My Book

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Only my friends call me Harry,’ I tell the child. ‘I’m not sure why your uncle thinks this courtesy extends to him.’

  ‘What does qu-querulous that mean?’

  ‘It means he looks like a constipated pensioner.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘Just because. Because he’s a bastard,’ Griff replies, his exasperated tone deepening as he folds his arms across his chest. ‘And I know, I said a bad word. But you won’t tell your mum, will you? Because you’re out with the boys.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’ve heard it before. Mummy uses it to describe you all of the time.’

  ‘I think I’ve just discovered why I’m feeling irritable. It’s the company I currently keep.’

  As opposed to the company I’d expected to wake to this morning. I had plans for Miranda, and they weren’t all of the bedroom kind. Some were the showering kind, and some were the naked lazy breakfast in bed kind. But mostly, they were the get to the bottom of what’s going on in her life kind. The get to know her better kind.

  ‘Look, Rosa caught me on the hop. The nanny didn’t turn up, and I couldn’t say no. It’s only supposed to be for an hour.’

  ‘And that’s my problem, how?’

  ‘You know what they say; a friend in need is a friend indeed.’ Griff’s reply is accompanied by a smirk, roughly translating to—his sister needed a babysitter and despite him being the kind of person most wouldn’t leave their goldfish with, she’d dropped off her darling boy without a second thought. And because he didn’t want to look after the kid alone, he brought him along to Motcombs.

  ‘A friend in need is a pain in the arse, more like.’ Hell, you’re not supposed to swear in front of kids, are you? I know his uncle has, but I’m pretty sure it’s frowned upon. Not that I have much to do with children generally.

  ‘Monty, why don’t you go and get yourself an ice cream?’ Before you learn a whole new vocabulary to take home to your mummy.

  ‘I’m not ’posed to take money from strangers.’ The kid stares the ten pound note I hold out in front of him, eyeing it covetously.

  ‘He’s not a stranger,’ Griff interjects. ‘He’s Uncle Harry. He knows your mum. In fact, he knows your mum really really well. He might easily have been your—’

  ‘Enough.’ I don’t often lose my temper, but when I do, it’s often the result of something Griff has said or done. Whichever laboratory he was created in seemed to have forgotten to add any tact in his genetic makeup. Usually, the inclusion of Beckett smooths tempers things between us. The fact that he’s a no-show today is annoying on a couple of fronts but mostly because I wanted to pick his brain. But it’s inevitable, I suppose. Who’d want to hang out with other men when there’s the option to be with the woman you love? Naked? Fully clothed? Still, it’s damned bad timing. ‘Take the money,’ I insist. ‘Go and buy yourself an ice cream.’

  ‘Can I have a Coke, too?’ He narrows his eyes in an uncanny echo of Rosa, his mother. He has her dark curls, too. But he has nothing of me, even if I do have carnal knowledge of her. Knowledge gained many, many years ago, I hasten to add.

  ‘If your mother would allow you, I don’t see why not.’

  ‘She doesn’t,’ he says, suddenly snatching the note from my hand. ‘But Uncle Griff does, and he’s in charge.’ He runs off.

  ‘In charge of what?’ I mutter to myself as my gaze cuts to Griff. ‘If you ever insinuate anything like that again, I’ll fucking end you.’ For Christ’s sake, it was through his sister that Griff and I met over a decade ago.

  ‘Chill out. As if you’d have any little bastards running around the place.’

  ‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘A graceful taunt is worth a thousand insults, my friend.’

  ‘Oh, do fuck off,’ I drawl in contrast to my building ire. ‘There was nothing graceful in that statement.’

  ‘You’re the most controlled man I know. Just like Beckett, you don’t do anything without an angle. Confirmed bachelors, the pair of you. At least until he went and got married.’

  ‘That, opposed to you, the man who’ll fuck anything with a pulse?’

  ‘They all need a little loving,’ he answers with a smirk. ‘Even the ugly ones.’

  ‘Somewhere out there in the big wide world, there’s a tree working very hard to replace the oxygen you consume. If I were you, I’d go and find it and apologise.’

