck it up, or you just get used to this.’ I indicate the table on a smile. This may be an overreaction, but it’s one time. He’ll grow to accept the outlines. The alternative is a mini seizure each time I set the table. It’s a no-brainer to me.

‘You are the only evil thing around here, Olivia. Just you.’

‘Look at it as art.’

He scoffs at that suggestion and shifts my grip so he now has hold of me. ‘It’s a fucking mess, that’s what it is.’

My body sags in my chair, and I catch him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, all sulky. Over a table? ‘Is it replaceable?’

‘Yes,’ he grumbles. ‘Good fucking job, too. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Well, I’m not replaceable, and I’m not spending a lifetime with you, constantly worrying whether I’ve put a stupid plate in the right place.’

He recoils at my harshness, but come on! I’ve been more than accommodating with his obsessive habits. Yes, he’s eased up on a few, but there’s still work to do, and since Miller refuses to openly admit he suffers severely from obsessive-compulsive disorder, and point-blank refuses to see a therapist, then he’ll just have to get used to my way of helping him. And helping myself at the same time, too.

‘It’s no big shakes.’ He forces indifference to within an inch of his life.

‘No big shakes?’ I ask, laughing. ‘Miller, your world is currently experiencing an earthquake of epic proportions!’ He virtually snarls, increasing my amusement. ‘Now –’ I stand and pull my hand free – ‘do you want breakfast, or are you going to refuse, since you didn’t witness me making it how you like it?’

‘There’s no need for insolence.’

‘Yes, there is.’ I leave my grumpy man at the table to fetch my bowl of melted chocolate, hearing him muttering and shifting crockery. ‘Oh,’ I breathe, looking down into the bowl that resembles nothing like the delicious dark puddle of chocolate that Miller created.

Picking up the wooden spoon, I have a little poke and lose my grip of the handle when the spoon gets suck in the semi-hard goo. I’m pouting when my body lights up, and I know it’s because he’s on his way over to investigate. The heat of his chest meets my back and his chin falls to my shoulder. ‘I have a request,’ he speaks right into my ear, making my shoulder rise and my head push into his face in a vain attempt to halt the tingles that have started to assault my body.

‘What?’ I reclaim the spoon and try to stir.

‘Please don’t make me eat that.’

My whole body deflates, disappointment replacing the tingles. ‘What did I do wrong?’

The spoon is taken from my hand and left to rest in the bowl before he turns me in his arms. All dismay has vanished. Now I’m the butt of his amusement. ‘You spent too long vandalising my table, so the chocolate has set.’ He’s smug. ‘I’m afraid there will be no licking chocolate from body parts.’