Behind his sister’s back, Ryan is slowly shaking his head. A subtle movement, close to pleading. She thinks about the drug that was slipped into her drink at Merde. About possible lingering side effects. Wonders if Ryan is thinking about it too and whether this is another reason he was reluctant to take her hospital. Could he be that self-centred?
Yes, of course he could. And so can she.
‘Look,’ she says to Alice. ‘I think I may have just fainted. I’ve been working too hard lately and Ryan’s probably right about the heat. I don’t function very well in this sort of climate, I’m afraid.’
The woman purses her lips. ‘I’m going to get my thermometer. Make sure you don’t have a fever.’
‘Put the kettle on while you’re at it?’ Ryan’s voice pitches up just enough at the end to blur the line between command and request. ‘We could all do with a cuppa, I reckon.’
Alice snorts. ‘I could do with a lot more than that.’
Ryan waits for his sister to leave the room. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and subdued. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘If Alice knew I had anything to do with drugs . . . she had a fella OD on her a while back. Pretty serious, they were; cut her up real bad to lose him like that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It’s all she can think to say.
‘Yeah.’ He scratches his chin. ‘She’d never have another thing to do with me, she found that out.’
‘I didn’t think . . .’ Jacqueline moves onto her side. It feels a less vulnerable position. ‘You didn’t seem very fond of your sister the other day.’
‘It’s complicated between me and her.’ His smile this time is grim. ‘But we’re family and I don’t want to let her down – she’s had more’n enough people in her life do that already.’ He squeezes her hand. His nails are grimy with paint, his fingers a patchwork of hues. ‘I appreciate you not saying anything.’
There’s a shiftiness in the way he looks at her. A cast to his face that might be guilt or might equally be guile; Jacqueline doesn’t know him well enough to judge. She decides to ask point blank.
‘Did I really make you promise not to take me to hospital?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘So what happened the other night hasn’t anything to do with it?’
Ryan shakes his head. ‘It’s not that. I mean, what you were given, it was an upper. Some mild hallucinogenic effects maybe, lots of happy-happy – nothing lasting, I give you my word.’ He’s twisting a dreadlock around his first two fingers, pulling it tighter with each word.
‘But?’ she prods.
‘Okay, sure, it crossed my mind that if a hospital ran any sort of test, there might still be traces of it in your system.’ He shrugs. ‘Kind of awkward to explain, don’t you reckon?’
‘For one of us, sure.’
‘Yeah,’ Ryan says. ‘Look, I owe you. Big time.’
Jacqueline holds his gaze for few unblinking seconds. ‘Agreed.’
‘What?’
‘Agreed,’ she repeats. ‘You owe me. You owe me a painting – an entire show, actually – and you owe me the complete absence of any further . . . bullshit.’
He laughs. ‘A woman after my own heart.’
‘It’s not your heart I’m after, Ryan.’
‘It’ll be done,’ he says. ‘I’m working my arse off out there and it feels good, you know? For the first time in weeks, it feels like I’m working. I tell you, it’s gonna be bloody magnificent.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Jacqueline says. ‘I’ll be gladder still to see it.’
‘You will, don’t worry. You’re no small part of this now, girl.’
‘Someone had to come up here and kick you into gear.’
‘It’s not just that.’ A feverish new light glitters in his eyes. ‘I called you a muse the day we met, remember? I was only mucking about, but–’
Footsteps sound in the hall outside. Alice walks slowly into the room, carrying a digital thermometer in one hand and a bright yellow mug in the other. ‘I put a fair bit of sugar in this,’ she tells Jacqueline. ‘It’ll do you good. Boost your glucose levels.’
‘Think you might be getting your concussion mixed up with your diabetes there, Alice,’ Ryan says.
The woman glares at her brother, then thrusts the thermometer towards Jacqueline. ‘Under your tongue.’
