A flash of headlights as she leaves Simpatico, accompanied by the triple staccato beep of a car horn, and Antoinette shades her eyes with one hand, squints at the red hatchback parked in the loading zone. ‘Ant,’ Greta calls, waving a lace-gloved hand from the driver’s side window, ‘Come, please. We need to talk.’ Black-lipped smile, black-bobbed hair flawless as usual, glinting dark beneath the streetlights, and Antoinette sighs, rubs her bare arms as she crosses the street.
‘It’s late, Greta. I’m on my way home.’
‘Ja, ja, but please come in the car. I shall take you.’
The way Greta drives, zipping at speed around corners, running lights even as the amber flashes to scarlet, Antoinette is glad of the late hour, of the traffic moving sparse along the roads. Pausing only to heed the flat, robotic instructions of the GPS unit, Greta rattles on about Paul, Paul, Paul: how angry he still is about all of it – livid, Ant, positively fuming – how hurt as well, wounded beyond measure, but how she thought he was beginning to calm down until this last thing, this thing with the coat.
‘I cannot understand.’ Shadowed gaze flicking towards the rear-view mirror, small hands wrenching the steering wheel around another bend. ‘I cannot understand why you would do such a thing.’
‘Wait. What are you talking about?’
‘His coat, his lovely leather coat. Left in so many shreds, like some creature clawed it to bits and pieces.’
Antoinette frowns. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘But who else would have a reason?’
‘Paul’s not the nicest guy, you know. Maybe he pissed someone off.’
‘But things of yours were missing. Who else would take them?’
‘Oh, for godsake! Paul was there the other night when I came and picked up my stuff. Is he still trying to say I broke in and trashed the place?’
Greta throws her a glance, eyebrows drawn crypto-quizzical. ‘The other night? No, no, Ant – I am talking about what happened today.’
‘Today? I’ve been at work all day.’
‘Really?’ Doubtful now, aggression veering towards uncertainty. ‘But, all day? When you have only now just finished?’
‘That’s right,’ Antoinette says. ‘All day.’ Echoing the other woman’s emphasis, lunch and dinner, thanks very much for asking, a bloody never-ending nightmare of a double shift that Greta is more than welcome to verify with the restaurant tomorrow if she cares to – if Antoinette’s word isn’t enough, and there’s no reason to think that it will be, not so long as Paul has a tongue to counter it.
‘That is not fair, Ant. I am your friend as well–’
‘Yeah right. You’d live inside his arse if you could.’ Turning to stare out of the window, prickly silence broken only by toneless machine directions and the overly dramatic sighs of Greta as she speeds them through the streets. Why the woman even bothered to come is beyond Antoinette. Greta should be glad of the split, delighted to have Paul all to herself once again. And maybe she was, maybe all this shit was down to her after all: Greta with her spare key and the pocket knife she carries to cut the tips off her thin black cigars, the knife or maybe just a pair of kitchen scissors clutched in a black-taloned hand, silver blades slicing through leather and blame laid where it could never be forgiven.
Greta, sowing salt on fields already razed. Just to be sure.
But then, why is she here?
Question is, girlie-girl, why do you care?
She doesn’t. Whatever happened at Paul’s place, whoever tore up his precious jacket, it has absolutely nothing to do with her. Managing to hold onto this conviction right up until they pull over outside the apartment block, most of the windows dark at this time of night, but the ones to her sister’s living room still bright-lit and only partially curtained, the glass door open and there on the balcony, a tall and slim-shouldered silhouette, standing motionless in the still air.
Why do you want the car?
Just some stuff I need to do.
She opens the car door, the interior light flickering yellow and wan, and above her the balcony figure raises a hand, waves it, quick side-to-side gesture like a metronome, like Paul–
‘Ant, truly, I am sorry.’ Greta, reaching to grasp Antoinette by the arm, lace-cold fingers squeezing tight. ‘Paul thought – and I . . . well. It is a puzzle then, a little mystery for us, ja?’
