You sure about this, Ant? It might take me a year or two.
But she never doubted his talent. Not from the very first time she heard him read – a spoken word night in the little Belgrave café where she worked at the time – his story a kind of urban fairytale, reworked and jagged, catching right at her core. She put down her pad and clapped along with everyone else at the end, but hers were the eyes he looked into, hers the smile he mirrored. And when her shift was over, he was waiting by the bar, all soft hands and eyeliner, wanting to buy her a drink.
Falling in love was that easy.
And it made everything else seem easy as well. In less than two months – dizzying, heart-in-mouth months – she had moved in with Paul, counting the sudden departure of his flatmate as a portent, despite the furious protests of her mother. Because she loved him. And it was because she loved him, because she couldn’t bear to see him slumped over his laptop each night, exhausted and demoralised after selling mobile phones to idiots all day, that she offered.
Quit your stupid job. Concentrate on your book.
Because she loved him. Because she believed in him. Never doubting that his novel-in-progress would be magnificent, a masterpiece, if only he was given the time and space to finish it. Not a single doubt. Not once. Not ever.
Until three months ago, when she snuck her first peek at his manuscript.
If only she hadn’t. If only–
Antoinette clenches her jaw. Enough. It’s over, they are over. Four years shredded to ruin overnight, and why can’t she hate him for it? Even the tiniest spark of loathing would do.
‘I hate him,’ she whispers. ‘I hate you, Paul.’
The words even taste empty.
‘Oh, for godsake.’ Do something, girlie-girl, do anything. Antoinette tugs her mobile from her jeans pocket and calls her home number, her old home number. The sound of ringing is distant in her ear and she taps the steering wheel, come on, come on, pick up the bloody phone.
‘Hey.’
‘Paul, it’s–’
‘This is Paul, leave a message or whatever and I’ll call you when I can.’
A pause, then that familiar mechanised beep which throws Antoinette so completely off kilter that she can’t speak, can only gasp mutely into the handset for what seems like minutes until finally, finally, her tongue finds the words.
‘Paul, um, hi. It’s me, it’s Ant. Look I . . . I’m going to come over, okay? I need to pick up some more stuff, so if you’re there, um, if you get this before . . . look, I’m coming over. Do what you want.’
Blood rushes to her cheeks as she flips the phone shut.
He changed the message. Paul, who will wade waist-high through rubbish rather than empty the garbage bin, who will happily wear the same rancid boxer shorts for a week if the alternative means putting on a washload, who constantly litters the place with half-read books because he can’t be bothered returning them to the shelves. This very same Paul has gone to the trouble of recording a brand new message onto their answering machine.
Has deleted her voice, her name, her existence.
In less than twenty-four hours.
Antoinette rubs at her eyes. Sags back into the seat as tears spill fresh down her cheeks. She’s tired, so utterly tired of the whole bloody thing. God, how she wishes Jacqueline were here. She’d know what to do, she always knows. Jacqueline, princess of poise, queen of control. She certainly wouldn’t be sitting here, blubbering all over the place like a big fat baby.
A giggle catches in Antoinette’s throat, escapes as a hiccup. The very idea of her sister in such a state is ludicrous; if Jacqueline has let slip even a single, solitary tear since the age of about eight, Antoinette hasn’t seen it. As for heartbreak, well. There has never been anyone romantic in Jacqueline’s life. At least not anyone serious enough to merit more than a fleeting mention over lunch.
Do I get to meet him?
He’s no one special.
Their standard sisterly call and response.
Jacqueline, have you ever been in love? Antoinette asked once, not long after meeting Paul, not long before she decided to move in with him. So much in love you thought it might kill you?
No, her sister replied. I don’t see the point.
How can you say that? It’s the whole point. Of everything.
Everything? Jacqueline frowned. Seems like there should be more to it than that, Ant.
Now, sitting amid the indifferent rush of traffic, Antoinette wipes her face on the sleeve of her shirt and sighs.
Seems like there should be a lot more.