It would seem fruitless to argue, so Jacqueline accepts the instrument. Sticks it obediently into her mouth. The plastic is smooth and doesn’t chink against her teeth like she remembers glass thermometers doing when she was young. Don’t bite down, her mother’s voice nevertheless chides from the back of her mind, the mercury will poison you. Although Jacqueline herself was seldom sick, Ant managed to drag home every stray virus and bug that crossed her path and the merest hint of an overly flushed cheek would send their mother running for the thermometer. Jacqueline’s temperature never once rose above thirty-seven.
It doesn’t now. Alice looks supremely disappointed.
‘You should stay for a bit anyway,’ Ryan says. ‘Get some proper rest.’
‘I can’t, I should call Dante and–’
‘You need supervision,’ Alice interrupts. ‘Just to be safe.’
‘I feel fine.’ This time Jacqueline really is lying. Exhaustion has crept up on her yet again. Her limbs feel leaden. The close, building heat in the bedroom doesn’t help and she reaches for the glass of juice. Takes a sip. The ice has melted away to almost nothing.
‘You don’t look so great,’ Ryan says. ‘Why not sleep off the rest of the day? I’m gonna be out in my studio working, so it’s no skin off my nose. I’ll wake you later and you can talk to Dante. What’s a few more hours gonna hurt?’
Jacqueline swallows another mouthful of juice. Returns the glass to the bedside table. She feels drained all of a sudden. No, not all of a sudden – she’s been battling this for weeks. Constant exhaustion. Frayed nerves. Pressure, building deep within her. She thinks of the razor blades back at the motel. Pictures them waiting calm and precise within their white plastic case. Longs for them.
The need frightens her. It’s only been three days.
‘A couple of hours then,’ she tells Ryan. ‘Promise you’ll wake me?’
He crosses a finger over his heart. ‘Get some sleep, girl.’
Jacqueline nods. Closes her eyes and concentrates on the soft shick-shick-shick of the ceiling fan as it wafts air over her face, cooling the sweat along her hairline. She is only vaguely aware of Ryan and Alice leaving the room, of the door clicking shut behind them, as the tethering line within her slips loose.
And she begins to drift.
Impossible. Antoinette checks again, sorting through the rest of her keys as if the one to her sister’s front door might have miraculously managed to swap positions and hide itself among them. The fuzzy purple bat which hangs off her keyring regards her with a puzzled, possibly mocking expression.
‘You can shut up,’ she tells it, digging through her backpack in case the key fell off somehow and is rattling around in the bottom with the rest of her crap. An unlikely story, sure, but so is the fact that the bloody thing is missing in the first place. Behind her, footsteps sound on the stairs and she turns, wondering if Jacqueline left a spare key with one of her neighbours.
‘Hey,’ Loki says. ‘You’re early.’ He takes the steps two at a time, his long legs making easy work of the remaining flight. A plastic bag thumps against his thigh and the spicy aroma of Indian fills the alcove. ‘I was going to have this all dished up and ready for you.’
Antoinette frowns, pieces clicking into place. ‘You took my key.’
‘Sorry,’ Loki says. ‘I didn’t think you’d get back here before me.’ He digs into the pocket of his jeans, retrieves a bright green key and sidles past her to stick it into the lock. Antoinette start
s to tell him to wait, that’s wrong, Jacqueline’s key is nothing like that, but the latch is already turning, the door swinging open and Loki stepping backwards into a bow with arm still outstretched.
After you, madame.
In the kitchen he plucks the original key from his pocket and places it on the bench in front of her. ‘I got another one cut,’ he explains, spreading out the take away containers and popping their lids. He offers her a small paper bag, brown and spotted with grease. ‘Pappadum?’
Shaking her head, Antoinette picks up the familiar silver key and slides it back onto her ring. ‘When did you take it?’
‘This morning. You were still asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.’ He opens the cutlery drawer, then pauses. ‘Wait. You’re mad at me?’
‘Yes, I’m mad at you. You can’t just rifle through my stuff without asking, Loki.’
