Lily called Margaret that night, the unscented professional cream concealer sticky and itchy under her eyes. I’m being remade, she said. Into what? Godzilla? Hey, Anthony Moldano’s wife mentioned divorce this week. Oh, no! said Lily. Oh yes, said Margaret. Yes, indeedy do! said Margaret imitating Momo, but imperfectly. Still it was her phrase and Lily was happy to hear it. Between Lily and her parents were two dressing rooms, a marble bath, and three plaster walls; even so when she laughed she turned her face into the rust-colored carpet.
So, obviously Christmas is out, said Margaret.
But why? said Lily. Why? You’ve got to come; it’s all set. Shit, whispered Margaret. The asshole just woke up. And the line went dead. Which meant her brother Tommy was around and would eavesdrop. The line buzzed and echoed. More and more, when Lily called, Margaret was unable to talk. Lily replaced the heavy phone now and stared at the bottom of her father’s desk. Lying this close to the legs, she caught the funny stink of the gleaming wood, not the usual canned furniture polish from the States. Lily knew their new charwoman, Mrs. Veal, made her own concoctions.
Bacon fat, right?
Nothing like it, little miss.
Her father said that Mrs. Veal had a face like the blunt end of a hatchet. Her mother told him to stop, but Lily thought Mrs. Veal just looked like a nun. She could really see her sharp little eyes and shiny nose, her big cleft chin, her whole face wrapped on all sides with a stiff white cloth. Mrs. Veal’s face would fit right in at St. Tom’s. No one would talk about it. But not in London, where her mother was increasing her beauty by the day, and her father was becoming a true expert. People whose faces would seem normal—all different faces and bodies—were now filtered through the new understanding. Tonight in the library where she now lay, Lily’s face had been discussed by her parents, as if Emma Hocking had opened up an intriguing new topic. Her father had an idea. I’m going to show you just what I mean he said to Lily’s mother. He framed Lily’s face with his hands, like an artist, carefully erasing the parts he wouldn’t keep.
On Saturday, as a special favor arranged by Emma Hocking, Jack, the chauffeur, drove Lily to a photography studio just past all the antique stalls on the Portobello Road. She was backlit and photographed wearing her mother’s long lavender water silk caftan. Just wait, her father declared. This would be definitive somehow. They were all going to learn something important. The photographer had done sensational work for British Vogue. When her father got the proofs, there was one in which Lily had forgotten to smile. She studied it and knew she’d been thinking first about Russell Crabtree and then about Peter Healy. It seemed she was trapped in a bad situation no matter where she lived. Backlit, draped in purple silk, hair carefully teased she’d been thinking any kind of dance, maybe just any kind of boy, would be a problem.
Peter Healy was on the older end of her class, already fifteen and training for the Olympics as a cyclist. Every day he carried crucial parts of his custom bike into the morning assembly at school. But for the freshman mixer he’d been required to leave the bike at home and put on a jacket over his racing shirt like all the other boys. Lily was doing the free dance with a big group of girls she barely knew with her eyes closed, just flapping around waiting for it to be over, when Peter Healy grabbed her by the arms. The slow dance started and everyone stopped spinning and draped their bodies over each other. They were in the same algebra class and now Peter Healy’s chin dug into her head and his fingers gripped her shoulders in a rubbery way, but with rough tips and scratchy nails. The lights were lowered until only a sparkling spiral bounced off the walls, and he leaned himself completely into her, torso stiff and heavy. She felt breathless under the weight. Hey, hey! she said and he opened his eyes.
Hey to you, he said, and that was so sweet, as if no one had ever said such a witty thing. She smiled. And then serious, like a chore, his slow big face came toward her, watching her eyes until he had to twist and bend to find her lips. She laughed—she couldn’t help it—and tried to get out from under him. He pulled back just enough to say, Relax, babe. His mouth pushing hers felt like a moving jelly sandwich, slimy in the middle with a crusty edge. She started to recoil, but he had her head in a wrestling lock; he made a point of his tongue and methodically dotted along her upper lip then poked at her teeth, and something in this was a little beautiful. But then he stopped, leaned back and gave her a narrow-eyed look, as if he now had some ideas about her face, too. Suggestions. Then he eased back to an arm’s-length distance, fingering her elbows, still slow dancing technically, and let her in on the important preliminary trials in New Mexico last summer that he’d won.
