The words of her book wouldn’t come into focus. She looked up at Art. Polly was next to him. A right pair.
‘Let’s just say Gabrielle likes to take a risk,’ Art said.
‘We should call everyone to the table, Art,’ Polly said.
Gabrielle thanked her silently, and pretended to read as Polly went off to find everyone. He could talk about risk – he had brought them here. Two families whose only connection was their odd affair. That word stung. She didn’t think of it like that. Leo was happy with his little projects. Stefan would be gone soon, if he wasn’t mostly gone already. If she didn’t look after herself, who else was going to do it? Leo was like a child. He would fall apart without her.
Art was still watching her from the table. All her energy seemed to have drained away and she felt light-headed.
Then Art looked towards the basement stairs. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ Art said.
Leo was standing there looking like he had been buried under rubble, his face white and his clothes covered in dust.
She swallowed the rest of her wine in one gulp.
Leo: Polly
Leo heard voices. He couldn’t tell how long he had been resting. His clothes were a mess – white dust on his trousers, blood on his shoulder from somewhere. When he moved, everything ached. He stood and climbed the stairs slowly, each step an effort. Approaching the kitchen, he felt like a ghost. Gabrielle was sitting on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, reading a book. Art was alone at the table playing a board game, dressed smartly as ever, making Leo feel even more like shit. Grey woollen suit trousers and a crisp, expensive-looking white shirt.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ Art said, raising an eyebrow.
Gabrielle looked up, smile fixed, eyes horrified.
‘Leo?’ she said.
‘I’m fine,’ Leo said, trying to give her a reassuring smile.
‘You look like you’ve been in a fight,’ Art said.
‘That’s how it feels.’
‘Where have you been?’ Gabrielle said, not moving from the sofa. There was reproach in her voice.
‘I got the power back on,’ Leo said.
‘I hope it was worth it,’ Art said, with a laugh. ‘Do you want me to get you some painkillers?’
‘He doesn’t need any painkillers,’ Gabrielle said.
‘Oh, I don’t know—’ Leo said.
‘Anyway,’ Art said. ‘Mission accomplished, eh, Leo?’
Some of the tiredness left him. He was being goaded. Well, okay.
‘What game are you playing?’ Leo said, gesturing towards the board on the table. Art placed his hands, theatrically, either side of it.
‘Solitaire,’ Art said. ‘The perfect game.’
‘Why?’ Gabrielle said, putting her book down. Her eyes were half-closed. She didn’t look like she cared about the answer.
‘Because you’re playing against yourself,’ Leo said.
‘There’s only yourself to beat,’ Art said.
‘Like masturbation,’ Leo said. Gabrielle sniggered, and Leo’s heart lifted.
Polly came out from the bedroom corridor. She put both hands to her mouth when she saw Leo.
‘What happened?’ Polly said. She took a step towards him, then stopped, shooting a look over at Gabrielle on the sofa. Gabrielle was stretched out, watching them all without much interest.
‘I don’t exactly remember.’ Leo noticed Polly’s green dress and the shape of her body beneath it. She looked spectacular.
‘You don’t remember?’ Art said, interested. Leo wanted to punch him.
‘You might have concussion,’ Polly said.
‘No,’ Leo said.
‘Your head’s bleeding,’ Polly said. ‘You should get cleaned up.’
‘He should get dressed for dinner,’ Art said.
‘I slept most of the afternoon,’ Gabrielle said, loud enough so Leo knew it was directed at him. He put two fingers where his head was tingling, and he could feel dried blood.
He turned to her. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Better,’ she said. ‘I think. Sleepy.’
‘I took care of her,’ Art said.
‘You took care of her?’ Leo said.
‘I gave her some stronger painkillers. Honestly, they’re exactly what she needed. Perhaps you need them too?’ Without waiting for an answer, Art waved one hand dismissively and said, ‘I checked her over, she’s fine.’
‘You checked her over?’ Leo said. ‘Are you a doctor?’
