Of course it’s against the law, you twit, thought Lars.
‘Please don’t call me a twit,’ said Jessica.
Lars’s blood ran cold. She could read his mind and she was extraordinarily wealthy. She now had the capacity to take over the world for her own nefarious purposes.
‘We’re here for couples counselling,’ said Jessica to Masha. ‘We paid for couples counselling. This is all just pointless for us.’
‘This will have a profound impact on your marriage,’ said Masha. ‘You and Ben won’t be separated on your journey. You will sit together and experience this as a couple.’ Masha indicated one of the clusters of cushions in the corner. ‘Your smoothies contained a different formula from everyone else’s. We studied the research carefully and we found that MDMA was the best –’
‘Ecstasy,’ snapped Heather. ‘She means ecstasy. She’s given you a party drug. Unbelievable. Kids die every year after taking ecstasy tablets, but don’t let that bother you.’
‘You’re being kind of a downer about all this, Mum,’ said Zoe.
‘Let’s go,’ said Ben to Jessica. He held out his hand to his wife and looked at Masha. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘Just . . . hold on.’ Jessica didn’t take his hand.
‘Again, when used in a controlled environment, MDMA is perfectly safe. It has been trialled for prescription psychotherapy with great success to treat PTSD, social anxiety and for couples therapy!’ said Masha. ‘There has never been a single death or even a single adverse reaction to a clinically administered dose of MDMA.’
‘This is not a clinical setting!’ cried Heather.
Masha ignored her. ‘MDMA is an empathogen. It produces feelings of empathy and openness.’
‘It is a very nice experience, you guys,’ said Lars lovingly.
Masha gave him a disapproving look. ‘But this is not about dancing all night at a club. This is guided therapy. You will find, Ben and Jessica, that you become more sensitive to feelings and more accepting of each other’s views. You’re about to communicate in a way you’ve probably never communicated before.’
‘Consent,’ said Napoleon. ‘I feel like that’s what’s missing here. I feel like . . . I’m pretty sure . . .’ He held up a finger. ‘I read the paperwork very carefully, and I feel certain we did not consent to this.’
‘No, we fucking did not,’ said Tony.
Jessica stuck one of her long, fake fingernails in her mouth and chewed.
Careful, thought Lars. Those things look sharp.
‘What things look sharp?’ Jessica frowned at Lars, and then turned to Ben. ‘Maybe we should give it a go?’
Ben, who was still on his feet, shook his head, his eyes fixed on a far-off horizon only he could see. ‘I did not choose this,’ he said again. ‘Drugs are dangerous. Drugs are bad. Drugs ruin lives.’
‘I know, babe,’ said Jessica, looking up at him. ‘But maybe we should just go with it?’
‘I think you two should go for it,’ said Lars. ‘I’ve seen a lot of bad marriages, but I think your marriage has . . .’ There was a fine word he needed to finish his fine sentence but it had escaped his brain.
The word swooped about between Jessica and Ben like a frisky butterfly before it landed, quivering, on Tony’s hand. Lars leaned forward and read it.
‘Potential!’ he said. ‘I think your marriage has potential.’
Time slowed, and then snapped back to normal pace.
Delilah stood right in front of him. She’d teleported herself, the clever minx.
‘It’s time to lie down now, Lars,’ said Delilah. Teleporting was a handy skill that Lars would like to develop. He would order Teleporting for Dummies. He felt like that was the kind of witticism his new friend Frances would appreciate, but he saw that Frances was with Yao, lying down on one of the stretchers, trustingly lifting her head as Yao placed a mask over her eyes.
‘Up you get.’ Delilah offered her hand. Lars was momentarily transfixed by a thick, lustrous curl of black hair that fell over her shoulder. He studied it for an hour and then he took her hand.
‘I know all about bad marriages,’ Lars explained as he let her haul him to his feet. Delilah was as strong and powerful as Wonder Woman and she also strongly resembled Wonder Woman. She was quite wondrous in many ways, although he would not let her near his hair.
‘Let’s talk about that more in a moment,’ said Delilah, as she led him to a stretcher. ‘We can explore it during your guided therapy.’
