‘Closure?’
‘How can you seek closure to something that’s never happened?’
‘Will you get into trouble for coming here?’
‘Unchaperoned?’ I smiled. ‘Don’t know. Don’t know anything any longer. I may be making a mountain out of a molehill, but it doesn’t feel like that.’
Chapter 11
Before I left, Hugh said that he was flying to Calais tomorrow, but he expected to be back by 7 pm. If I had nothing better to do and needed company and all that...
‘I may be wanted at home tomorrow. He, my father, he can’t stay in the office forever. He’ll probably have things to tell us. I’ll text you.’
I could have taken the shortcut over the terrace, but I didn’t think it wise to alert anyone to that route just yet. Besides, I wanted to savour the novelty of coming and going through proper doors all on my own.
‘You had me worried,’ Bakir grumbled as he was taking potato salad out of the fridge. ‘Ham or cheese?’
I realised that I was ravenously hungry. ‘Both. Any rotten eggs left?’
He pushed his hands into the padded double oven glove, reached into the aga and retrieved an old, shabby looking enamel saucepan with a tight-fitting lid. Amidst a mass of red onion peels, there were some ten or so eggs in there, covered in dark brown water. They’d been stewing at the slow end of the oven for weeks until the shells acquired the same colour as the water around them. I was very young when I tried them for the first time. Looking as vile as they did no one had expected me to want them. They were right. At the age of five, I could hardly bear to look at them. But, my father had two of those on his plate and I was looking for approval. Admiration.
‘Maybe not two to start with,’ my mother was utterly amazed at the request. ‘Maybe Daddy could give you a piece of his egg to try first?’
‘If you take a whole egg you’ll have to eat the whole egg,’ added my father. ‘If you take two, you’ll eat two if it takes you till Christmas.’ He bypassed the option of sharing.
I was too obtuse to retreat.
The yolk was greenish-black, the whites around were much the same, but a little lighter and with a tinge of red. In a five-year old’s experience they were the colours of wicked witches and Halloween. Risking the sneers, I scrunched my eyes and shoved a small forkful into my mouth and tasted pure heaven. I could have been eating very smooth hazelnut cream that melted quickly on my tongue. I put away both eggs in record time.
‘As I always say, it’s nurture not nature that makes a difference,’ said my farther.
I had no idea whether that was praise or censure, but as he didn’t sound angry I decided on the former.
‘You’ve been to see him this morning, haven’t you?’ Bakir was adding samphire and baby spinach to the plate. He then picked up the tray and headed for the table under the umbrella on the terrace.
‘He cried,’ I said quietly. ‘And he said that he loved us.’ I felt that a little embellishment was in order.
Mother texted saying that her stylist had a cancellation and that she was about to have a trim. Did I want to join her for a West End matinee?
I asked her to mail me the ‘after’ picture and claimed a non-existent prior arrangement. If she asked me I could always say that Asha wanted to talk about her archaeological assignment somewhere at the back of beyond. If I said it right she’d feel guilty for trying to obstruct my best mate duties. I was dying to talk to Rosie, but as Hugh had reminded me, I was duty-bound to keep the family business under wraps and there would have been no way of telling Rosie about the events of today without bringing my father into it. I refrained from logging on Skype. Instead, I returned to my press watch. As before, Ganis Bank was getting very little notice. Banks had a bad time of it for a while anyhow, news about another one getting its knickers in a twist wasn’t news. Besides, it was just an investment bank, lending money to people who didn’t need it.
In the end it turned out that I’d missed the point of my mother’s invitations. She lost her patience and phoned.
‘I’ll be home soon to change. Got two seats in Sir Frederick’s box for a concert tonight. Hope you’ve got something suitable to wear.’
‘What’s on?’ As if it mattered. This was hardly the time to wear something suitable for Sir Frederick’s box, whoever he might have been.
‘Something German and modern. Tell you when I see you. Can’t reach my bag right now.’
