by Anna Legat
Rob nodded.
‘Sometimes it isn’t their best offering. Too dry for me. My favourite – and they don’t seem to have it today or I’d be devouring it, believe me! – my favourite is New York cheesecake. That creamy, rich vanilla topping over a simple biscuit base does it for me, darling Rob.’ She was obviously quoting a recipe, for the real thing had never passed her lips.
‘I like it, too,’ Rob confessed.
‘No!’ she laughed. ‘I knew you were a cheesecake lad! You and I …’ She indulged in a sip of mineral water and peered at Rob greedily from under her false lashes. I didn’t know if it was Rob or his cake she was after. Probably both, but Rob, carrying less calories, had to be her first choice.
You call that a sister, I snorted inwardly.
‘I was a tiny little bit hurt when you didn’t recognise me.’ Paula was sitting, cross-legged for the time being, in my lounge. She had invited herself into my house and was helping herself to my wine even though Rob was firmly under the impression that he was the driving force behind it. She had even made him share the bottle with her. ‘It helps you put things into perspective, Rob darling,’ she assured him.
Rob was a poor drinker. A couple of sips and he was all yours. Or hers?
She swooped around the room, touching ornaments and family mementos with her grubby claws and smiling with an indulgent, smug spark in her eye as if they were all her memories. She talked incessantly about her glam career and tragic love life. She threw in a few spicy details here and there for effect – to arouse Rob. What man wouldn’t harden ever so slightly upon hearing about the size and firmness of her nipples when she forgot her bra at her first audition for Educating Rita? And the onstage chemistry between her and her partner was so sizzling that each time they acted out intimacy she could feel his hard-on against her thighs? She couldn’t help but part her thighs for him.
‘Acting is just being yourself in front of other people – in other words: living your life on stage,’ she mused.
Halfway through the bottle, Rob was pickled with a hard-on of his own hidden under his cupped hands and Paula was back on the sofa, all over him like a nettle rash.
‘I so get into character, body and soul. It becomes reality for me, better than the real thing.’ She stretched, thrusting the daggers of her jutting collar bones at him. She was purring by now, drunk on her own eloquence. ‘I draw on my own life experiences, when I’m on stage. It all becomes blurred: life, the stage, life again … In Educating Rita I drew on that night when you and I … so young, so hungry … Do you know how old I was? Not sixteen yet.’
Rob swallowed hard. What was she on about? Fantasist, I had to remind myself, pinch myself on my ethereal arm.
And yet, why was Rob looking so sheepish?
‘I should thank you for it. My Rita was a flying success. You remember what a cold night it was, don’t you?’
Rob could not bring himself to deny that he did. His silence spoke volumes. It was less trouble because if he spoke whatever he would say could be used in evidence against him. So he sat there, mum and mystic like a sphinx weathering the sand storm, waiting for Paula to stop. But Paula would not be stopped. She was up and going. Letting the sleeping bitch lie was out of the question. I was beside myself – no! not just this comatose beside myself, but the good and proper beside-myself-with-anger!
‘There was chemistry between us, I could feel it. Could you?’
Luckily for Rob, the bell rang. He excused himself and rushed for the safety of our front door. Paula growled, baring her canines. For her own sake, I was glad she didn’t get a chance to bare any other part of her anatomy.
It was the police: Detective Sergeant Thackeray with a sidekick. I vaguely knew Thackeray. He was a decent man, very straight and thorough. A bit right-wing, but that was what made him a good policeman. He had a thick neck and a round, bald head, giving him a bullish appearance.
Rob had led him to the lounge, where Thackeray gazed critically at the heavily made-up woman in high heels and with an alcoholic beverage in her hand. His gaze travelled to my husband, who coughed guiltily and introduced the witch as ‘my wife’s sister’.
‘Yes,’ Thackeray muttered doubtfully.
‘Miss Paula Smythe,’ the witch announced imperiously and offered her hand for Thackeray to kiss.
He took it and shook it awkwardly. ‘Yes. DS Thackeray. How is Mrs Ibsen?’ he asked Rob.