‘No thank you, sweetheart, I’ve already done years of therapy,’ said Lars. ‘There is nothing I don’t already know about my psyche.’
He thought of all those fat files crammed with pages of handwritten words about the Great Mysteries of Lars, which could in reality be summed up in a few paltry paragraphs.
When Lars was ten his father left his mother for a woman called Gwen. There may have been nice Gwens in the world, but Lars doubted it. His mother was screwed in the financial settlement. Now Lars spent his days eviscerating wealthy men who left their wives: an endless, pointless revenge fantasy against his long-dead father, a job which he found emotionally and financially satisfying.
He was a control freak because he’d lost control of his life when he was a kid, and weird about money because he’d grown up with none, and he wasn’t sufficiently vulnerable in his relationships because . . . he didn’t want to be vulnerable. He loved Ray, but there was a part of himself he withheld, because Ray had had a happy, functional childhood, and it seemed Lars subconsciously wanted to punch him in the face for having the happy childhood that Lars didn’t get. That was it. Nothing more to know, nothing more to learn. A few years ago Lars had swapped therapy for health resorts, and Ray took up cycling and got skinny and obsessed like all city cyclists. Life was good.
‘You haven’t done this sort of therapy,’ said Delilah.
‘No thank you,’ said Lars firmly and politely. ‘I’ll just take the trip.’
Lars lay down and got himself comfortable. Big Tony, Smiley Hogburn, lay on the stretcher next to his. Masha kneeled by his side, tucking him in with swift sure movements like he was a giant, grizzled baby. Lars met Tony’s eyes just before Masha covered them with a mask. It was like looking into the terrified eyes of a prisoner. Poor Tony. Just relax and enjoy it, big man.
Delilah leaned in close to Lars, her breath warm and sweet. ‘I’m going to leave you for a moment, but I’ll be back to check in on you and to talk about whatever is on your mind.’
‘There’s nothing on my mind,’ said Lars. ‘Don’t you touch my hair while I’m asleep, Delilah.’
‘Very funny. I’ve never heard that joke before. Masha and Yao are here too. You’re not on your own. You’re in safe hands, Lars. If there is anything you need, just ask.’
‘That’s sweet,’ said Lars.
Delilah put the mask over his eyes and headphones over his ears.
‘Look for the stars,’ said Delilah.
Classical music cascaded from the headphones directly into his brain. He could hear each note separately, in its entirety, with absolute purity. It was extraordinary.
A little boy with dark hair and a dirty face said to Lars, ‘Come with me. I’ve got something to show you.’
‘No thanks, buddy,’ said Lars. ‘I’m busy right now.’
He recognised this little kid. It was his boyhood self, little Lars, trying to give him a message.
‘Please,’ said the little boy, and he took Lars’s hand. ‘I’ve got something I need to show you.’
‘Maybe later,’ said Lars, pulling his hand free. ‘I’m busy right now. You go play.’
Remember this, he thought. Remember it all. He would tell Ray all about it when he got home. Ray would be interested. He was always interested in everything that happened to Lars. His face so earnest and open and hopeful.
Ray didn’t want to take anything from him. All Ray wanted was his love.
For a moment that simple thought was everything, it hung there suspended in his consciousness, the answer to every question, the key to every lock, but then his mind exploded into a billion purple petals.
chapter thirty-two
Zoe
Zoe’s dad was refusing to lie down and put on his headphones, and those were the rules, but her dad didn’t want to follow them and that was the first time in Zoe’s life that she had ever seen her dad break the rules and it was so funny and awesome.
Zoe carefully pressed each of her fingertips against her thumbs as she watched Masha try to convince her dad to lie down. Her mum was shouting: ‘Illegal . . . Unconscionable! . . . Appalling!’
She was a savage little spitball of rage. It was cute. What did Zach used to say when Mum got mad? ‘Mum’s being a savage cabbage.’
She closed her eyes. Mum is being such a savage cabbage right now.
Thought you weren’t talking to me. His voice was clear as a bell in her ear.
I’m not. I hate you. I can’t stand you.
Yeah. I can’t stand you either. Why do you keep telling people we weren’t close?
