Rich and Mad

by William Nicholson

  “No. Never.”

  “Oh, treats in store. Can I buy you a coffee or something?”

  Rich hesitated. He wasn’t really interested in Tolstoy, but he was hungry now.

  “I wouldn’t mind a Danish pastry.”

  So courtesy of his English teacher, Rich sat down at the café and ate a maple pecan plait and discussed War and Peace.

  “Tolstoy’s insight into youthful love is extraordinary. His characters all make terrible decisions, but even as they’re making them you understand why, and feel for them. Pretty Natasha falls for bad, handsome Anatole, when we know she should love clumsy, sensitive Pierre. But she needs to grow up to know it for herself.”

  Rich began to think he might be interested after all.

  “And does she?”

  “Oh, yes.” He tapped the cover of the fat book. “A deeply satisfying experience. Take it from me.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, in real life the pretty girl would marry the bad, handsome one and have a not very happy life and never know how it might have been.”

  “My dear boy. Do I detect a note of bitterness?”

  “I’m just saying that’s usually what happens.”

  “You think beauty trumps character?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I don’t agree. Beautiful women are constantly falling for odd-looking men. I knew a very ugly man who said to every attractive woman he met, ‘I’d like to kiss you.’ He told me he got his face slapped a lot, but that he got kissed a lot too.”

  Rich contemplated this picture with disbelief.

  “I could never do that.”

  “There are other ways.”

  “How does clumsy, sensitive Pierre do it?”

  “He loves her unwaveringly for many years. Plus he’s a millionaire.”

  “Oh.”

  Rich caught sight of a boy in his year at school staring at him with openmouthed curiosity. At once, for no good reason, he felt guilty, as if talking with his teacher in a bookshop was a form of cheating.

  “I’d better go,” he said, rising. “Thanks for the pastry.”

  Walking home, Rich pondered what it would be like to ask pretty girls for kisses and not mind if they refused. It was beyond his own powers, he knew that for certain. But evidently some boys, some men, were so sure of themselves that they expected girls to welcome their advances.

  So why don’t I?

  It wasn’t as if Rich had had a series of bad experiences. He had had no experiences. The shaming truth was he had never yet kissed a girl, not a true romantic kiss. There had been times when he had suspected the girl was willing, but he hadn’t found her attractive enough. With the girls he admired, he was paralyzed.

  He could see no way out of the dilemma. Talking, yes. He could just about bring himself to talk to a pretty girl. But touching: that was another matter. He could not imagine any circumstances in which he would draw Grace Carey into his arms and kiss her, other than Grace saying to him, “Kiss me.” The prospect of going on a date with Grace filled him with terror. What was he supposed to do? Should he take her hand? Were they to kiss in the back row of a cinema? As for actual nakedness, and sex—How? Where? You had to plan things like that. You didn’t just melt into each other’s arms.

  Rich had read a newspaper report the other day on the sex lives of teenagers. According to the report the average age for first sexual intercourse was sixteen, with a third of all teenagers being sexually active before that age. Rich was seventeen. He could see no prospect of sexual intercourse in the near future; or even the far future, for that matter. It was all very well for clumsy, sensitive Pierre. Beautiful women had always gone for millionaires. But even if you weren’t a millionaire you still wanted the beautiful women. Nature just made you that way. It all seemed to Rich to be very badly arranged.

  At home he found Kitty weeping in front of her doll’s house.

  “Look!” she said. “They’ve knocked everything over. They’ve broken the kitchen dresser and the ironing board. I found the little packets of cereal all over the stair carpet. I hate Tiny Footsteps! I want to kill them!”

  “I thought they weren’t allowed upstairs.”

  “They got out.”

  “Have you told Mum?”

  “She said sorry, and we’d better put a lock on the doll’s house. I think we should put a lock on Tiny Footsteps. They should wear tiny handcuffs and be put in a tiny prison.”

  “I’m really, really sorry, Kitty. It’s horrible. It’s like a burglary.”