‘I didn’t rifle through anything. Your keys were on the coffee table.’
‘Fine, but how was I to know you’d taken it? What if I’d gone out for milk or something before work and couldn’t get back in the flat?’
‘I left a note.’
‘What? Where?’
Pointing, one long skinny finger directing her gaze to the fridge, to a page of pale blue paper that he’s probably torn from one of the blank notebooks in the study, now pinned in place by a couple of art magnets Antoinette gave her sister when Jacqueline scored the gallery job. Munch’s screaming, colour-smeared face at the top, Van Gogh’s golden sunflower down below, and between them a wavering, childish scrawl like nothing she would have expected to come from Loki’s hand.
A– Stuff to do. Borrowed your key. Be back before you get home tonight. L xx
Antoinette sighs. ‘I never saw that.’
‘It’s okay,’ Loki says. ‘I should have mentioned it again when I rang.’
‘It’s a good idea, you having your own key. I should have thought of it.’
‘You’ve got a lot on your mind.’ Loki takes a step closer. ‘You don’t need to worry about me as well.’
‘Right,’ she says, swivelling to grab some plates from the cupboard. ‘How about this dinner, then?’
There’s way too much for the two of them – chicken korma, beef vindaloo, lamb madras, her favourite eggplant and tomato curry, plus a wealth of saffron rice and three types of naan bread – but Loki offers only a fleeting smile when she jokes about having more than enough provisions to survive the inevitable zombie apocalypse. He spoons small portions onto his plate and eats with the care and deliberation of a restaurant critic, discarding some dishes after only one bite, taking second and third helpings of others.
‘I like this.’ He waves a piece of garlic naan at her and uses it to mop up a thick puddle of korma sauce from his plate, then points at the container of vindaloo with his other hand. ‘Not so much that.’
‘It’s never been one of my favourites, either,’ she tells him.
He swallows, wipes his mouth with a paper towel. ‘Paul liked it.’
‘Paul did.’
‘But I don’t.’ His pale blue eyes focus on hers, unblinking, unwavering. ‘I honestly don’t like it, Antoinette. I’m not just saying that to be, I don’t know, contrary or whatever.’
‘All right,’ she says. ‘I believe you.’
If cats could grin, she suspects they would look just like Loki does now, lips curled in a satisfied, semi-private smirk. He forks another piece of chicken from its container and chews slowly.
‘Hang on.’ Antoinette waves her hand over the food. ‘Where did you get the money for all this, anyway?’
‘I borrowed it from your purse this morning.’
‘You borrowed it?’
‘Yes, borrowed.’ Loki hitches a shoulder. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
‘How will you . . . never mind, just ask me next time.’ She gets up from the stool and carries her plate over to the sink, scrapes at the remaining sauce-soaked rice. The money isn’t the point, she wants to tell him – even though it is, to a degree; the cost of tonight’s banquet likely more than she would spend in a week of home-cooked pasta and stir-fries – it’s the presumption of it. The fact that he didn’t even think it important enough to rate a mention on his lousy note.
Loki grabs her wrist, his fingers gentle but firm. ‘Let me wash up.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Antoinette, please.’
‘All right, whatever.’ She turns and begins to put the lids back on the takeaway containers. At least there’ll be leftovers for tomorrow, and Jacqueline’s bound to have some rice in the cupboard they can boil up to go with. Tomorrow, shit – she’ll be working Michelle’s payback dinner shift along with her own daytime roster. It wipes her out just thinking about it.
‘Can I borrow your car?’ Loki asks, his voice raised over the rush of tap water.
‘My car?’
‘Yeah, you don’t need it, do you? You catch the tram to work.’
Antoinette stares at him. ‘Do you even know how to drive?’
‘Of course.’ He grins. ‘I’m a great driver.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I mean, you might be, but you don’t have a licence.’ Or a birth certificate or a tax file number or any other piece of evidence to prove he even exists, because of course he shouldn’t, he bloody well can’t exist in the world as she knew it just a sly handful of days ago, and what the hell are they going to do about that? These days, no one can so much as hire a DVD without needing a personal paper trail.