Because we weren’t. Before you died, we hadn’t talked in, like, a month.
Because you were being a bitch.
No, because you were being a total loser.
Fuck off.
You fuck off. I downloaded your Shakespearean Insult Generator.
I know you did. It’s funny, right? Do you like it? You pribbling half-faced harpy.
And I broke your electric guitar.
I saw that. You threw it across the room. You spleeny milk-livered lewdster.
I’m so angry with you.
I know.
You did it on purpose. To get back at me. To win.
Yeah, no. I can’t even remember what we were arguing about.
I miss you every single day, Zach. Every single day.
I know.
I’ll never be a normal person ever again. You took that away from me. You made me ABNORMAL and it’s lonely being abnormal.
You were already kind of abnormal.
Very funny.
I think the parents want us over there.
What?
Zoe opened her eyes and the yoga studio was a million miles wide and her mum and dad were tiny specks in the distance, beckoning to her. ‘Come sit with us.’
chapter thirty-three
Frances
Frances felt the soft, frosty tickle of snowflakes on her face as she and her friend Gillian flew across a star-studded sky in a sleigh drawn by white horses.
A pile of books filled her lap. They were all the books she’d ever written, including foreign language editions. The books were open at the top like cereal boxes. Frances dipped her hand into each book and pulled out great handfuls of words to scatter across the sky.
‘Got one!’ said Sol, from the back of the sleigh, where he and Henry sat smoking cigarettes and killing off unnecessary adjectives with catapults.
‘Leave them be,’ said Frances snappily.
‘Let’s get all those adverbs too!’ said Sol happily.
‘Even the rhyming ones?’ asked Henry affably.
‘That’s an imperfect rhyme,’ pointed out Frances.
‘They’re just words, Frances,’ said Gillian.
‘So profound, Gillian,’ said Sol.
‘Shut up, Sol,’ said Gillian.
‘She never liked you,’ Frances told Sol.
Sol said, ‘That sort of woman always secretly wants an alpha male.’
Frances smiled fondly at him. Egotist but sexy as hell. ‘You were my first-ever husband.’
‘I was your first-ever husband,’ agreed Sol. ‘And you were my second-ever wife.’
‘Second wives are so young and pretty,’ said Frances. ‘I liked being a second wife.’
‘By the by, Gillian kissed me once,’ said Henry. ‘At someone’s thirtieth birthday party.’
‘She was drunk,’ said Frances. ‘Don’t get a big head about it.’
‘I was drunk,’ agreed Gillian. ‘I felt bad about that until the day I died.’
‘Henry, you were my second husband,’ said Frances. ‘But I was your first wife. Therefore not as pretty.’
Gillian said, ‘Why do you keep identifying your husbands?’
‘Readers get impatient if they have trouble working out which character is which,’ explained Frances. ‘You’ve got to help them out. None of us is getting any younger.’
‘Except this isn’t a book,’ said Gillian.
‘I think you’ll find it is,’ said Frances. ‘I’m the protagonist, obviously.’
‘I feel like that tall Russian lady is giving you a run for your money,’ said Gillian.
‘She is not,’ said Frances. ‘It’s all about me. I’m just not sure of my love interest yet.’
‘Oh my God, it’s so obvious,’ said Gillian. ‘Blind Freddy could pick it.’ She shouted at the sky, ‘You knew it from day one, right?’
‘Gillian! Did you just try to break the fourth wall?’ Frances was shocked.
‘I did not,’ said Gillian, but she looked guilty. ‘I’m sure no-one noticed.’
‘How tacky,’ said Frances. ‘How very gimmicky.’
She dared to look up and the stars were a million darting eyes on the look out for rule-breaking in her story: sexism, ageism, racism, tokenism, ableism, plagiarism, cultural appropriation, fat-shaming, body-shaming, slut-shaming, vegetarian-shaming, real-estate-agent-shaming. The voice of the Almighty Internet boomed from the sky: Shame on you!
Frances hung her head. ‘It’s just a story,’ she whispered.
‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’ said Gillian.
