The Debt & the Doormat by Laura Barnard

sarcastically, trying not to gag from the way he eats.  Where was he raised, the zoo? 
    But wait, did he mean I was safe because he wasn’t attracted to me?  Obviously, I don't care, but am I that ugly that there would never be any attraction?  That he would laugh about how ridiculous the idea would be?  Well that's a bit mean isn’t it?  Besides, I’m shocked he’s managed to sleep with them.  He’s a total slob.  What on earth did they see in him?
    ‘So...do you not work?’ I enquire, breaking the awkward silence.
    ‘Not at the moment.  I’m looking into a few things, but nothing solid.’
    ‘So, how do you live here?  Are you on the dole?  Or do Mummy and Daddy pay the rent?’ I add bitchily. 
    ‘Neither actually,’ he replies scathingly. 
    Neither?  How does he pay the rent?
    ‘Do you work?’ he asks.  ‘What am I saying !  Of course you work, that's where you stormed off to this morning,’ he says, clicking his tongue.
    ‘Well...I’m not very good in the mornings.’  I suddenly feel ashamed at what a bitch I must come across as.
    ‘Well that's clear.’  He smiles amused.  ‘But then, if you work why did I find you chained to our banister?’
    ‘Well...it's a bit of a long story.’ 
    He smiles at me, exposing perfect white teeth and I’m suddenly aware of every muscle in my body and how close he is to me.  The atmosphere quickly turns awkward and a stupid grin takes over my face.  I bite my tongue, trying to remove it, sure he must think I’m a window licker.  It's almost like when I was at school and the popular boy talked to me.  No.  I’m wrong.  This is completely different.  It's just that he’s a weirdo.  He finds it amusing to watch people squirm. 
    ‘I have time.  Like you said, I’m not working or anything,’ he sneers.
    I look down at my eggs, embarrassed at being such a judgemental bitch.  Maybe I am turning into my mother.
    ‘That was a quick job you managed to get,’ he continues.  ‘Especially when you’ve just moved from Spain’.  He raises an eyebrow, a tight smile on his lips.
    I take it back.  He’s a smug bastard.
    ‘Ha ha, bloody ha.  You know I didn’t come from Spain.’
    ‘ No !’  He puts his hand up to his mouth in mock shock.  ‘You’re not from Spain?  I feel totally cheated.’
    ‘Was I that much of a bad actress?’ I ask, a tiny laugh escaping despite myself.
    ‘That...and I know Jazz’s best friend is called Poppy.  She talks about you enough.’
    ‘Oh, right.’
    I wonder what she says about me.
    ‘She...talks about me?  What does she say?’ I ask, intrigued.
    ‘Not much.  But she never mentioned anything about you moving to Spain to design handbags for Jessica Simpson.’
    Not much?  Why does he have to be so mysterious?  I stare at my tea wondering if it's because there’s not much to tell about me.  I’m such a bore since he left. 
    I glance back up to find him watching me intensely.  He looks hard at my face, starting with my mouth, slowly moving up to look into my eyes.  I feel my body freeze and shut down; my mouth suddenly dry.  He doesn’t seem embarrassed to be lingering, but the goose pimples on my arms tell me I’m not comfortable with this.  His eyes are dark brown, I notice, the colour of Bourneville chocolate.  And when he doesn’t have food in his mouth I suppose he could pass as not completely ugly.
    ‘Your eyes are really green,’ he says, holding my gaze.
    ‘Oh....thanks...I guess.’  I try to look coy and cute, but instead I snort and spill my tea.
    ‘It's strange against your black hair.’
    Then without another word he turns and walks upstairs.  Well, that was weird.
    *                             *                            *
     
     
    When I un-lock my flat door I feel a massive relief.  Finally I’m safe.  The smells of my perfume greets me instead of dry rot and damp.  An enormous urge to run to my