‘No change. She’s in a coma.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Rob’s partial hard-on had worn off and he was able to offer Thackeray a seat. Paula wondered if the detective ‘would care for a glass of wine?’
‘No, thank you, ma’am.’ He didn’t look at her when he answered, forcing himself to be polite. ‘We have some information, Mr Ibsen. We found the car that was used in the hit-and-run. It was abandoned only two streets away from here. A vintage Aston Martin. Quite rare, as you may imagine. It wasn’t hard to track down the owner. He had reported the car stolen only minutes before the incident. Fortunately for us there’s CCTV footage. We have an image of the thief …’
Thackeray’s constable passed a picture to Rob. ‘Do you know this man? Have you seen him before?’
‘Is he the one who …’
‘Yes. Do you know who he is?’
‘No, never met him.’
Paula peered over Rob’s shoulder. ‘Quite young … The hit-and-run – opportunistic, would you say? Joyrider?’
‘We’re not so sure, ma’am. He took the car, drove straight to this house, and then abandoned it immediately afterwards.’
‘He was in shock. Just killed someone … I too would drop the bloody knife with which I just killed someone …’ She would! She would drop the knife and wash her hands and tell the bloody spot to go away. And if it didn’t, she would go straight for the best stain removing product money could buy. Lady Macbeth could learn a thing or two from Paula.
‘Or perhaps his purpose was achieved and he didn’t need the car any more?’ Thackeray mused aloud.
‘You’re not suggesting he intended to –’ Rob gasped.
‘We can’t exclude any possibility, sir. He disarmed a sophisticated alarm. Not every Tom, Dick, and Harry can do that. We will find this man. It’s a small community – car thieves.’
Paula resumed the chase as soon as Thackeray and his constable stepped out the door. Her legs parted, once again a faithful replica of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. Rob obliged with a furtive glance up her thighs.
‘Should we have some more wine?’ she raised her empty glass.
‘Dad? Was that the police?’
The intimacy took an instant flight out of the window and Paula’s knobbly knees clanked together. None of us had realised Emma was home. Rob flushed beetroot red.
‘When did you come home?’
‘Didn’t go anywhere. Gave school a miss. How’s Mum?’ Emma glared at the witch. The question that she was really asking was, who the hell is that?
‘No change. We have to be patient.’
‘And who the hell is that?’
‘Emma, watch your language … please.’
‘Emma, darling, how you’ve grown!’ Paula lavished my daughter with theatrical affection. What a performance! Worthy of a BAFTA! The bloody cow had never even met Emma. I’d bet, until now, she hadn’t even known Emma existed.
‘This is your Aunt Paula. Mum’s sister.’
‘Mum’s younger sister. Come, give us a hug!’
Emma ducked the embrace and looked the creature up and down. She wasn’t taken by her aunt’s ebullient manner, nor was she impressed by her firm nipples. ‘Good timing,’ she said. ‘Mum’s down and Aunty turns up out of the blue. Is she moving in with us?’
‘Of course not. She’s visiting. Try to be civil.’
Paula’s feathers were seriously ruffled. ‘She’s certainly inherited Georgiana’s pleasant attitude,’ she snorted.
Emma ignored her and asked her father, ‘What did the police have t
o say?’
‘They’ve got the man’s picture. From a CCTV camera. They’ll catch him.’
Emma sniffed Paula’s empty glass. ‘Mum won’t be impressed.’
‘What’s got into you, Emma?’
She didn’t deem it fit to reply. She opened the fridge, picked out a few slices of ham, and ate them with her fingers; drank milk straight from the bottle and walked away without as much as a glance back at her mortified father and disgruntled aunt. My girl!
‘Where are you going?’
‘Back to my room. Things to do. Tomorrow, I want to go with you to see Mum. I take it you’re going.’
Rob turned to Paula, looking apologetic. ‘I don’t know what got into her. The accident –’
‘Threw her off, I’m sure. Georgiana would be proud of her if she could see her now,’ Paula chose to be magnanimous in her venomous sort of way. Enduring the family reunion thing with some panache, she added, ‘It was nice to meet her at last. Any other offspring lurking in the broom cupboard?’
