by Tina Seskis
The following Saturday everyone was getting ready for a rare night out. It had been Renée’s idea originally, and as she’d seemed so jumpy since the day she’d nearly drowned, Sissy thought it might do her good to get out. She wondered whether Renée would ever be able to recover her selling stride. Although she usually seemed all right at breakfast (when Stephen was there, Sissy couldn’t help noticing), Renée had had first door syndrome for the rest of that week and the whole of the next, and had spent hours sitting tearfully with Sissy in Pizza Hut sipping icy drinks with unlimited refills. The waitresses were good though and never said anything, not even when Renée and Sissy paid the bill with a five-dollar note and always took the change.
Stephen took over the evening’s arrangements, of course, and insisted on choosing the venue, but Renée didn’t appear to mind; it seemed to Sissy that Stephen could do no wrong in her eyes now. They went to a bar in the next suburb, another of those places where everything was old-fashioned and wood-cladded and they played old country tunes on the jukebox, and old men sat silently with just their bourbon for company, and Sissy thought the barmaid had that tired look in her eyes like she’d seen enough of sadness and ruination, but she had two kids to feed so that’s just the way it was since her bastard no-good husband had upped and left her. (The truth was actually quite different – the barmaid was very much married, and this job helped pay for their annual trip with the kids to visit her sister in Florida, but Sissy didn’t know that of course.)
Renée sat at the bar with Sissy and stared morosely into the bottom of her glass. Sissy tried to distract her with stories of Nigel in Queensland, she’d had a letter that day, but Renée seemed vacant, uninterested, and so Sissy fell silent. The others were standing in a group, laughing at some story Andy was telling about how he’d managed to sell the complete set of Tyler’s books, from the toddler nursery rhymes all the way up to Grade Twelve, to a couple who hadn’t even given birth yet. Sissy found the story upsetting somehow – that Andy seemed to be mocking these people he’d befriended; that who knows what may happen to them or their child in the next sixteen years or so; that bookselling appeared to be sapping Andy’s soul: he seemed more driven by money than ever these days. Renée’s melancholy must be rubbing off on me, Sissy thought, and again she felt a stab of panic, that she was in the wrong place, that she needed to go home. But Nigel wasn’t in England anyway, and her flights were firm-booked, she wasn’t sure she could change them even if she wanted to; and so she had settled into her days under trees, dreaming, drifting, reading, writing, to pass the time. It was only sometimes that it hit her, the head-filling, heart-emptying loneliness, though usually when she was in a crowd rather than on her own.
She turned to Renée, who looked like she might cry herself.
‘Are you all right, Renée? What’s wrong? You’re not at all yourself these days, I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m OK,’ said Renée. ‘Apart from hating bloody bookselling.’ Sissy didn’t look convinced, so she added, ‘I’m sorry, Siss, I don’t know what’s up with me really.’ She felt tempted, for just a moment, to tell Sissy about the man, the horror of the attack, how close she’d been to perhaps being killed, but she stopped herself. She still couldn’t face talking about it, not even with Sissy.
‘Well, nearly drowning can’t have helped,’ said Sissy. ‘You’re just so lucky Stephen saved you.’
‘I know,’ said Renée. She hesitated. ‘You know, I’m not sure he’s as bad as I thought.’
Sissy looked across at Stephen, beefy arms stretching the sleeves of his too-tight T-shirt, head thrown back with laughter, and she tried to think that perhaps Renée was right, now his initial desperation to get his own back on Juliette for daring to dump him had faded, and he’d stopped trying to get off with them both. But she didn’t like the way he was showing off now, it was almost like he thought he was David Hasselhoff or something since he’d saved Renée’s life. It was funny how Stephen instilled such mixed emotions in people, she really couldn’t work him out.
‘Well,’ said Sissy. ‘You’ll always be grateful to him, that’s for sure.’
‘I know,’ said Renée, and she took a swig of her drink as Stephen turned and caught her eye, and when she smiled at him he seemed to puff up even further, like a snake who’d just eaten a mouse. But Sissy was wrong; Renée would not be grateful to Stephen for always, not at all.