I’m usually either first or second in my age level for the Americas, he shouted toward her ear. North and South, both. Not just North America.
When the music merged to a fast song he released her elbows and bounced away. The next day Peter Healy rode his famous bike from Kensington, where he lived, to Grosvenor Square and said he’d chained the frame to the iron spike fence. When Lily opened the door, there he was with his seat and his front wheel under his arm. She remembered that second of beauty she’d felt. She tried to conjure that, looking into his sweaty face while he looked back at her, eyes blank. He might be a little scared; she was. Come in? she said. She couldn’t believe he was here. But he stood, rocking back and forth on his feet, stretching his calves, on the landing outside the apartment door. He wouldn’t come in. He was really sorry he said, watching the rising toes of his cycling sneakers.
No, she said. Don’t worry. She thought he must be apologizing for kissing her too soon. Come in? But he looked up at her sharply now. Listen, all right, I just said no.
Why did she repeat herself? She flushed. She could feel her whole body kind of fade and wobble. She said, I only meant no about the apologizing? Lily laughed but it sounded like a nose blow. He looked disgusted, maybe even angry. Yes, he was angry, but why?
Look, I need to keep an eye on the future. A little poor judgment now could have lasting consequences. His father, he told her, thought Lily was bad news. That if he got involved even superficially she’d stick to him like glue and he’d never be rid of her. Now you know.
Then he flipped the bike seat up over his head without losing the grip on his wheel. He smiled his first- or second-place smile as he caught it in the other hand, nodding at her, because didn’t they both know he was kind of great. She smiled because he was smiling; also the sweetness reappeared in his dimples before he trotted back down the stairs, waving his bike seat without turning. She wanted to follow him. Hey, she called, wanting to understand the crucial mistake she’d made with his father, but then Mrs. Veal was behind her on the landing. In or out, love, said Mrs. Veal. I’m doing the floor whether you like it or not.
Out, Lily said and ran barefoot down the marble stairs, but Peter Healy’s bike was already gone. He’d vanished from Grosvenor Square. How could he do that in seconds? In the lobby, Cyril in his booth only nodded. They would both ignore the crisis of her feet by not speaking. When she came upstairs again Mrs. Veal wouldn’t let her in. We all have to live with our choices, now don’t we. What would your mother say, you chasing after boys in the street. She’d have your hide she would. I’ve half a mind to tell her.
But Lily knew that anything Mrs. Veal had to say wouldn’t get much of an ear from her mother. What a strange woman, her mother had said early on, staring down at a little arrangement Mrs. Veal had made on her dressing table. Two white greasy candles from who knows where and a half-budded half-dead pink peony in front of a snapshot of infant Cubbie and happy Jean. She thinks I’m a saint, said her mother, shaking her head, looking deeply into the picture. Lily had laughed, but her mother didn’t.
Maybe she’d call Margaret for advice, but all she could do now was sit across from their door on the stairs and wait. Peter Healy and his silver medals. His flat pointy sneakers and ugly bike tights, his scratchy fingers. His heavy head digging into her scalp. Lily flipped over onto her hands in a maneuver she’
d forgotten she could do, kicking her feet up into an astonishing balance, defying gravity, amazing the upper reaches of the stadium with her stamina and grace. My, my, little girl, she heard above her. That’s a florid display.
Beryl Sutton grasped the banister carved in relief into the curved plaster wall and let her descending foot dangle in the air. Lily had been warned the Suttons had blackballed an American child in the building. Unprecedented and undesirable, they’d said in a written note to the estate agents. Lily had danced it out like a tune. Call me undesirable, yes, I’m— But her mother had been worried about the peace of her new home. It’s very hard to relax when the neighbors are irritable, said her mother. Remember the Beesons on Momo’s street? He was arrested for assaulting the mailman!
I won’t attack anyone.
All right, said her mother.