Antoinette pulls away, muttering her thanks as she exits the car – for the lift, for the apology even, because the woman does look contrite, truly, gnawing waxy black from her bottom lip to reveal the pink glistening beneath, wet and oddly vulnerable – and by the time she looks up again, the balcony is empty, the door closed and curtained against the night.
‘I shall talk to Paul,’ Greta insists. ‘I can do that, at the least.’
‘Just leave it. Seriously, we’re over. We’re done.’
At that Greta narrows her eyes, narrows her mouth to a thin line, turning frontwards with both hands clamped to the steering wheel, and Antoinette sighs – why are you here, Greta? what could you possibly want? – the car door heavy in her exhausted fingers, slipping as she moves to close it and slamming hard. In darkness and silence, the sound echoes, sharp and clear as a slap across the face.
Loki, a glass of red wine in each hand, smiling wide as she stalks into the kitchen and slings her bag onto the bench. ‘Hey–’
‘Give me back my car key,’ she says, holding out a flattened palm.
He puts one of the glasses down onto the bench, takes a slow and deliberate sip from the other before digging into the pocket of his jeans. ‘I needed it.’ He drops the key into her hand. ‘I told you.’
‘And I told you it was way too risky.’
‘Nothing happened, everything’s fine.’
‘Oh yeah, everything’s just peachy.’
‘What do you–’
‘I know you went to the flat today. What the hell were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking you might like the rest of your things.’
‘God, Loki, I could have gotten them anytime. What if Paul had been there, what if he’d seen you?’
‘I’m not stupid.’ Wounded, his glare, but sharp-edged all the same. Relating how he watched, waited for Paul to leave the flat, library-bound no doubt with laptop bag slung over his shoulder and a scowl on his face. Waiting out a further ten minutes, just to be certain, before letting himself in with the key Antoinette buried in the garden all those years ago.
‘Wait,’ she says, startled. ‘How did you know about that?’ The spare spare key – For Emergency Use Only – tucked safe inside an empty mustard jar and dug into the ground beneath the geranium that grew rampant and pink beside their front gate. Her mother’s trick, interring keys; safer than tucking them beneath doormats or windowsills or potted plants, though Antoinette had all but forgotten about the one she’d buried, had never even told Paul for fear he would think it childish.
Loki taps his forehead. ‘What you know, I know.’
‘Really?’ News to her, and troubling. ‘I didn’t realise it worked like that.’
‘It’s not like I can read your mind or anything.’
‘But you know . . . what, exactly?’
He shrugs. ‘If it’s about Paul, about you and Paul, then it’s in my head. Only . . . it feels vague somehow, like it’s not really mine to have.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘And you think I do?’ he says. ‘I have all these memories, all this stuff that I know – or think that I know – only none of it’s for real. I haven’t done any of it myself, haven’t learned anything directly. It’s all just . . . here.’
Free hand holding his head now, fingers caged around his temple, flexing slightly as he tries to explain how it feels: not wrong exactly, but off kilter, out of sync with whatever slim sense of self he’s managed to s
o far patch together. Too many recollections, flattened like photographs, like leaves pressed dry between pages in his mind, and Loki impelled to revisit – no, to visit, for the first time – as much as he can, to overlay abstraction with solid experience and, finally, make his mind his own.
‘Mine,’ he repeats. ‘Not his, not anymore.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Antoinette says. ‘I didn’t know.’ She retrieves the second glass of wine, takes a large and decidedly uncivilised gulp. Most of her anger dissipated now, cooled by the lines that crease his brow and drag at the corners of his mouth, by her frank inability to imagine what it’s actually like, being him, that bright new skull crammed with pre-owned memories and hand-me-down thoughts. But still: ‘Please don’t go back there, Loki. It’s too risky.’
‘I’ve no reason to go back.’ He taps at his forehead again, quick staccato pecks so hard they’re audible. ‘There’s nothing else I need from that place, nothing else I want.’