  “Oh, Rich. You’re so lovely.” She huddled in his arms. “You’re the only one who understands.”

  Together they reinstated the doll’s house furniture as it had been, and even made some small improvements. It was Rich’s idea to put the basket armchair in the kitchen.

  “It makes a kitchen more homey if you have armchairs in it.”

  To make room for the armchair they put the dresser in the dining room, where the display of tiny willow-pattern plates fitted much better; and the writing desk, which had been in the dining room, moved up to the master bedroom.

  “That’s so the father can do his work undisturbed.”

  “And the mother too,” said Kitty.

  “What you need is lights in the rooms.”

  “You can get lights, but it’s really hard fitting them.”

  “I expect I could manage,” said Rich.

  Gran emerged from her room, going shuffle-clunk behind her Zimmer frame. She stopped to admire the doll’s house on the landing.

  “Dear Richard,” she said.

  “It’s mostly me, Gran,” said Kitty. “Rich hardly did anything.”

  “Well, well,” said Gran, lowering herself onto the stair-lift. She raised one withered hand in farewell as she sank silently downstairs.

  Rich retreated to his room. He spent many minutes going through his LPs, unable to decide on the right sounds to accompany his mood. In the end he went for Blonde on Blonde. He settled down to write his diary to the plangent sounds of Dylan singing “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.”

  Sometimes when I watch her, she seems to have gone somewhere very far away. She hardly ever smiles. I want to say to her; I feel the same way. I’m not like the others. I could understand you. Beautiful but lonely. Could be true. Suppose I told her I’d guessed her secret. It would shock her, but she’d see me differently. I’d be the only one who knows her as she really is. She’d say, How did you know? I’d say, Because I’m lonely too.

  After that we’d be close.

  He stopped writing and listened to the song for a while. Max told him on a daily basis that his choice of music made him middle-aged.

  “You know how long ago that stuff was recorded?”

  “I don’t see what difference that makes.”

  “You have to live now, brother.”

  Max had played him some hot new band on his iPod but Rich had remained unconvinced.

  “The Who did it all before, and better.”

  “You know what you’re doing? You’re hiding in the past.”

  “So?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “Why? What’s so great about the present?”

  In his heart he knew Max was right, but the truth was he’d never liked the present very much. He wasn’t interested in reality TV shows. He found the credit crunch boring and frightening at the same time. The only movies worth watching in the last ten years were Before Sunrise, which was actually made in 1995, and Before Sunset. And just maybe The Dark Knight because the Joker got the essential stupidity of existence.

  They did things better in the past. They had real tunes and real passions and real despair. Nowadays it was all just a game.

  He thought of Grace and wanted to say it to her: how life could be so much more intense than it was. How all you had to do was stop being afraid.

  Maybe Maddy Fisher had already spoken to Grace about him. Maybe everything was a
bout to change.

  10

  Amy the bunny

  The first proper rehearsal for the play was not a success. Neither Joe Finnigan nor Grace had learned their lines, and so they played their long opening scene together reading from the book, without looking at each other. Mr. Pico watched in dismay.

  “I know this is the first time, but do at least make a faint attempt at expression.”

  “Why does she say all this?” complained Grace. “Does she like her brother or not?”

  “It’s really very simple, Grace. All Sorel is interested in is herself. Do you think you can manage to convey that?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just imagine everything rather bores you.”

  After that Grace improved noticeably. Joe Finnigan felt it, and his reading became both more energized and more languid. He seemed to enjoy striking poses and stretching out his vowels.

  “How lovely for them,” he cooed, and “Do-oo-oo, darling.” Then to Mr. Pico, “I suppose I don’t go to the piano and light a cigarette.”

  “You do not.”

  Grace had a line that got a laugh from the rest of the cast.

  “Abnormal, Simon—that’s what we are. Abnormal.”

  She said it with slow-burn surprise, as if she had just that moment discovered it.