Mark wasn’t in the broom cupboard – he was with me, in the hospital. Charlotte stood agitated by his side. She gave a few heavy sighs and went on biting her cuticles. Mark paid no attention to her antics.
‘I don’t want to sound insensitive, but there’s little you can do here.’
A nurse walked in. If two women could be the polar opposites of each other, that nurse and Charlotte were exactly that. The nurse was a tiny elfish creature, small and delicate, her complexion dark, her eyes oriental in shape and colour. Her vulnerability contrasted with Charlotte’s Nordic athleticism. Mark watched her as she collected data from the instruments I was attached to, and made notes on my chart. Charlotte took out her mobile and started flicking through screens.
‘Mobile telephones are not allowed. Please switch it off,’ the little nurse said in an equally little, twinkling voice which, surprisingly, came across as final and authoritative.
‘They always say that,’ Charlotte attempted to play down the warning, speaking over the nurse without looking at her, ‘but it makes no difference.’
‘Or leave the ward if you wish to make emergency calls,’ the stubborn little nurse said.
‘Surely –’
‘Turn it off,’ Mark told Charlotte.
‘For God’s sake, Mark!’ Charlotte threw her phone into her bag.
The nurse drew the curtain around my bed. ‘It is the washing time,’ she said. ‘You may want to take a break.’ Unlike Dr Jarzecki, the nurse’s Rs failed to resonate; she couldn’t pronounce them at all. She sounded like Pontius Pilate in Monty Python’s Life of Brian.
‘Hallelujah! We really have to pick up the ring.’ Charlotte took possession of Mark’s arm and dragged him out of my room. They stopped outside the window that allowed a view of my room. Through a gap in the curtain you could see the nurse pull the sheets from my legs. My feet looked ghostly white. The sight caught Mark’s eye. He winced.
‘You go. I’ll stay a while longer.’
‘Don’t you think we should be there together to pick it up? It’s my engagement ring! Or have you changed your mind.’
‘Your timing is a bit off, don’t you think?’
Tears welled up in poor Charlotte’s eyes. I was beginning to feel sorry for her. It wasn’t her fault some joyriding bastard decided to knock me over at the worst possible time. Announcing your engagement over your mother’s deathbed may be a bit of a stretch, but I could see how keen she was. Frankly, I didn’t mind if they both went and collected the ring. I would have however appreciated it if next time – if there was a next time – I was given advance notice.
Mark was watching the little nurse through the gap in the curtain. She was small but strong; she rolled my lifeless body from side to side effortlessly to change the sheets and apply cream to my back and buttocks. It wasn’t the most dignifying experience for me to have my backside exposed to the world, but in all fairness Mark wasn’t looking at my bottom. He was looking at the nurse’s. It was a tight, round bum, filling her uniform to the brim as she bent over my bed to puff up my pillow.
Naughty !
The nurse caught him. She glanced back and fixed him with an icy glare. Mark turned rapidly and looked behind him as if someone was there, someone he held solely responsible for this compromising situation. The nurse’s face lifted in a pretty little smile. There was definitely something about her which made you want to take care of her. Meantime, she was rather competently taking care of me – while Mark drooled over her behind.
She finished, put my hands on top of the sheets and opened the curtains. She was such a fast and no-nonsense professional that she reminded me of an ant. Come to think about it, her body was also shaped in the likeness of an ant: tiny waist, round behind, round face with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes (I don’t know why but I always believed ants had almond-shaped eyes).
‘She’ll be all right, right?’ Mark was standing behind her.
The little ant-nurse peered at him and didn’t smile. ‘I don’t know. People survive worse … I would ask Dr Jarzecki.’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘I hope.’
‘Just hope?’
‘I am not a doctor, sorry.’
‘So very little hope, then?’
The almond-shaped eyes rounded as she looked straight back at him. She clearly wouldn’t lie. ‘I must go,’ she said.
‘I’m Mark. Could you tell me your name? Please.’ He caught her wrist to stop her going. Soon we would have the security on our backs and my son would be marched off the premises in shame for molesting the staff.