‘Leo, it’s fine.’ Gabrielle was pulling herself forward but struggling to sit up. Leo was so angry he didn’t go to help her. After a couple of seconds, she made it and spread her legs wide to balance, like she was a doll placed carefully by a child.
‘Leo,’ Art said. ‘What do you think of Polly’s dress?’
Polly scowled at Art. Leo looked her up and down as quickly as he could. It was pale green, knee length, a sheath dress. The sleeves were floral lace to her elbows. Her hair was clipped up high. Leo didn’t allow himself to have any further thoughts about her.
‘She looks great,’ Leo said, looking at Gabrielle. Gabrielle was smiling at Polly in a lazy, overly relaxed way.
‘We were saying we would get dressed up for dinner,’ Art said.
‘Dressed up?’ Leo said. ‘I haven’t brought anything like that.’
‘I’m going to get changed too,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Have you got something Leo can wear, Art?’
‘Why not?’ Art said, surprised. ‘You’re a bit smaller than me, but there must be something. Polly, can you find him a suit?’ Art smiled, openly amused. ‘Not the Fibonacci. Something that is easy to clean.’ He winked at Leo. ‘Use our shower too.’
‘Two ticks,’ Gabrielle said, yawning. She stood up and walked past Polly, smiling at her, as if this was all a completely normal turn of events.
‘Come on,’ Polly said. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
Art had returned his attention to the board in front of him. Frowning, Leo followed Polly. Ahead of them, he heard his own bedroom door click shut.
Polly and Art’s room was a mirror of theirs. Polly fussed around him, fetching a clean towel from the wardrobe, a first aid kit from the bathroom. She motioned him to sit on the bed.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘You look like you’ve walked out of a collapsed building. What happened?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘I’m really worried you’ve got concussion. We’ll get those things off you but let me look at your head first.’
Leo couldn’t work out what he was feeling. It was as if events were taking place outside of everyone’s control, an invisible hand cranking the day forward. He looked down. She was wearing white flat shoes. He felt like a sixteen-year-old again, gangly and awkward. Her dress was tight on her hips and stomach, and close to his face as she peered down at him. She smelt grassy and fresh. It took all his effort not to put his head against her. He remembered his hand on her soft stomach by the pool.
A stab of pain lit up his scalp.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Done. It’s a cut, but nothing much.’
‘I’m not sure about this. His clothes.’
‘He’s playing with you. Don’t back down.’ She went to the wardrobe again and pulled out a suit on a hanger.
‘That tennis match was a mistake,’ he said.
‘Do you want to wear the Fibonacci?’
‘What is a Fibonacci, anyway?’
‘This one.’ She pulled out another suit, which looked identical. ‘That’s fifteen grand of material. He wasn’t joking when he said not to give it to you.’
Leo stood and walked to the window. The valley ran away from them, back to the Areas. The woods on the hill h
ad patches of red and yellow, but the light was going fast.
‘Quite a view,’ Polly said.
Her presence next to him made his legs shake. He was in another woman’s bedroom and he wanted to kiss that other woman while his own wife was just two doors away. The idea thrilled him and appalled him. Surely Polly wouldn’t be so blatant. He wanted her to make another move but dreaded it. He felt helpless. If she kissed him, he would kiss her back. He could walk out of the room. Nothing was stopping him. His penis was pressing against the inside of his jeans.
‘I’ve been having these dreams,’ Polly said. ‘Intense ones. Crazy ones. Since we’ve been here. I’ve been hearing voices, sounds. But they don’t stick – I couldn’t tell you one.’ She put a hand on the back of her neck and left it there. Leo got another waft of grassy perfume.
He went back to the bed, wanting space, and sat on the edge of the mattress. Polly perched next to him. He looked around, not willing to look her in the eye. On her bedside table were her things: a necklace of white jewels, dropped in a tangle; several hair bands knotted together in a ball; a shiny, antique-looking pearl hairbrush; a bundle of white stockings; a phone; a large pill bottle with a handful of tablets left at the bottom. The pill bottle intrigued him. He moved closer and picked it up. The label was blank.
‘Do these have any side effects?’ he said.