27
Hyde Park
The atmosphere was poisonous now, and not even the languidly liquid disappearance of the sun, turning the park into a cooler, more peaceful place, could rescue the evening. Renée and Juliette sat stiffly next to each other and didn’t appear to be speaking at all any more, there may as well have been a fence between them, and poor Sissy looked as though she was going to faint with the stress of it all. Natasha was sullen (as she had been for much of the evening) and Siobhan was trying to paper over her appalling insult of Juliette’s husband, having dared to imply that Stephen somehow had had something to do with Nigel’s death. To break the impasse Natasha started tidying up, grimly, as if she were picking up dog-shit – tipping the remaining quarter of Sissy’s pasta salad into an M&S bag she’d designated for rubbish without even asking Sissy whether she wanted to keep it; scraping plates like they were potatoes to be scrubbed (or perhaps children to be bathed); scrunching used napkins with unnecessary force into tight mucky balls that were tossed into the carrier bag too, not bothering with recycling, just chucking the empty wine bottles in with the mess; flicking stray flakes of sausage roll towards Siobhan, perhaps deliberately.
It was Renée in the end who said it. She tried for a chummy tone but it came out strangled, and although it was clear she was suffering too, she was drunk enough to not care about the consequences.
‘Look, girls, I’m sorry, but I’m just sick of this atmosphere. If it’s going to be like this every time we see each other we might as well not bother trying to get together any more.’
‘All right, Renée,’ said Natasha. ‘I don’t think we need to discuss it here.’
‘Oh, but I disagree,’ replied Renée, more airily now. She emptied what was left of the last bottle of Prosecco into her glass. ‘Here’s as good a place as any. Why do we all pretend we still get on for a start? Who’s to blame for this whole horrid situation? Is it just the passing of time, the natural growing apart we can’t seem to accept, or is it something more, more … sinister? Siobhan, you seem to think Stephen’s responsible for all this, why don’t you start?’
‘Shhhhush, Renée,’ said Siobhan. ‘I said something out of line, I take it back.’
‘Ah, but maybe you shouldn’t take it back,’ said Renée, and her eyes were flashing warnings, and no-one had ever seen her like that. ‘After all, it’s true, isn’t it, Juliette? Stephen killed Nigel, didn’t he?’
Juliette stared at her former friend. ‘Don’t be so utterly ridiculous, how on earth can you say such a thing?’
‘Because it’s true!’ said Renée. ‘If it wasn’t for Stephen, Nigel would be alive now, Sissy wouldn’t be struggling on her own, she’d still have a husband who loved her, way more than yours ever has. But Stephen fucked it all up through his greed and selfishness. He’s such a fucking cheat and liar, as well as a –’ She stopped.
Juliette looked horrified. ‘What the hell are you trying to imply, Renée? Don’t you start now, please, not after Siobhan’s outburst.’
‘What has become of you, Juliette?’ said Renée, and she said it quietly now, almost as a caress. ‘Where has your sweet, beautiful heart gone?’ Juliette looked broken for a second, and then she looked away, towards The Serpentine, which appeared calm and serene as it faded into the night.
It was Natasha’s turn to speak, to break the loneliness of the silence. ‘Leave her alone, Renée. I don’t think you of all people have the right to lecture anyone on morals.’
‘Well, I think I have more right than most of you,’ yelled Renée, inflamed again. ‘Just take a look at
your husband for a start.’ Everyone gasped as Renée blushed. She carried on hurriedly. ‘Sometimes I think Siobhan’s the only one round here who’s at least honest, who says it like it is.’
‘I think you should be quiet, Renée,’ said Camilla quietly, but it was too late. The incriminations continued on in the downy dusk, where the air was soft and summery and there were no strangers to inhibit them, where the alcohol had finally dislodged stuck feelings, like years’ old plaque set free by mouthwash. Sissy sat, feeling dizzy, on her auntie’s rug, bought as a wedding present in a far ago, happier time, staring at her ankles below her hideous flowery dress (why hadn’t she just worn shorts like she’d wanted to?), and they appeared to be swelling, trying to drown the bones out. She wanted the screaming to stop, she didn’t much care what they were saying any more, she didn’t care who was to blame, after all maybe she was, and anyway Nigel was dead, none of this would bring him back, no matter how loud any of them shouted.