‘I’ll be careful,’ Loki is saying.
‘It’s too risky. Why do you want the car?’
‘Just some stuff I need to do.’
‘Stuff. Like the stuff you had to do today?’
‘Yeah. Like that.’
‘Bloody hell, Loki, you’ve only been breathing for three bloody days. What sort of stuff can you possibly have to do?’
His eyes narrow. ‘You don’t have to yell.’
‘I wasn’t yelling, I . . .’ Except she is, her voice pitched close to screeching, as Paul used to call it, that horrible harridan word never failing to stop her in her tracks, push her brusquely on to the back foot, no matter how justified her anger. Antoinette gnaws on her bottom lip. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m just worried.’
‘I told you, there’s no need to worry about me.’
‘But I do, Loki. What if someone sees you? Someone who knows me, who knows Paul?’ She frowns. ‘You probably shouldn’t be going outside at all.’
‘What am I, some kind of pet you need to keep locked up in case the landlord finds out?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Do I get my own litter box at least?’
‘Loki, stop it.’
‘What does it matter if anyone sees me? They’ll think I’m Paul, or someone who looks like him. So what?’
‘It’s not that simple, what if–’
From its perch on the wall, the kitchen phone starts to ring – Jacqueline, finally – and Antoinette reaches for the handset.
Loki scowls. ‘They can leave a message, you know.’
‘It’s probably my sister. I’ve been calling her all day.’
He turns his back and sweeps the dishes into the sink, muttering words she can’t quite catch over the clatter of cutlery.
Antoinette sighs and presses the call button. ‘Hello?’
‘Antoinette? What are you doing there?’ A woman’s voice, its syllables sharp and clipped and grating as always. Antoinette’s stomach clenches. Not Jacqueline, no, and how she wishes she’d listened to Loki now. She closes her eyes and forces a smile to her mouth, hoping it will colour her tone with audible cheer.
‘Hi Mum,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
— 9 —
‘Where’s your sister?’ Sally Paige demands. ‘I’ve been leaving messages for you both all over the place.’
‘Sorry,’ Antoinette says. ‘I was going to call you back after I ate.’
‘And Jacqueline? I suppose she’s avoiding me, too?’
‘No one’s avoiding you, Mum. Jacqueline’s in Brisbane for a few days; I’m house sitting for her.’
‘Brisbane? What’s she doing up there?’
‘It’s a work thing. I’m sure she meant to tell you.’
Her mother makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh. ‘Yes, I’m sure she did.’
‘It was all pretty rushed. She’ll probably give you a call later on tonight, maybe tomorrow. She’s got her hands full up there, from what I gather.’
‘When does she get back?’
‘I don’t think she knows. Whenever the job is done, I guess.’ She mouths an apology to Loki, up to his elbows in suds with a scowl still darkening his features, then carries the handset into the living room.
‘I wanted you both to come over for dinner,’ her mother is saying. ‘But if she’s away . . . can you come tomorrow? I’ll make a roast.’
‘I’m working tomorrow night, Mum. How about we wait until Jacqueline’s back? You don’t need to cook; the two of us can take you out somewhere nice. Somewhere in the city maybe?’
Because the last thing she feels like doing is trekking all the way out to the Dandenongs. More than an hour each way even using EastLink – if the traffic is good, which it almost certainly won’t be on the drive down – plus the ill-lit winding road up the mountain to her mother’s place, the draughty old house where she and Jacqueline grew up, the house neither of them could wait to leave.
‘That won’t do,’ her mother insists. ‘There are matters of some importance that I need to discuss with you – with the both of you in fact, but I can’t wait for your sister to decide to grace us with her presence.’
‘She can’t help being sent on a business trip, Mum.’
Perfections Page 10