  The rehearsal never got as far as Maddy’s entrance. A great deal of time was taken up by the pages where the Bliss family perform lines from an old play, “acting acting,” as Mr. Pico had said.

  “I’ve dreamed of love like this,” proclaimed Emily Lucas playing Judith Bliss playing a ham actress. “But I never realized, I never knew, how beautiful it could be in reality!”

  “Bigger!” cried Mr. Pico. “Grander! More shameless!”

  Maddy sat and watched the proceedings from a position where she could see Gemma Page and Joe Finnigan at the same time. Joe’s gaze never once sought Gemma out. Mostly his attention was on Grace, with whom he was acting. Twice he glanced over and caught Maddy’s eyes and smiled.

  As the rehearsal broke up he said to her, “How’s Cyril?”

  “He’s not been sleeping at all well lately,” said Maddy.

  “Whisky before bed,” said Joe. “It always works.”

  “What on earth was all that about?” said Grace, watching Joe and Gemma depart.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Maddy. “You’re good, Grace.”

  “It’s a stupid part, but it’s quite fun. Who’s Cyril?”

  “The camel outside our shop.”

  “If you ask me, Joe’s got his eye on you.”

  “He’s just being friendly.”

  “Boys don’t do friendly with girls.”

  Secretly Maddy thought Grace might be right, mostly because of the way Joe had said, “How’s Cyril?” It was like a private code between them. Then he had picked up her silly answer and said, “Whisky before bed.” That was suggestive, surely?

  Maddy repeated the short exchange to Cath.

  “He came up to you, right? He started it.”

  “Well, we were sort of standing around.”

  “But you didn’t speak first?”

  “No. He did.”

  “There you are, then. He’s definitely interested.”

  “But you don’t think every boy who speaks to you is trying to get off with you.”

  “No boy ever speaks to me, Mad.”

  “Of course they do.”

  “Not like that.”

  “It wasn’t like anything. Maybe he was just being friendly.”

  But it was gratifying that Cath shared Grace’s view. Something was going on.

  Later that evening Maddy and Cath snuggled up side by side on the bed in the cushion room with the door closed and a wedding chest pushed against it. Maddy had her laptop on her knees. This was their night for looking at porn.

  “It’s not made for girls,” said Cath. “It’s made for boys. We may not like it at all.”

  “We can always stop watching.”

  “What if it puts us off sex for ever?”

  “Would you rather not do this, Cath?”

  “No, come on. I’m quite curious, really.”

  It was just curiosity in the end. Neither of them expected any kind of thrill.

  Maddy typed the address Grace had given her into Google. Up came a warning saying they must be eighteen or over. One button said ENTER, the other said LEAVE.

  “Who do you think ever clicks LEAVE?” said Cath.

  Maddy clicked ENTER.

  Up came a page of little pictures, each with a title underneath. Pinky booty ass shake. Deep throat and swallow. Hot Asian bathroom show.

  Twenty-five images on the page. Hundreds more pages waiting.

  “Wow!” said Cath.

  “Which one shall we click on?” said Maddy.

  “How about that one?”

  The picture showed a dark-haired girl smiling at the camera. It was titled: Amy in hot Playboy bunny outfit. It looked less frightening than the others.

  Maddy clicked.

  The picture jumped and filled the screen. There was Amy, her eyes heavily made up, her breasts hanging out of her skimpy bikini top, leaning forward and down, grinning at the camera. Fuzzy rock music squeaked out of the laptop’s speakers.

  “She’s not all that pretty,” said Maddy.

  “Look at her mascara! She’s a mess!”

  “If I had boobs like that I’d keep them out of sight.”

  “Oh my God! Bunny ears! That is so tacky!”

  Maddy and Cath giggled, and then fell silent. The camera had followed Amy’s descending head to discover a big erect cock.

  “Okay,” said Maddy.

  “Is that normal size?” said Cath.

  “How would I know?”

  They both started to laugh. On the screen Amy was looking up at the camera as her tongue reached out to lick the tip of the cock.

  “She’s looking at me!”