28
Barnes
Alistair had just come back from the en suite feeling a little better, but he still couldn’t bear to even sit down at his desk, let alone make contact with the keyboard. The room was large and bright and looked out onto their garden which backed onto the common, so the view was sunny and cheerful and Natasha had thought it would be a wonderful place for him to write. In London yet out of it, she’d said when they’d been to look at the house with the weaselly prick of an estate agent who Alistair had always felt like punching. Alistair hated the room now. It made him feel trapped, locked in an airless hostile space with just the deeply irritating Shouty Mouse and Rude Rabbit for company. He thought if he had to do this for much longer it would drive him insane – but his agent was breathing down his neck, threatening that if he didn’t come up with Volume Six soon the publisher would be taking back part of his latest advance for breach of contract. As if. Alistair Smart, king of children’s fiction, author of the bestselling series about behaviour-challenged furry creatures, a poor Tourette’s-ridden mouse and an autistic rabbit. Child psychologists had queued up to fete him, he had made ‘different’ children feel normal, had created tales of such moral fortitude he’d helped parents and children alike gain empathy and understanding for these all-too-common conditions. His writing was acerbically, charmingly witty. He was a modern-day Roald Dahl, a fucking hero!
Alistair finally stopped pacing, sat down and clicked onto one of his favourite porn sites, and as he watched two big-breasted girls cavorting in baby oil he felt his desire build all over again. What the hell was wrong with him these days? Just how much sperm could one man produce? He heard a noise on the stairs and quickly flicked over to his email, and swore he was going to get rid of their housekeeper. He loathed her being around – even when Natasha was at work and the kids were at school he felt like he had to be on his guard, behave himself, almost as if he were just visiting, in his own fucking home. There was always someone in the house to intrude on his loneliness – the cleaner, the housekeeper (what was the difference between the two, he wondered idly), the gardener, the nanny. And how much did they all bloody cost?
The idea came to him in an instant then, and he kicked himself that he hadn’t thought of it before. That’s it! He’d get a lock for his office door. Then he could browse lesbian porn and wank to his heart’s content without even leaving his desk, whenever he was bored rigid (quite literally, he sniggered, always the master with words) or stuck on Shouty Mouse’s latest tedious adventure he couldn’t give a shit about.
Alistair was so excited by his idea that he thought he might go to Homebase right now, so he could buy a lock and a drill and fit it himself; it couldn’t be that hard, surely. That would give him something to do. He was about to get up from his desk in a rare burst of energy when his email refreshed and two new ones appeared: the first from his agent which he ignored, and then one from someone called Smartfan, entitled: HELP ME ALISTAIR. Alistair was used to getting fan mail, mainly from seven-year-olds, saying things like: ‘Dear Alister Smart, thank you so much for riting Showty Mous, he has mad me so hapy that I am not the only won lik him, love Oliver,’ or, worse, from gushing mothers saying, ‘You have made my darling Lucy one happy bunny (pardon the pun!), she no longer feels so isolated by her condition, and you have made me one very happy mummy!! Thank you so much, and please keep on writing your wonderful books.’ They made Alistair want to puke.
This email however seemed a bit too shouty (he couldn’t bring himself to snigger again), too desperate, to be just another fan letter, and although he usually left this kind of correspondence to his agent’s assistant Xavier, he found himself opening it: he didn’t dare go back on the Internet while Mrs Cole was outside hoovering, and he couldn’t face even looking at his hopelessly overdue manuscript today.
Dear Mr Smart,
I am a budding new writer and I have written a new children’s book about a boarding school for dogs. All the dogs have different characters and the book is the first in a series that deals with all sorts of issues for the ‘Tweenie’ market, from bullying to how to cope with not having the latest must-have possessions, to realising you might be gay. I haven’t sent it out to any agents yet because I would so love to have your view of my book first, and perhaps even a quote to put on the cover. You are the absolute champion of children’s issue-based fiction and I have admired you for many years, from when I was a behaviour-challenged child myself. I am nineteen years old and this is my first novel.