  ‘I speak the truth.’

  ‘You speak a load of bollocks, but let’s not talk about what’s between your ears.’

  ‘Shots fired,’ he says with a chuckle. ‘I’m just saying the kid isn’t yours. He has a dad, a useless trustafarian fuckwit, but Mo is his. He held his hands up to knocking Rosa up after you’d broken her heart the year before. And he married her, though I might’ve had to threaten to break his legs.’

  ‘Charming. I’m sure it never crosses Rosa’s mind to wish your mother had swallowed you.’

  ‘You don’t have siblings, so don’t try to lecture me, all right?’ Griff picks up his drink, his tone aggrieved.

  ‘I thought Rosa’s husband was in the film industry?’ I’d met her at another gallery just after she got married. I’m sure that’s what she says he did. She’s such a type A personality, I really can’t see her with someone aimless.

  Griff snorts before taking a mouthful from his beer. ‘He doesn’t work. He’s just a pretentious wanker who takes himself off to Ibiza and Morocco at regular intervals to write and find himself. He thinks smoking masses of pot makes him enlightened.’

  ‘As fascinating as all this is, I still don’t understand what we’re doing here.’ Sitting straighter in my chair, I fold back the cuffs of my shirt.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? We’re babysitting.’

  ‘In taking on your friendship, I’ve done some strange things. Been subjected to some strange things—’

  ‘What? Name one strange thing I’m responsible for.’

  ‘Two years ago, you decided it was my birthday.’

  ‘That’s a nice thing,’ he protests, trying hard not to smile. ‘You can’t complain about that. And everyone has a birthday once a year.’

  ‘The key is in the word day. Birthday, not a whole year.’ Everywhere I went, I was serenaded and wished many happy returns. I was given free desserts—shots on the house. People wishing me happy birthday everywhere I went.

  ‘Come on, everyone likes free shit. Even a rich bastard like you.’

  ‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but I prefer not to be gawked at.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t date women above your punching weight.’

  ‘Like?’ He knows Miranda? The immediate thought is accompanied by a cramping in my gut. How well does he know her, and will I need to arrange to break his legs?

  ‘That Giselle woman. She’s a sort.’

  Fuck, my relief is palpable. ‘Giselle is business.’

  ‘That’s the kind of business I’d like to do, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘You’ve got more chance of becoming lord chief justice than getting a date with Giselle.’

  ‘I don’t want to date her, Harry.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could forward your card, though I think she’s set for legal representation. Because the chances of you getting into her underwear aren’t even worth considering.’

  ‘You’re a fucking comedian.’

  ‘Strange, I thought I was a childminder currently. You know, if someone had suggested to me that you’d be left in charge of a child. Well. I would’ve said that someone must be very stupid.’

  ‘Rosa’s not stupid. If she was, she wouldn’t be drinking beetroot kvass, while being beaten with fragrant birch, oak and eucalyptus twigs. And I should know because I bought her the voucher for the place for her birthday.’

  ‘A voucher for a house of pain?’ I sound like I’m in pain. ‘Only you would buy a family member a session with his dominatrix.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, I don’t have a domina
trix. I went twice, that’s all. Just to see what it was all about.’

  ‘How much did it cost you to find out they don’t put out?’ I’d try to temper my smile, but what would be the fun in that?

  ‘More than I’d have liked,’ he mutters. ‘But the point I was trying to make is that Rosa isn’t stupid. She’s gone to a Russian spa for the full banya experience. Meanwhile, I’m looking after Monty. And speaking of the little shit . . . ’ Griff twists in his chair, looking for the boy. ‘Oh, fuck. Where’d he go?’ Up from his chair, he swings his head left and right, but before I can join him in the search, he drops into his chair with a heavy sigh. ‘Crisis averted. He’s inside, talking to the bird with big tits.’

  ‘Do you use that kind of language in the Law Courts?’ As a barrister, Griffin spends some of his time in the Royal Courts of Justice, though much more time in the Crown Courts, defending clients with far worse vocabularies than his. Defending those who cannot defend themselves, as he put it. Or as I see it, poncing about in a white wig.