‘Good.’ More wine, a smaller sip this time while she ponders, debates whether or not to bring it up, but what the hell. Pennies and pounds. ‘Why did you shred his jacket?’
Another shrug, his gaze sliding from hers. ‘Why not?’
‘Loki . . .’
‘I don’t know.’
Black hair falling in shards across his face, like bars, like splinters, and now it seems too important a point to set quietly aside. Antoinette pushes, prods, trying to tease an explanation from him until finally–
‘It’s not like I planned it,’ he snaps. Insisting there was no plan, no intentions of any kind until he spied the thing slung across the back of the couch, felt the tug of black leather, worn and warm, at his core. The jacket one of his most beloved possessions – one of Paul’s most beloved possessions – and yet he recoiled from the touch of it, from the tentative brush of finger over hide. He didn’t want it anymore, this second skin, this second-hand skin, but equally he did not want Paul to have it. And so: the saw-toothed kitchen knife cutting through leather like flesh, catching on the lining, but cutting all the same, and it felt good, cathartic.
‘I felt free of it,’ he finishes. ‘Free of him.’
Antoinette refills his glass, tops up her own. ‘I made a right royal mess of things, didn’t I?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of you.’ The wine is sour on her tongue. ‘Whatever it was, however I managed to do it, seems I’ve fucked it all up.’ Her nose tingles, her eyes sting, but damn her to hell before she starts to cry. She just wants her sister to be here, longs to be able to dump the whole mess in Jacqueline’s lap – look, here, sorry – and let those elegant, careful fingers pick through the tangles and snarls.
‘Hey,’ Loki says, and, ‘No,’ and then his mouth is pressed to hers, one hand gently cupping her chin as his hair falls forward, curtaining their faces, and why not, she thinks. This is why she made him, isn’t it? Her Paul-not-Paul, her beautiful doppelganger with his tongue that tastes of wine and spices warmed sharp in the sun, his silk-smooth cheeks and his hands that now move over her body, that now slide down her back, curving around her hips to pull her close. Half-moan, half-growl, the mewl of her name in his throat, and really: why the hell not?
So she returns his kisses, not precisely eager but willing enough, right arm twisting awkward to return her glass to the bench against which she now finds herself pinned, the weight of him urgent and close, and she opens her mouth to him, moves her tongue in a way she can only hope doesn’t seem half as mechanical as it feels, slips wine-splashed fingers under his shirt to trace the vertebrae that bump beneath his feverish, fish-pale skin.
‘Come on,’ he whispers. A thumb hooked into the waistband of her skirt, pulling her towards the hall, towards the bedroom, and she follows, matching him kiss for fervent kiss because why not, because even if this is not entirely what she wants then it’s certainly just what he needs.
And maybe it’s what she needs as well.
Except.
Except, except, oh, it’s all too much: his lips sliding along the hollows of her throat, sexy and lush and tickling precisely the way she likes it – the way she should like it – his fingers unbuttoning her blouse, thumbs circling persuasive over her nipples, hard little nubs pushing keen through the fabric of her bra, and she presses her body against him, runs her hands through his hair as she whispers his name–
Loki Loki Loki
–spurs to her own unbloodied side because she wants to want this, she does.
She really does.
Mouth finding hers, he lowers her to the bed, a motion so smooth, so graceful, it feels ludicrous. It feels wrong, she feels wrong, miscast in some fantasy of her own foolish devising, with poor Loki following a script she can read two heartbeats in advance, and ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasps, laughter bursting rough and wild from deep within her belly, unbidden, uncontrolled, and far too violent to tamp back down in any kind of a hurry.
‘What?’ Loki draws back, arousal mixing with confusion in his face. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
Which only makes it worse.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats, finally, hand pressed to her aching diaphragm. ‘It’s not you–’ Biting off the words, it’s me, because she can feel them about to set her off all over again, and trying instead to explain the strange and inescapable sense that it was all staged, each movement of their bodies prearranged, each whisper and sigh placed just so, because surely . . . surely he must have felt it too?