Yours excitedly,
Lucinda Horne
Normally Alistair ignored these kinds of emails, but there was something about this one: was it her name, or maybe her age (totally legal) – he still hadn’t quite settled down in the trouser department – or was there something interesting about her story? He opened the attachment and started reading about Bottersley Dog School, with its three houses, Barkers, Howlers and Sniffers, and its key characters Fluffy, T-Bone and Wowser, and as he whipped through the chapters he found the story surprisingly compelling, and so he settled down lengthways on the sofa under the window, bare feet up and over the end of it, and he felt himself relax for a minute, and then tighten – and then he felt his heart rate whoosh as the idea came to him, devilish and fully formed.
29
Cleveland
The music in the bar was loud and twangy, and although it wasn’t the type that people usually dance to, there was so much pent-up energy in the room that before anyone knew it Stephen was pulling the girls up and twirling them around as if they were in a salsa bar in Rio – Juliette had dragged him to classes in their final year at Bristol and he was surprisingly adept at it. Sissy had mildly protested and gone bright red, but hadn’t actually stopped him when he’d grabbed her, she must have been drunk for once; and although the dreadful Melissa complained loudly when they accidentally barged her during a particularly complex over-the-head manoeuvre, once it was her turn she joined in with gusto, giggling up at him, even smooching a little, until he pushed her off with an expert flick of his wrist that sent her spinning away from him towards the bar, where the barmaid with the dead eyes looked on inscrutably.
Renée was sat in the corner, propped on a high bar stool next to Andy, drinking steadily, and she found she couldn’t stop herself from watching as Stephen twirled Melissa (who right now was griping and moaning that he was hurting her back, and then as she came up from an admirably athletic backwards lunge was mooning at him with her silly simpleton face). Since the day at the lake, almost two weeks ago now, when Renée had felt Stephen’s solid flesh beneath hers as he towed her out of the waves she’d been aware of him in a way that surprised, no, not surprised, shocked her. She tried not to think of Stephen in that way, she wasn’t the type to steal other people’s boyfriends – and of course she’d never much liked him before, let alone found him attractive. It was bizarre.
Renée tried to force her mind away from strange thoughts about Stephen, but combined with the drink the effort of doing so seemed to make everything w
orse somehow, mixed everything up, distressed her again. Suddenly, almost as if he were there, she remembered the stranger on top of her, saw the twisted look in his eyes, smelled the sour stench of his breath, felt the hairy sweat between his legs, the hardness, of him, of the floor … and now she was back in the lake, stinking water filling her mouth, lungs burning, Stephen’s thighs beneath hers, waves slapping at her face, remonstratively … and to drown out these sensations, try to stop the spinning in her head, she took another deep draw of her beer. She shuddered. When would she ever feel normal again?
Renée knew within herself, somewhere locked and fragile, that this peculiar mindset wouldn’t simply go away, couldn’t be cleansed by the water of Lake Erie, by pretending nothing had happened – or by becoming attracted to Stephen of all people. She tried to process it. Just how had the man’s attack left her? Naked and lacking in self-respect, that’s what. She bitterly regretted not having gone to the police, but it was too late now. But what if he does it to someone else? It would be her fault if he did, she’d be as culpable as him in a way. She stared at her hands and willed herself not to go and wash them again, they were getting so dried out. She shivered, although it was hot in the bar.
‘Are you OK, Renée?’ asked Stephen, as he walked over and stood casually next to her in the dingy light, having managed to shrug off Melissa at last, who was now propped further along the bar droning on to Andy about the inadequacies of American food establishments.
‘Sure,’ said Renée, and she looked sideways at him and smiled, and then she felt nervous so she looked down again, back into her beer. ‘Enjoying swinging the girls around, are you?’
Stephen laughed. ‘It started off as a joke, but Melissa seems to think she’s on bloody Come Dancing.’