— 2 —
Antoinette’s about to slide the key into the lock when the front door swings suddenly inwards, and she bites her lip, spine straightening in reflex, only to find not Paul standing there, but Greta. Tall and curveless in clinging black lace, her glossy midnight bob even more severe than usual, one arm swaying in a studied gesture of listless welcome.
‘Ant, I’m aghast.’ Her lazy German accent thickens with emotion. ‘Not you and Paul, of all people?’
‘You’ve gotten the gory details, then,’ Antoinette mutters as she walks into the flat. There’s not much room in the entrance hall, not with all the books piled precariously high against one wall, so Greta steps backwards to let her pass, wobbling a little on her platform heels.
‘I have heard Paul’s interpretation of events.’
‘Is he here?’
Greta blinks. ‘Paul feels it might be wise if the two of you did not see each other so soon. Wounds still wet, ja? He wondered if I would not mind being here for you instead.’
‘What, did he think I would trash the place? Steal his precious vinyl collection?’
‘Scheisse! Don’t crucify the messenger, Ant.’
She’s right, none of this is Greta’s fault. But Antoinette can’t help it; everything about the woman seems to grate. It always has, right from that very first night at Abyss with Paul so eager-pleased to introduce them and Greta smiling lean and cool, extending a black-nailed hand to clasp her own. Enraptured to finally meet you, Ant. Those grey eyes dark with shadow and fierce as kitten teeth. Utterly enraptured.
Antoinette tried to like the woman, if only for Paul’s sake, but it was hard. Greta was hard. There was a veneer, impenetrable as one-way glass and twice as intimidating, which Antoinette never seemed to get beyond. And, of course, there was the Thing. The Greta-and-Paul Thing. Ancient history, each of them swore any time Antoinette brought it up, so she never found out what had really gone on between them, how serious it might have been, or exactly why it ended.
Greta and me work best as friends, Ant, that’s all there is to it.
Paul belongs to you now, ja? So why all this stirring about at the past, like a child with a stick in a mud puddle? Why does it matter so dreadfully much?
Because of the glances swapped over drinks, the enigmatic smiles and private in-jokes. Paul and Greta. Greta and Paul. With Antoinette scraping handholds in the slim space between. She could never talk about it with Paul, and she sure as hell doesn’t have to explain anything to Greta.
‘I just need to grab some stuff, then I’m leaving,’ she says, but Greta has her by the elbow and is moving with surprising swiftness into the kitchen where a bottle of Bacardi waits beside two half-filled glasses. She pulls out a chair.
‘Here, sit down. Tell me all.’
‘Greta, I really don’t want–’
‘But you must.’ Her kohl-rimmed eyes are vulture-keen. ‘You cannot keep this inside of you. It is toxic, it will fester. You need to expel it.’
‘I already have. Jacqueline and me, we sat up for most of last night–’
‘Mein Gott!’ Greta laughs around the curve of her glass, leaving a red smear of lipstick like a fresh-made wound. ‘That frigid little nun? What would J
acqueline know about love, what would Jacqueline know about heartbreak?’
Shut up, Antoinette wants to say, don’t talk about my sister like that. But guilt pinches her tongue – hasn’t she thought just the same thing herself, too many times to count? What would Jacqueline know?
‘Please, Ant.’ Greta takes her hand, traces a nail along the lines of her palm. ‘We are friends, ja?’
Friends? Antoinette stares. Since when does Greta care if they are friends?
‘Come. Tell me what has happened.’
There’s something different about the woman sitting across from her, an openness to that narrow, artfully made-up face that Antoinette hasn’t seen before. And maybe it’s because of this, and maybe it’s because she really does want a chance to tell her side of the story, to balance out whatever poison Paul has been spilling in Greta’s ear, that Antoinette sits back in her chair and takes a large gulp of rum.
‘It wasn’t planned,’ she says. ‘Remember a few months ago, that time I was really sick? I had to miss Jai’s spoken word thing.’
Greta smirked. ‘I thought that was simply a cover story.’