‘No.’ Loki shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Taking his hand, because she can’t make it any clearer; there simply aren’t the words. ‘It’s probably just me,’ she says. ‘I’m over-tired, not thinking straight.’ A small lie, she hopes, to ward off the hurt. A small lie, because she fears the larger truth behind it.
Loki squeezes her fingers. ‘You don’t love me.’
‘Of course I do.’ And she does, a fierce and protective love, the force of which surprises even her.
‘But it’s not the same, is it?’
‘The same as what?’
‘The same as how I love you.’
‘Oh, Loki.’ Her voice is thin, exasperated, and she feels him recoil beside her, his hand slip from hers. ‘I do love you, I do, it’s just–’
‘You don’t want me. Not like this.’
Antoinette starts to tell him, no, that’s not true, maybe I just need more time to get used to things, to get used to you, but his face is an open wound and she can’t bring herself to salt it any longer. False hope, false promises; Loki doesn’t deserve any of it. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not like that.’
‘And that isn’t going to change.’
Words like stones in her mouth, cold and heavy and easier to swallow than spit out, but spit them out she does. ‘Probably not. I don’t – no, it won’t.’
Loki sighs. ‘You made me to love you. I can’t not love you.’
No accusation in his voice, merely a dull finality that’s somehow even worse, and Antoinette fights the urge to hug him, to wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold him close, because right now he needs that like a hole in his head. Apologising instead, sorry and sorry and sorry, that pathetic dead-mouse word all she can find to offer him, until he shakes his head and crosses a finger over her lips.
‘Stop,’ he says. ‘You didn’t mean to do it.’
‘No, but–’
Stop, again, pale blue eyes now damp and glimmering, and so she does.
— 11 —
Seventh Circle is all but empty when Jacqueline walks through its doors. No clients, no tyre-kickers, just Becca sitting at the little desk at the back of the gallery, tapping away on her iPad. She looks up at the sound of suitcase wheels rumbling over the entrance tiles and her eyes widen. ‘Jacqueline,’ she whispers, glancing at the floating staircase that leads up
to Dante’s office. She drops the iPad. Scuttles around the desk with her hands held out in front of her. A gesture not so much of welcome, but of warding. ‘What on earth’s been going on?’
Jacqueline pauses. ‘Didn’t the photos come through?’
‘Oh, they came through.’ Becca flicks her hair, a habit that never fails to irritate. The girl wears her hair long, with a heavy fringe that falls over half her face, and bleached within an inch of its life. Her lips are bright red. Glossy as patent leather. ‘I haven’t seen them myself, but–’
‘The prodigal daughter returns!’
Dante stands at the top of the stairs, one hand on hip. There’s nothing good about the expression that tightens his face. Jacqueline waves, a pathetic waggle of fingers that she immediately regrets.
‘Up here,’ her boss snaps. ‘Pronto.’
He disappears into his office and Jacqueline takes a deep breath. ‘Time to face the music, then.’
Becca squeezes her shoulder. ‘He’s been like that all morning.’
Jacqueline forces herself to remain still beneath the girl’s touch. To smile and nod as though everything is fine. Nothing more than she expected. Nothing she can’t handle. She nudges her suitcase with her foot. ‘I’ll leave this down here.’
‘No probs.’ Becca smiles. Her fingernails are painted a dark, bluish purple. Jacqueline watches them curl around the handle of the case. Watches the girl drag it away behind her desk. ‘Good luck,’ Becca mouths.
Jacqueline straightens her back. Beneath her heels, the stairs sound hollow and insubstantial. She tightens her grip on the handrail as she climbs. Dante is at his desk, hunched over his laptop. His finger hooks the air between them, draws her closer.
‘You wanna tell me what this is all about?’
Photos of Ryan Jellicoe’s painting splash across the screen. A distance shot of the entire canvas, plus several close-ups that Dante now cycles through.
‘It’s almost finished,’ Jacqueline says. ‘He wanted to add some more detail to the foliage, I believe. But it’s just about done.’
Perfections Page 13
