NARCISSA LEAVES FOR GLOUCESTERSHIRE : 3-5 Eaton Place : March 30, 1981
The blinds in the kitchen are open, mid-morning light reflecting off the sink and cutlery just below. Regulus hums to himself, rounding the counter, scratching at his bare chest and yawning.
He'd woken to Narcissa beside him, hair spread across the pillow beside his, a languorous hand curled against his chest. They'd stayed in bed until mid-morning, until she'd forced him out.
Reaching for a bowl, he presses the play button on the answerphone. The tape hisses to life as he ducks his head into the icebox, selecting a handful of eggs.
Narcissa hears her mother's voice, nasal and unpleasant, come across the tape. Regulus insisted on them getting an answerphone, no matter the cost, but Narcissa hates it -- she much prefers the unreliability of catching someone at home. Obviously, her mother had rung before they'd woken. She shakes her head, rolls up a pair of nylon stockings.
Regulus's aunt's voice stops him in his tracks. He'd thought a day in the park, perhaps, coming home to sit at the piano, sides pressed together while Narcissa sang something sweet and low. He abandons breakfast for the stairs and her room.
Narcissa has her back to the door, folding a light cardigan against her chest. She glances over her shoulder, crooks a smile. "Who was that?" she says, tilting her head.
"Your mother," Regulus murmurs. His hair is still a rumpled mess, mouth twisted into a lopsided frown. "You didn't -- you hadn't said you were going to leave."
Narcissa's brow wrinkles. "Only for a few days," she says. Presses her jumper closer. "I told you."
"You hadn't said," Regulus repeats, cheeks flushed. "Can't you -- perhaps I misheard. Never mind." He shakes his head.
"I told you," Narcissa says. "Last night. Remember -- at the restaurant, I said, we should go again when I came back." She crosses her arms.
"No, no. I thought --" Regulus's fingers clench and unclench. He's still standing it the doorway, wearing a pair of boxer shorts. They're not warm enough, now that he's standing still. "I don't know what I thought. You could have said something, earlier. This morning."
"Said what?" She tosses her hair. "It's not like I'm doing something wrong. I don't need your permission to go visit my parents for three days."
"Cissa, you --" Regulus cuts himself off, exhaling. He stares down at the floor, runs his toes over a spot where the boards are slightly uneven. "You don't. I need to. I'm going for a walk."
"Go for a walk, then," she says, chin defiant. "I hope it rains on you." She shoves the cardigan into her suitcase and goes to her dresser, turning her back to him.
"Travel safely," Regulus manages lamely. It was something his mother used to say to him before he left for school each term, running a hand over his hair and sending him off. He pushes his hair back and turns down the hallway.
There's a thud, as a shoe, hurtled in the direction of his retreating form, hits the door, feet wide of its target.
He ignores it. Regulus knows better, hurrying through dressing -- trousers, shirt, sweater, hat -- without so much as combing his hair and slips back down the stairs. He locks the door behind him, stopping only to light a fag on his way down the street.
Narcissa hears the front door to the flat close, hears the finality of Regulus' key in the lock. Somehow, everything in this flat echoes, and she hates it then -- hates every inch of it, from the light that woke her up with Regulus' lips on her stomach, to the spare sock of his she finds on the floor when she casts about on her hands and knees for her shoe. She'll spend the week in Gloucestershire, if she wants.