Now Lily stood up so that Beryl Sutton could make her way down to the landing. My dear, you are shoeless, she said. Lily thought it best not to respond; she looked down at her feet as though mildly surprised. And silent, Mrs. Sutton said. Well, perhaps we’ll speak to one another at a later date. Thank you, she said when Lily stepped aside. She changed her grip on the railing and made a slow painful-looking descent past Lily, who curtsied. The half squat she’d learned in toddler ballet. Oh, I see, said Mrs. Sutton. Very good. Very good. She made an abrupt spitting sound and Lily could see she was stifling a laugh. Lily looked away. Yes, good-bye now, Mrs. Sutton choked out and continued down the marble flight to the lobby.
There’s a large American infant on the landing, Cyril. Call the exterminator.
Lily couldn’t hear the response. She sat and leaned her head against the banister and closed her eyes. She could feel the calloused palms of Peter Healy slide around her neck, dry and sweaty at the same time, the pine tree–scented lotion in his hair kept any distracting wisps from flying in a race. She inched her chin up for the kiss.
A sudden tap-tapping step coming up the stairs startled her. Her father paused at their door to adjust something about his suit, happy, she could tell by the tilt of his head. ’Ello, guv! she said, close enough to Tania his secretary’s accent to surprise him. He spun around smiling, hands in soft fists, knees twisting, dancing. Can’t go in yet, Daddy, she said.
What? he said, squinting almost as if trying to recognize her, as if she were sitting in some deep shadow. She giggled. Don’t be funny. It’s me.
No shoes? Then he found the right expression, wry, a tiny wrinkle of disappointment, always there now. What’s going on out here, Lily.
He ran a hand along his chin, as though her answer and a decision about a quick shave were competing now for his attention. Whatever this is, cut it out. Come inside. He rummaged in his trousers for a key, but then Mrs. Veal held open the door. Wasn’t expecting you, sir.
The sweep of marble behind her gleaming wet and fragrant with dish detergent. Keeps the shine, sir, she said, when he glanced at the bottle in her hand. Nothing urgent, Mrs. Veal, he said. I won’t disturb you. And you, he said to Lily, winking, because now it was all a performance. You watch your p’s and q’s. And then he was already tapping back down the stairs.
Daddy? Do you want me to bring something over to your office? she called out, but got no answer.
You see? Everyone’s got a job to do today, said Mrs. Veal. Saturday morning’s not just for lounging around. But she relented and let Lily tiptoe inside along the dry edges of the long foyer. Be quick now, she said. Speed it up. And don’t you finger my walls while you’re at it.
13
Derek Voose kept an austere workaday duplex on Mount Street and a famous cottage in Goring. Just a hop, he said when he called Jean the morning after Nick’s celebration party at Annabel’s. We all need a postmortem, dear girl. Come for a quiet supper; bring the princeling. You’ll barely know you’ve left London. Emma will be there, he added, as if that needed saying. And Anna Percy-Flint, who adores you.
Jean said yes, curious to see the fabled place. The scene of the social crimes Emma Hocking loved to report on the following Monday evenings over spaghetti carbonara. Soused, stoned, and randy was the usual roundup. But other details, Burt Bacharach dropping in and noodling on the piano, Peter Lawford running to the off-license for a forbidden brand of gin in the charwoman’s Rover. Giving her a wet kiss in exchange for the dented bumper. The poor woman nearly had a heart attack on the spot, said Emma. All this made it sound intensely glamorous, even as Emma was waving it all off as business, business. Derek said on the phone and Emma agreed later, this would be a quiet gathering, just the family. Jean knew she was stupid to be flattered but she was.
The smaller drawing room opened onto a garden they’d glimpsed driving in as the sun went down. Dahlias and more dahlias in the summer Emma told Jean. He’s a fiend for the beasts; can’t talk him into another bloody blossom. Now it was just urns and hedgerows and dry leaves. The snug room with saffron walls—a paint like patent leather—had seating in a wide navy blue satin U before a fire. Birch logs piled in an artful display, enough to last the night.
True to his word, it was a quiet gathering. Derek fed them motherly food. A gluey-tasting shepherd’s pie and a trifle for dessert. Potatoes and cream and more cream. Cognac handed round had takers dozing off in fat armchairs. But those still awake nodded in agreement that the night before, the big celebration, had been a hit. Derek mentioned the marvel of Jean’s dress. A red silk Jean Muir found by Emma. He ticked off a list of women who’d looked hideous. And that was it. A strange letdown, as if all that preparation had produced nothing at all. I’m sure I got everything wrong, she tried, smiling.