I sighed. ‘I think I’ll give it a miss. There are a few DVDs that I want to see and I should call Asha back. She needs a chat...’
‘Sonata!’
I winced. She’d ever called me by my full name a few times in my life and those were the occasions that I didn’t like to remember. Like that one time when I left a slice of eggy bread on a chair in my school room at Hartsfield and forgot about it. My French tutor wasn’t impressed. She was a devotee of retro clothing and the rag that she was wearing that day cost a bomb.
‘Sonata! The right thing to do right now is act normally. Doll yourself up, put on a smile and clap your heart out when it’s done.’
Accompanying my mother to a classical music concert wasn’t exactly acting as normal, but she was bound to join the dots for the uninitiated, talk at length about my mock exams, and my ambition to study economics.
She might add something like ‘Nat is aiming at Durham, if they’ll have her. A grand university, no doubt, but I think that she’s chosen it to get as far from us as she can.’
The concert was atrocious and poorly attended. No one wanted to know about my ambitions. People rushed out to grab a drink before heading home.
At home, Bakir just shook his head.
I managed to get to sleep only after I convinced myself that no news was good news. Father was fighting because there was still something to fight for. Or against.
As everyone was busy pointing out, I was young. I needed my sleep, so I slept.
My first thought in the morning was that Hugh was in Calais and planning to return in the evening. I was moved and flattered that he’d bothered to tell me exactly where he was going and plans for the evening. It was even more flattering that his plans focused exclusively on me. I checked my mobile, the secret one. It was always on silent. Two voicemails came in overnight. The one from Ela reminded me about the Milan trip. The other one was from Rosie saying that she was joining Ela and me for the rest of the summer. I shook my head in annoyance. Rosie always assumed too much. It had never been less certain that I was going anywhere than right now.
The time stamp on the text message said 6.12 am. ‘Can’t wait to see you tonight. I’ll bring back some fresh seafood. XXX’
I smiled. Three Xs was far more than Hugh had ever done in real life. He’d only ever kissed me once and that was not something that I could ever talk about outside the Quartet. I liked his style.
Normally, I would have turned on my parent-approved phone to silent before dropping off, but last night I’d left it on. There had been no traffic on it whatsoever.
Mother had planned an unscheduled, surprise visit to a children’s day care centre in a disadvantaged part of London. Her wording, not mine. I didn’t have the heart to refuse. We first took a taxi to Hamleys in Regent Street to buy presents.
‘They get donations of old books, plastic toys and second-hand clothes. But there’s nothing like the smell of the unworn, the feel of the just unpacked, the shine of the never-used,’ she sort of explained then spent the next hour with an elderly assistant making choices best suited to the little community they were meant to serve. It was great to see her that confident and competent, but deep down I was inwardly cringing at the prospect of arriving to some dilapidated, run down and smelly little place that no one else had any use for, laden with rich kids’ toys, reeking of rich people’s charity. I was a little relieved that none of those brightly coloured boxes actually ended up in our car, but I was convinced that there was a small van following us, bringing the gifts to the disadvantaged in style.<
br />
Once we arrived there, everything was quite different from what I’d expected. I had been right about the dilapidated building of no use to anyone else. But, it wasn’t dirty, neglected or smelly. The bungalow was painted brilliant white, doors, windows and wooden shutters edged in blue. That gave it a Mediterranean look, enhanced by long wooden window boxes planted with herbs and trailing geraniums. Mother headed for the side of the building, a kind of a kitchen, with packs of milk, biscuits and soft drinks piled up high on the counters. She beckoned over two youngsters, a tall boy with Down syndrome and a red-cheeked young woman in bright yellow overalls. With their help, we unloaded the boot of her car. Out came the crates of grapes and peaches, large canisters labelled ‘100% Pure Pomegranate Juice’, and a few smaller boxes of fruit bars.
‘What’s happened to the toys?’