No, Antoinette tells her, she wishes. More like a chronic dose of stomach flu, stuck home for a week within stumbling distance of the bathroom and stir crazy after the third day. Paul deserting the flat each morning with his MacBook – love you, Ant, but I can’t work with you filling my space like this – leaving her in the hands of boredom and bedbound curiosity. Easy enough to find the flashdrive where his backups were kept; even easier to sneak a copy onto her laptop.
‘Such a betrayal.’ Greta shakes her head.
‘I just wanted to read the bloody thing,’ Antoinette says. ‘After all these years, I hadn’t seen even a single sentence.’
‘Because he did not want anyone to see this book until it was finished. Not you, not even me.’
Not even me. Antoinette lets that go, swallows another mouthful of rum instead. ‘I know. But I just wanted to see.’
Greta leans forward. ‘Tell me, is it very good, his book? What is it about?’
‘It’s about . . .’ Antoinette shrugs. ‘It’s kind of an autobiography, I think. Names are changed, sometimes, but you can tell who he’s writing about. Him and me – and you, Greta. Everyone we know is in that book, one way or another. It’s not very flattering, and it’s also . . . it’s not very good.’
‘So this is why? Because it doesn’t flatter you?’
‘No!’ Antoinette fumbles for the right words. ‘It’s not what it’s about, it’s the way it’s written. The writing itself is just . . . it’s not good.’
‘Who are you to decide this?’
‘The one paying the bills while he sits on his butt and churns out that crap!’
‘Ant!’
‘I mean it, Greta, it’s rubbish. No one who doesn’t already know him would have a clue what he’s on about, and even then it’s just petty and pretentious and boring. No wonder he didn’t want me to see it.’
‘But he is not finished, it is not fair to judge him now.’
No, and that’s what Antoinette told herself as she scrolled through the disjointed and rambling mess, the confusion of in-jokes and circular references: it isn’t finished, it isn’t done. And maybe it was because he was too closed in, too closed off, to see the truth of it. Maybe outside feedback was just what he needed. A fresh pair of eyes, a sympathetic edit even. And so.
‘And so?’ Greta echoes.
‘I started to fiddle.’
Just small things, she hastens to explain. At least in the beginning. Rearranging sentences and resolving ambiguities, adding shades of clarity and trimming back where the writing seemed too overdone, too heavy-handed – and she always intended to tell him. Always. Even as the changes became more and more significant, even as characters were radically modified or replaced entirely, as superfluous scenes or chapters were deleted whole and absolute, she meant to tell him.
‘It was just a matter of finding the right moment,’ she says. ‘I thought maybe we would sit down one day and go through it together.’
Greta raises a thinly plucked brow. ‘Did you really think this would happen? That Paul would thank you for this fiddling of yours?’
Probably not, she admits, and maybe that’s why it went so far. Sneaking sessions on her laptop whenever Paul was out of the flat, begging off nights out clubbing with friends on pretext of exhaustion, snatching all the time she could to type and type and type until . . . until. It wasn’t Paul’s novel she was working on anymore; it was hers. A completely different beast to the one he’d originally conceived, different and – though she felt guilty even to think it – far better.
‘Better?’ Greta snorts. ‘You told him this?’
‘I didn’t tell him anything,’ Antoinette says. ‘He didn’t give me a chance.’
You thieving little bitch.
His lips twisting around the words as she came into the kitchen last night after work. Her laptop open on the table in front of him with what could only be one file splashed across its screen. Paul, his name barely out of her mouth before she saw what he was shifting from hand to clenching hand. One of the bookends Antoinette bought him last Christmas, a heavy slab of black marble with more sharp edges than not, and his face was so cold, so dark with menace, that she backed instinctively away as he raised his fist.
Paul. Wait, I–
Antoinette shrieked as he brought the thing down with a crash onto her laptop. Again and again and again, until the machine was nothing more than a dead, shattered screen amid a wreckage of cracked plastic and broken circuitry. And her novel dead along with it – she’d printed no hard copies, made no backups, because either of these would have made what she was doing too real. Which Paul must have guessed, to judge by the sneer on his face.