What’s that? Derek looked around at her blinking, waiting to understand, then roared, Not a bit of it, darling! And then he was on to the next event. Some boring obligatory pushy mess inflicted by Robin someone at Les Ambassadeurs. Can no one think of anything new?
Emma and Anna Percy-Flint had just settled down into private whispers when Nick wandered in from the next room and stood before them, waiting for a verdict, confident of the results. And so he should be, thought Jean, unscathed, that was Nick here. He laughed at these scrutinizing women and why not, what could they find wanting. She relied on this. She’d begun to believe in his resilience and thought she might even catch it in some way. That was all she needed to do. Stand and be judged on something silly, like the mesh-metal vest she wore tonight or her long fake blond braid, and be found fabulous. Nick loved all the costumes.
Anna Percy-Flint threw out an arm and grabbed the end of Jean’s leather skirt. Come here, you sweet poppet, she tugged.
Jean looked at her, uncertain where she could possibly mean; they were sitting only a foot apart on the U-sofa.
Here, dearest, come right here, said Anna and she yanked Jean closer into an awkward cuddle.
Christ, I’m completely zonked, said Emma and lifted herself from the low sofa and stretched.
Not you. You stay right here with me, Anna said as Emma drifted off toward the kitchen. You don’t move until I tell you something important. She had a slim silver pipe in her hand and she used a table lighter shaped like a gun to ignite the black ball and puff. She kept a loose arm around Jean’s shoulders until the ember reddened and glowed. She held her breath and croaked, Go, go, pushing the pipe to Jean. Who touched it to her lips.
Don’t kiss it, shouted Anna, laughing, choking out smoke. Oh good lord. Try again.
Jean wasn’t interested in trying again, and she waved to catch Nick’s eye. She was ready; they could leave now. Anna, pipe dropped into a bronze bowl, turned to Jean for a full embrace. Precious girl, she said, and Jean sat back and stared as if to bring Anna to sense, though kindly. She liked this Anna in some ways, but Anna was moving now in a kind of spiral, her head circling, eyes closed. She pressed her bobbing head against Jean’s shoulder, and then when the mesh scratched her cheek, she decided to embrace Jean to her chest instead. There, love, she crooned. Just a sore boots, that’s the all of it. And Jean was wrapped into the cool si
lk of Anna’s caftan, a black Greek cross wedged between her breasts. Here with the breasts and the cross and the tester fragrance—celery, cardamom?—and the silk.
He was your little angel, said Anna. Am I right? And god plucked him right back, and now you’re wondering why. Anna sat up again to give Jean a long look.
To say that Jean was wondering why was like saying that she was breathing; nothing separated her from that question. This Anna was only the latest to try to break to her the news of her lifetime. If nothing else, she thought she’d finally left this problem behind in New Jersey. She couldn’t stand Doris’s cow-eyed kindness, and now a phony baroness with breasts exposed and crucified was going to explain it all. But to her surprise, Jean found she was listening.
My Digby, said Anna. There was wine somewhere and Anna pushed past Jean’s knees to grab a bottle by the neck. Here love. She poured into both their glasses. Digby took his brother for a drive, poor little fuckers. Something funny happened; that’s what he says. They saw something leap on the side of the road and they looked and the wheel turned on its own, said Digby, like another hand had taken it and given it a twist, into the ditch they went. We heard the sirens, you know, but the night is full of sirens. Always something, right?
Jean listened like she could finally hear what someone was saying to her.
Yes—Anna nodded, took a sip—yes, Digby.
Jean stared, knowing whatever she could ask might be cruel. When Nick appeared, standing in front of her, bouncing a knee lightly against her, she looked up almost wanting to protect him from this. There was something, not the information, but some other thing that had her spreading herself out like a sheet between him and this Anna who had lipstick on the tips of her teeth, who was grabbing now for the lighter in Nick’s hand. And then before Jean knew it, she was wrapped in her long cape and huddling through a foggy moonlit courtyard to their car.
The Loved Ones Page 12