  Cath covered her eyes. Maddy smacked her.

  “She can’t see you, you stupid cow.”

  They rocked with laughter. On screen Amy’s head was now bobbing up and down, the cock in her mouth.

  “I want to see the man,” said Maddy. “I want to see his face.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to be recognized.”

  “She doesn’t mind being recognized. Imagine meeting her in the supermarket. Hi, Amy. Loved your movie.”

  Once more they dissolved in laughter.

  “For God’s sake! How long does it go on?”

  “You want to look at a different one?”

  “Not really. Now we’ve started we might as well see it to the end.”

  It lasted just over three minutes but somehow seemed much longer. As the first shock passed their giggles faded away. Maddy found that she didn’t really like it, but she hadn’t yet worked out why.

  “I wonder why they do it,” she said.

  “They get paid,” said Cath.

  “I don’t think so. I think they’re just ordinary people. That’s how the site is free.”

  “So why video yourself for everyone to see?”

  “I suppose it turns them on.”

  They fell silent. They had expected it to be personal and intimate, but somehow it had been neither.

  “It was all for him, wasn’t it?” said Cath.

  “Definitely,” said Maddy. “She was wearing the outfit he wanted and doing the things he wanted and videoing it for him to look at afterwards. It was all for him, all right.”

  Another silence.

  “So did you like it?”

  “Well, it didn’t disgust me,” said Cath. “And I guess I kind of liked seeing the big cock.”

  “I liked it for about a minute. After that it annoyed me. It was like a little god wanting to be worshipped. On and on with the worshipping, bowing before it, kissing it, on and on. I wanted to hit it with a spoon.”

  “I wonder what it’s like, doing that.”

  “She didn’t look to me like
she was having any fun.”

  “I suppose she liked it that she was keeping him happy.”

  “Who?” said Maddy. “He didn’t even have a face. And I’ll tell you what.” Maddy was discovering her reactions only as she spoke. “I wasn’t turned on. How could anyone be turned on by that?”

  “People are.”

  “Boys are.”

  “Okay, boys are.”

  “Yes, but not all of them, Cath. I can’t believe it. There must be some boys who want more than that.”

  “Tell you the truth, Mads, I haven’t a clue. But you know what? It didn’t look hard. If I had a boyfriend and doing all that made him happy, I could handle it.”

  “But what about love?”

  “Yes, that’d be nice too.”

  Back in her bedroom after Cath had gone, Maddy lay on her bed with the lights out and the curtains open, looking through her window at the night sky. A rising moon cast a pale glow over the few clouds, and between the clouds the brighter stars were showing. The clouds were moving slowly. She fixed her gaze on the stars, and it felt as if it was she who was moving, and the house and all her world, sailing gravely through the night.

  Maddy’s thoughts were a strange mixture of Joe smiling at her, and the big cock on the laptop screen, and a nameless excitement that streamed out of her to touch everything she saw. She liked looking out of the window: the sky had no boundaries, it went on forever, anything was possible. She felt as if she was on the brink of an enormous adventure.

  Before going to sleep, she checked her phone for messages. There was nothing. On a whim she checked her Hotmail account.

  The most recent message had been sent at 6:14 p.m.

  Hey Maddy, she read. I’m worrying about Cyril. Maybe he’s pining for Mrs. Cyril. Camels have feelings too. Joe.

  Maddy stared at the screen. It was from Joe Finnigan. How had he got her Hotmail address? Was it really Joe? She checked the sender’s address: Joefinn41@hotmail.com.

  Her heart started to pound.

  Camels have feelings too.

  She checked the time. Past ten o’clock. But emails didn’t wake people up.

  She answered:

  Hi, Joe. Cyril touched by your concern but says he’s just fine. How did you get my email address? Maddy.

  She clicked SEND and climbed back into bed. There was no question of going to sleep. She lay and felt her chest and diaphragm shivering. She ran over in her mind all the various ways she might meet Joe tomorrow, and where it might lead.