She smiled in the way that had never failed to remind me that she was once the third most beautiful woman in the world. ‘The shop will be delivering them in instalments over the next three months. It doesn’t pay to overwhelm the kids. They only become destructive.’
We spent the next two hours solving Mensa puzzles with the older groups and acting as pony express for the youngest. My first rider, a little girl of two, was digging her heels into my sides and using my hair to keep herself in the saddle. The saddle was impersonated by a floral double oven glove. I was blessing Mother’s foresight to wear jeans, trainers and a sensible top, and at the same time begrudging her this double life that she had been leading behind my back. The staff and the elder children called her by name, and she was returning the courtesy with ease born from practice.
‘So, you’re not just a pretty face and the idle rich, then?’ I said icily on the way back. I felt cheated.
‘I’m not rich,’ she smiled back. ‘I’m married to a rich man. Or not, as the case may be. We’ll find out soon.’
* * *
I swam for about one hour, using the time to examine my moral fibre. Of course I loved my father. Of course I cared what happened to him. To all of us. Of course I would have done anything in my power to help. And yet, I couldn’t but feel that the timing was unfair. Why did the crisis choose to interfere with one of the most testing times in my life? The most testing time so far. All that talk about men having a one track mind, being after only one thing cut no ice with me. I couldn’t give it away. The man next door had offered to cook me a seafood dinner in preference to a roll in the hay. Was that good? Was it a good thing that two years ago Mungo Steen had literally pushed me away, forcibly detached my eager vulva from his huge hard-on?
Why was it that two men lusted after me but passed up on the chance to screw me?
I had described Mungo’s rejection as an act of decency to Hugh. It may have been. Probably was. Decency coupled with caution. But, why hadn’t he come back later? Why had he never responded to my messages? He hadn’t even accepted my offer of friendship on Facebook. The obvious answer was that he’d found someone else, someone that even the media were unable to detect and was too happy with what he had to bother looking back.
None of that explained Hugh’s behaviour, though. Fair enough, no man with any self respect would have jumped on a girl with her head wrapped in a t-shirt and her genitals exposed on what must have looked like a makeshift examination table. But, that didn’t stop him from wanting to, as his gasping and panting peeping cock was my witness. So, why did he make it abundantly clear that he was happy to share his food and drink with me but not his cock?
It was coming up to 6 pm when I left the pool and headed for the shower. With Mother and Bakir at home, what were my chances of slipping off to the roof next door for a spot of fresh French seafood? I could ask Ela to cover for me should anyone ask. And if there were any developments on my father’s front, Mother would be bound to call or text. There was no sense in keeping vigil at home night after night to no avail.
Yes, that was a good plan. With my wet hair up in a knot at the top of my head, I applied a generous amount of my most expensive body lotion everywhere that I could reach, allowed it to soak up and pulled on my most alluring pair of thongs. On second thought, I pulled them back down again, inspected my pubic area, removed a couple of tiny hairs that had appeared along my groin, and carefully gilded my pubic crescent. Then I went in search of suitable attire. There was that stylish black and white polka dot dress that showed off my legs but not my bum. The built-in bra made a splendid job of the cleavage.
But, first the makeup.
Very little. Hardly any.
Careful inspection highlighted the need for something that would even out my complexion. At the first glance all that time spent under the umbrella on the terrace gave my face a fine, golden glow, but close-up there were tiny pale blotches and a few darker spots that required urgent eradication. With my eyes still on the mirror I reached for my make-up box where I kept everything that only needed to be used occasionally. What I ended up with was something that felt like the head of a dead cat. I squealed and dropped it.
It was the head of a cat. A little makeup bag made of fake fur with glass eyes, and plastic teeth serving as a clasp. It certainly wasn’t mine. One of the Brazilian girls must have left it behind. Without any qualms, I opened it. What could be more intriguing than another girl’s bag?