An endless gossamer-like sentence embroidered with jewel-like metaphors, far too many clauses and meaning so obscure it had to be profound wrapped itself around Frances’s neck, but it really didn’t suit her, so she wrenched it off and flung it into space, where it floated free until at last a shy author on his way to a festival to accept a prize grabbed it from the sky and used it to gag one of his beautiful corpses. It looked lovely on her. Grey-bearded critics applauded with relief, grateful it hadn’t ended up in a beach read.
‘Will younger readers even recognise the term “Blind Freddy”?’ asked Jo, who floated alongside Frances doing a line edit. She sat astride a giant lead pencil. ‘Could it be ableist?’
‘What’s interesting is that I’m a fictional character,’ said her internet scammer from the back of the sleigh, where he sat between Henry and Sol, his arms around their shoulders. ‘Yet she loved me more than either of you.’
‘You’re nothing but a scam,’ said Sol. ‘She never even met you, let alone fucked you, cocksucker!’
‘!!!!’ cried Jo.
‘I agree. Delete,’ advised Gillian. ‘My mother reads your books.’
‘As her loving ex-husbands, it’s our duty to beat you to a pulp,’ said Henry to Paul Drabble. ‘Scram, scam.’
‘Life is nothing but a scam,’ said Gillian. ‘It’s all just a giant illusion.’
‘Scram, scam,’ chuckled Sol. ‘Good one.’
He and Henry fist-bumped.
‘You’re both far too old for fist-bumping,’ sighed Frances, but her ex-husbands were busy bonding. She always knew they’d like each other if they ever met. She should have invited them both to her fiftieth.
She realised that Paul Drabble had vanished, as easy as that. There was no pain in the empty space he’d left behind. It turned out he’d meant nothing at all. Not a thing.
‘He was just a credit on my bank balance,’ she told Gillian.
‘Debit, you idiot,’ said Gillian.
‘Debit, credi
t,’ said Frances. ‘Whatever. I am completely over him.’
‘I was the one who meant something,’ said a child’s voice. It was Ari, Paul Drabble’s son.
Frances didn’t turn around. She could not look at him.
‘I thought I was going to be his mother,’ she said to Gillian. ‘It’s the only time in my life I even considered being a mother.’
‘I know,’ said Gillian.
‘So embarrassing,’ whispered Frances. ‘I am so deeply embarrassed.’
‘It’s a loss, Frances,’ said Gillian. ‘You’re allowed to grieve your loss even if it’s embarrassing.’
The snow fell silently for days as Frances grieved her loss of an imaginary boy and Gillian sat beside her, head bowed in sympathy, until they were frozen, snow-covered figures.
‘What about my dad?’ asked Frances in the spring, when the snow melted, butterflies danced and bees buzzed. ‘Why isn’t he here on my trip? I’m the one writing this thing, Gillian, not you. Let’s get Dad on board.’
‘I’m here,’ said her dad from the back of the sleigh.
He was alone, wearing the khaki safari suit he wore for Christmas lunch 1973, captured forever in the framed photo on her writing desk. She reached back and took his hand. ‘Hello, Dad.’
‘You were always so crazy about the boys.’ Her dad shook his head. Frances smelled his Old Spice aftershave.
‘You died when I was too young,’ said Frances. ‘That’s why I made such bad choices in men. I was trying to replace you.’
‘Cliché?’ asked Jo from astride her lead pencil, which was bucking like a horse. ‘Whoa, boy!’
‘Stop editing me,’ said Frances to Jo. ‘You’re retired. Go look after your grandchildren.’
‘Don’t even pretend you have unresolved daddy issues – you do not,’ said Gillian. ‘Take responsibility.’
Frances pinched Gillian on the arm.
‘Ouch!’ said Gillian.
‘Sorry. I didn’t think it would hurt. It’s not like any of this is real,’ said Frances. ‘It’s just a story I’m making up as I go along.’
‘Speaking of which, I always thought your plots could be better structured,’ said Gillian. ‘The same goes for your life. All this chopping and changing of husbands. Maybe you could think about planning ahead for the final chapters. I never had the courage to say that when I was alive.’
Nine Perfect Strangers Page 24