  Griff doesn’t answer as Monty appears by his side. Putting his contraband of Coke and ice cream on the table, he cups his hand around his uncle’s ear.

  ‘Uncle Griff,’ he whispers sotto voce, ‘that lady’s boobies are really, really big.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her that, did you?’

  ‘No.’ His gaze is solemn. ‘And I’m using a really quiet voice to tell.’

  ‘Good lad. Because she mustn’t hear you say that.’

  ‘Why? Big boobies are nice.’

  ‘All boobies are nice,’ Griffins answers before his gaze sweeps theatrically left then right. ‘But ladies with big boobies are witches.’

  The child narrows his gaze suspiciously. ‘Really, Uncle Griff?’

  ‘Yep, and she’ll cast a spell on you if she hears you say so.’

  ‘No. No, she can’t. There’s no such thing as witches. They’re make-believe like the tooth fairy.’

  ‘Father Christmas is real, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ the child answers, though I sense a but coming. ‘But he leaves evidence that he’s real. We get presents,’ he adds, his hands in the air as though holding the proof. ‘So how do you know she’s a witch?’

  ‘Because all ladies with big t—boobs are magical. The bigger their boobs, the more magic they have, because boobs are where they store their magic.’

  ‘Bigger boobies mean more magic?’ the little boy repeats.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But what do they do with their magic?’

  ‘You mean, apart from using it on little boys who yell rude things?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to,’ the boy protests. ‘I don’t want to be turned into a toad.’

  ‘No, you certainly wouldn’t like to become your uncle,’ I mutter.

  ‘It’s not that kind of magic. They use it to put the men around them under their spell. They make them buy them drinks, and pay for theatre tickets, load the dishwasher, and mow lawns.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound fun.’ Monty’s expression twists.

  ‘Well, it is and it isn’t, but you’ll find out for yourself when you get older.’

  ‘Is Mummy a witch?’

  Griffin pauses, appearing to consider the question before he answers.

  ‘She’s a different kind of witch. And one that will make Uncle Griff disappear if you tell her about any part of this conversation.’

  * * *

  We finish eating, and Griffin heads off to deliver his precious bundle to the nanny who has suddenly become available, presumably after a lie-in and a fry-up to recover from the aftereffects of a drunken Friday night. I do hope Miranda isn’t suffering similar ill effects, though I shouldn’t think so. The other kinds of effects she may be suffering are fine by me, so long as they reflect well on our time spent together. A little soreness. The odd bite or two.

  God knows my own abs are a little tender this morning.

  As I have no further plans today, I take a slow stroll back to the gallery, making the most of the sunshine. There are a few appointments in the diary, but nothing that warrants my attention. I usually only attend the bigger spenders while the gallery manager manages the smaller sales. And the people who don’t really know what they’re doing. I can’t abide ditherers.

  But once in my office, I pick up the phone.

  ‘Harry.’ After a half dozen rings, Beckett’s answer barks down the line.

  ‘Have I interrupted something?’ He’s usually much smoother than this.

  ‘No. Nothing. What is it you want?’

  ‘You weren’t at brunch today.’

  ‘How astute of you, Harry.’

  ‘I have a complaint, and you will hear it because you dodged a bullet, my friend.’

  ‘So Griffin brought his Friday night companion along,’ he answers in a flat tone.

  ‘No.’ I laugh unhappily, remembering that occasion. ‘Today wasn’t as bad as all that, thankfully.’

  Neither of us needed to revisit the day Griff brought his one-night stand to brunch for the reason they weren’t done, but they were hungry. The pair had eaten like they hadn’t in weeks, then left, but not before his date divulged the reason, unfortunately.

  I’m not missin’ out on another dickin’ and a lickin’. The boy has mad skills, man, yo!

  ‘Did you know Rosa married a screenwriter?’

  ‘When I knew him, he used to sell speed, as I recall. Something to do with being cut off from his trust fund. But now he’s a father and a happily married man,’ he adds, something acrimonious lurking in his words. He can’t be over marriage already, can he? No, of course not. I’ve never seen him as happy as he was last night. It was almost creepy how much he smiled.