‘Chi.’
‘Chi?’
‘It’s Vietnamese. I really have to go.’ She didn’t try to pull away from him.
‘You smell of hope.’ I didn’t realise Mark had it in him to be so profound.
She smiled. The little white pearls of her teeth looked almost unreal. ‘I smell of hospital.’
‘That’s hope, I guess.’
‘Other patients are waiting.’
‘Don’t be offended, please, but if I let you go, can I see you when you finish? I’ll wait.’
Chi tilted her head and gazed at my son earnestly. She wasn’t offended but neither was she sure she could trust him. Even I didn’t know what he was playing at, and I was his mother!
‘Please.’
‘My shift has only just started. It’s a night shift. I think you should go home, have a good night’s sleep.’
‘I think so, too. I’ll be here in the morning.’
Mark found Rob sprawled on the sofa in the lounge. His head was pushed awkwardly against the arm of the sofa. It looked as if he had a broken neck. His body was stripped to his underwear and it was twisted in such a way that his left arm was wrapped around his waist and his right foot was propped against the floor, preventing him from rolling down.
‘Dad?’ Mark leaned over him to check if his old man was still alive. He smelled alcohol on his breath. ‘Dad, for God’s sake, get up and go to bed! You stink!’
‘He can’t,’ Emma came out from the kitchen with another few slices of ham. Obviously Rob had embarked on a project of starving the kids to death and drinking himself into an early grave. ‘He can’t, ’cause there’s a loose woman in Mum and Dad’s bedroom.’
Rob mumbled something undecipherable under his smelly breath and turned, pushing his face into the back of the sofa.
‘He’s got a woman in the bedroom?’
‘The official version is that she’s our aunt.’
‘Do we have an aunt?’
‘Now we do.’
‘Aunty Paula. My wife’s sister,’ a voice said from the back of the sofa.
In his room, Mark deleted three text messages from Charlotte without reading them. He then turned off his mobile, something he had clearly never done before because he had to play with different buttons to work out which one was the power-off one.
He flung open the window and switched off the lights. I c
ould hear him fiddling with paper; rolling a joint. He lit it, and inhaled. The flame from the match illuminated his face briefly. He lay on his bed without taking off his shoes. As he exhaled, a thin shadow of smoke rose to the ceiling. All I could see was the glimmering end of the joint as my healthy-living, sensible son dragged on it. Weed wasn’t something I would ever put him next to. What next? Crack dens and whorehouses?
Or Vietnamese nurses?
Where was Charlotte when you needed her? I resented her sensitivity and her stupid, girly sulkiness. She didn’t know how to keep a man. She had no staying power, silly child!
‘Chi … Chi … Chi …’ Mark was telling himself, testing the word, experimenting with it. He was clearly revelling in it. ‘Chi … Chi …’
His room, as his mind, was full of smoke, stink and filth. My son was in a downward spiral.
I fled down to the lounge and curled up on the sofa, next to my unconscious husband. I didn’t feel like contemplating the speed with which every sense and sensibility took leave of my family. My daughter was engaging in underage sex, my son was a drug addict, and my husband had succumbed to alcoholism. I couldn’t face it. All I could and wanted to do was to lie next to Rob and feed off his bodily warmth, even though his bodily scent left a lot to be desired. He was breathing steadily, with an occasional snort and a grunt, and a dribble of saliva on his chin. He was in a deep slumber, flat on his back, his legs and his arms spread wide. He was wearing his boxers with the Tasmanian Devil print. Chic and so endearing! I kissed him and tried to take my mind off things. Sleeping wasn’t something I could do and the state of constant consciousness was proving unbearable. I wished I could close my eyes.
I saw her float down the stairs like a bloody ghost. I say bloody not only because she set my teeth on edge but also because she was wearing red lingerie, the colour of fresh blood. Her hair was down, long to her waist. The high heels were off and her calves had lost some of their definition, and she was still painfully skinny, not an ounce of fat on her over-exercised flat stomach, with its muscles straining under the paper-thin skin like some alien foetus.