Was that important to you, Ant? As important as me?
Oh, so sick to her stomach then, and even now in the retelling.
‘He didn’t have to destroy it, Greta. It’s not like I was going to try and publish it or anything, and he still has his version. This was just for me, you know, a private thing?’ She sniffs, wipes her nose on her sleeve. ‘It was the first time I’ve ever tried to write something like that. It was fun, more than fun, it was . . . something that was mine. Something that came from me. I felt like I was a kid again, making up stories and people and . . . I can’t really explain it, how I felt, how good it made me feel. And now it’s gone.’
‘Ja, it was cruel, what he did.’ Greta frowns, her chin dipping in a sharp little nod. ‘But perhaps this can be reconciled as a sacrifice?’
‘A sacrifice? Greta, what–’
‘Ja, ja, a sacrifice.’ She lifts her hand in a plea for patience. ‘You did not mean the plagiarism, you did not intend to publish behind Paul’s back.’
‘It wasn’t plagiarism, it was–’
‘So what does it matter if the rotten thing no longer exists? Tell me, what has been lost, truly? You did an unforgiveable thing, Paul did an unforgiveable thing, and these two things, they cancel each other out. You sacrifice this writing of yours, and your love, the love between you and Paul, that can be saved. It is a good thing.’
‘Greta, no. You don’t understand.’
‘I am too blunt, ja? Always I am blunt. But this is too important, what you and Paul have is too important for prancing around in circles like the Russian bear.’
‘No,’ Antoinette says. ‘We don’t have anything. He’s been seeing someone else for the past couple of months, he told me last night.’
‘Ah.’ The other woman shakes her head. ‘Silly boy, to confess such a thing.’ But her face holds no surprise, not the slimmest hint of shock.
‘You knew? Greta, you knew?’
‘Of course I knew, I am his friend.’
‘I thought we w
ere supposed to be friends, too.’
‘No, you are not to do this!’ Greta near bounces to her feet and begins to pace about the kitchen, her arms waving in the air. ‘I am your friend, Ant, but I am his friend also, and I detest being stuck in the middle of the two of you, I detest it! But what am I to do? He confides in me, he begs me not to tell you, and so I do not tell. But I do try to help, I do try to make him see what he is doing, the stupidity of it, to make him end it. I do that for you.’
Antoinette braces herself, needing to ask the one question Paul has so far refused to answer – who is she? who is this other girl? – and Greta is so worked up the suspicion moves swift and clear to the front of her mind. ‘It’s not you, is it Greta? Please, tell me it’s not you.’
‘Scheisse!’ Of course it isn’t her, the woman snaps; why must Antoinette keep harping on that? Not Greta, not for a long time, just some pretty little morsel he picked up at Abyss – or was it Heresies? – no matter, because it is over with, finished, Paul is sincere about that. It only happened because he thought Ant was drifting away, never coming out to clubs anymore, always finding reasons to stay at home, to avoid his company – but that was all because of the book, wasn’t it? Her book, his book, and how can Ant blame him for being so upset, thrown over for a pile of words?
‘That’s a good enough excuse, is it?’ Antoinette retorts. ‘He gets to go out and fuck some suicide girl every time he feels insecure?’
Greta throws up her hands. ‘Did I say it was a good excuse? It is a reason, that is all, an explanation for what he did, not an absolution. Oh Ant, this is all such a mess, such a tangle and you must help to fix it, because you are a part of it.’
‘I don’t want to fix it.’
‘But you love him.’
‘I don’t care if I love him! I don’t want to love him!’
Even cushioned with anger it hurts to say the words, to hear them, and Antoinette knows with gut-sinking certainty that if Paul was standing here before her, if he had the balls to stay and plead his own case instead of sending Greta as proxy, then she would have little hope of resistance. Poised on the edge of her life here, Paul and their flat and the history that seeps from every wall, every photograph stuck careless to the fridge, every half-burned candle and guilty wine stain on the carpet, how easy it would be to close her eyes and jump, to allow herself the exhilaration of free-fall.
Perfections Page 2