  ‘So where were you, if you aren’t with Olivia?’

  ‘I’m not in London currently.’

  ‘A dirty weekend with the little woman?’ I taunt. Can it be considered dirty when you’re married? I hope so. ‘Anywhere nice?’

  ‘I’m alone. Olivia didn’t accompany me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Well, he’s being cagey as fuck. ‘She’s not sick of you already, is she?’

  ‘If she has any sense,’ he mutters darkly before the beast returns. ‘What do you want, Harry?’

  ‘You know, Griff would’ve staked his fortune on you never marrying.’ And me never getting involved.

  ‘A small bet, then.’ Beckett’s answer could be best described as snide.

  ‘He thinks Olivia has Stockholm syndrome or something. That you must’ve taken her out for dinner one night, then locked her in your mansion following.’

  ‘That’s because Griffin is a halfwit.’

  ‘And I hear this app of hers is going to make her a very rich woman.’

  ‘Yes,’ he drawls. ‘Your point being?’

  ‘Why did she marry you? By your own admission, you’re a bastard to be involved with.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Beckett suddenly sounds discomforted. It’s something I’m not familiar with, and I’ve known him for half my lifetime. It’s like I’ve hit a nerve.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ I ask carefully. He doesn’t answer. ‘This whirlwind romance isn’t a cover for some business deal, is it?’ I hear how ridiculous the notion is even as the words leave my mouth.

  ‘Harry, you surprise me,’ he murmurs coolly, sounding much more like himself. ‘I wasn’t aware you had such a fertile imagination.’

  ‘You can drop the act. I know how much you want to get your hands on the senior partnership of JBW.’ Beckett makes a fortune for the venture capitalist company, but they’re reluctant to sell him the controlling share, despite his success. He seems to think they’re disinclined due to a nasty habit he acquired in his youth—a stimulant that has long been acceptable in the finance world. A habit he’s long since been clean of. But he wouldn’t use a woman as collateral of any kind, would he? ‘Please tell me there isn’t an angle here and that you didn’t marry for any other reason than love.’

>   ‘Olivia knew what she was getting into when she married me,’ he answers wearily. ‘If you bed the devil, you must expect at some point to wake in hell.’

  ‘You’ve been drinking.’ It’s not an accusation but more a concern. Not that he doesn’t drink, but he doesn’t drink to excess anymore. Not anymore. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I do wonder if you should join your storytelling talents with Montague’s father. Who knew you harboured such a fanciful mind?’ Something shimmers dangerously in his tone as he returns to type. I’m not done with this line of questioning, but I’ll leave it for now. ‘You’re certainly very circuitous today. You didn’t call to complain I wasn’t at brunch.’

  I rub my fingers over the scruff on my jaw. ‘You’re right.’ Beckett doesn’t answer unless you count the long sigh he breathes down the line. ‘So I’m just going to come out with it. There was a girl helping Olivia out at the speed dating event last night.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She works for Olivia, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ The same answer in a different tone this time.

  ‘Well, I was wondering if you’d tell me a little about her.’

  ‘Tell?’ There’s so much condescension in that word. ‘Tell you what, exactly?’

  ‘How old is she?’ For a start.

  ‘No,’ he answers firmly. ‘Don’t even think about it. There’s young, and then there’s just wrong.’ I don’t need to see him to know his jaw is clenched to keep in the tirade balanced on the end of his tongue.

  ‘That’s a little like the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?’ He recently married a woman more than a decade younger than him.

  ‘Harry, the girl is only just out of the school room.’

  My stomach drops like a stone. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  ‘She’s barely nineteen. How about you tell me you’re kidding. I mean, what the fuck, Harry? She’s a little left of field as far as your tastes usually go, but please feel free to tell me I have this wrong.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ I have nothing else to say. Nothing to add, but plenty to regret, it seems. But then I remember there were two of them. ‘Just to be certain; we’re talking about Miranda here?’