It contained a few creased receipts, an eyeliner, some funny looking coins, two out-of-date platinum credit cards, and a thin cardboard box containing pills. None of the girls seemed in need of medication. The trade name meant nothing to me. Both tin trays were still complete, there were no tablets missing from them at all. I pulled out the instruction leaflet, skipped the Portuguese section and turned the sheet over until I found the English translation.
Oops!
One of the girls, my money was on Bruna, was on the Pill.
I checked the name on the credit cards. Yes, I was right. It was Bruna. That made retuning her property to her easier. I could simply slip it in her voluminous handbag when no one’s looking. She probably hadn’t even noticed its absence. The credit cards were not valid any longer and she probably hadn’t finished the current supply of pills yet.
I was in the middle of spreading my equaliser over my face when my private phone pinged.
‘Landing gear playing up. Parts may take a couple of days. Enjoying the crevettes and thinking of you. Will be in touch. XXX’
My first thought was whose French grill he was cooking the crevettes on. The second, the use of full words as opposed to silly sms abbreviations made his texts very classy. But above all, the sharp pain of disappointment was battling the embarrassment of relief. Truth be told, I was scared stiff. Once my loose and wild sexual fantasies had found a specific target, I was terrified of acting on them.
Sex wasn’t just an orgy of senses and hormones.
On an impulse, I pulled the contraceptives out of the fake cat, swallowed one tiny pill, and stored the rest with my tampons and ‘monthly knickers’. Then I dropped the cat into the waste paper basket but not before I shredded the credit cards.
I was pulling up my khaki dungarees over a black sleeveless top when the official mobile sounded off. I’d heard somewhere that the theme tune for Mastermind was called Approaching Menace and I was using it as my ringtone ever since.
‘He’s just called the lift down,’ said Mother. ‘You may prefer to stay put up there?’
The thing with the penthouse lift was that it was grade two listed or something, a unique specimen of its kind. I liked the mahogany and bronze cage and the etched crystal glass, but if I wasn’t carrying something heavy or awkward, I preferred to climb the stairs two-by-two to the tune of Let’s Get This Party Started. I’d nicked the CD from my mother’s collection. She wasn’t listening to it anywhere near enough.
If Father had only just called the lift, he’d be up in three or four minutes at the earliest. I fished my flip-flops from under the bed, Father so hated bare feet, and ran downstairs.
From the stairs I watched Bakir proffer two t
ablets to my mother.
She shook her head. ‘Maybe better not just yet. Let’s see how it goes.’
He nodded and returned the drugs into his breast pocket.
‘So, that’s it,’ I screamed. ‘You’re her dealer. That’s why she’s always dopey when she’s at home.’
‘Not now, Kitten,’ Mother whispered.
‘Yes now...’
The lift doors slid open and my father stepped into the hall.
‘Daddy!’ His appearance shocked me. He’d looked bad enough when I went to see him in the office. Now he was almost unrecognisable. He was still stocky, heavy around the shoulders but he seemed to have lost several inches in height. There were deep dark rings under his eyes, he stooped, and he was secreting an odd, fetid odour as if he was rotting inside those misshaped clothes.
He marched past my extended arms.
‘My office! All of you.’
How I hated that place!
The room was darker than any other in the flat. The high ceiling must have been painted ochre at some point. That alone would have been bad enough, but over time the colour deteriorated into a semblance of a grey cloud. The walls were covered with dark mahogany cladding or else in floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of hardback volumes inherited from previous owners. By absurd, offensive contrast, the two light ormolu armchairs were covered in bright red plush, matched by his desk that I was sure must have started life as a lady’s dressing table. Mother took one of the chairs, under his gaze I took the other. At the sign from him, Bakir positioned himself behind me, his hands on the backrest.
Imperceptibly but unmistakeably my concern started turning into alarm. My father had been occasionally exhibiting erratic and bizarre behaviour, but never anything like this.
One of the Boys brought in a tray with a large jug of lemonade and four glasses. Father filled his glass while the Boy slid noiselessly out of the room and closed the door behind him.
The Eunuch's Ward (The String Quartet) Page 10