‘Not for me.’
‘I meant the dreams.’
She frowned. ‘Possibly, I suppose, but I’ve been taking those a long time. Years.’
‘What are they for?’
Polly didn’t answer, biting her lip instead.
‘Sorry, I’m being rude,’ Leo said.
‘It’s okay. Look. Art has been incredible to me.’ Her voice was resigned. ‘I don’t think I would have made it through without him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Polly pulled the green dress up her legs. It was an awkward movement and she had to shuffle her body, the material clinging to her skin. She got the dress to the top of her thighs. He looked away.
‘Polly—’
‘Look,’ she said.
He looked at her face as she used her fingers to do something. He knew that to look down was to cross a final line.
‘Look.’
It was the tremor in her voice that made him look. Her vulnerability. To not look seemed cruel.
Her legs were apart. She wore underwear that matched the colour of her skin so that he was reminded of a doll. She had peeled the skin away from her right thigh, rolling it down like a stocking. A rim of rolled skin sat above her knee.
‘Oh my God,’ Leo said.
‘Don’t,’ Polly said. ‘Please.’
‘No, I mean—’ He couldn’t take his eyes away. ‘It’s amazing.’
His heart was hammering. He had never seen anything like it. A full mechanical leg. Her femur was visible, a long shadow running behind white, partially transparent sacs, which moved gently as he watched, like miniature water balloons.
‘Is that muscle?’ he said, looking closer. ‘It looks organic. They must have grown it. I’ve read about that, but I’ve never—’
He looked up. Polly was crying.
‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘The pain, Leo. I can’t describe it. After the operation, they couldn’t get rid of it. Nobody knew what had gone wrong. All the tests showed my body had accepted it. I was the first. They did all sorts of new things, new technologies. But the pain was unbearable. From my neck, down my spine, my buttock, the leg itself. They said it was phantom pain. I had brain scans. They said I wasn’t really in pain at all.’
‘The pills control the pain?’
‘Yes. Art makes them.’ She picked up the towel she had found for Leo and wiped her eyes with it, smudging her makeup.
‘So, these things are not prescribed?’ He unscrewed the lid of the pill box and tipped a couple into his hand. They were anonymous white tablets. They could be paracetamol. He put them back in the box and screwed the lid tight. ‘What happens when you don’t take one?’
‘I have to tell him.’
‘I mean, do you get any pain?’
‘No. It doesn’t work like that. It builds up in your system. It’s cumulative. I’ve never missed more than one. Art gets pretty pissed off.’
While he had been looking at the pills, Polly had rolled the skin back and pulled her dress down again. She was standing at the bottom of the bed, looking out of the window. She looked lost.
‘He hasn’t always been so controlling,’ Polly said, not looking at Leo. ‘He’s changed. This last year he has become a lot worse. I’m pragmatic. It’s the only way to cope. But I have my limits, Leo. This place—’ She tried again. ‘Being here, without any distractions, I can see what’s missing.’
She looked at him. ‘I think I’m going mad.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Leo?’ Gabrielle’s voice.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
‘He’s still in the shower,’ Polly called, waving him towards the bathroom and throwing him the towel. He caught it and went in, closing the door quietly as Polly opened the outer door. He stepped into the shower, so the water came on. He was still fully clothed. The shower head shot warm water onto his chest, his t-shirt still stained with tomato from the garden. It looked like he’d been shot.
He imagined a hand waving underwater, something wanted his attention. What was it?
He took his clothes off quickly, kicking his shoes onto the floor, peeling his trousers down, then pulling his t-shirt over his head. He let the water run over him and stared at the patterns the water made around his feet. The water was wonderfully warm. Something that was frozen in him began to thaw. He gave an awkward sob, but the tears behind it didn’t come. He waited, the water soothing him.
Gabrielle hadn’t cried at her dad’s funeral. Stefan had made up for her with great, animal heaves of sadness, resting his head on her arm at the church service, on her shoulder at the burial. Leo had never put a body in the ground before. A terrible thing, though he was glad to help do it, glad to have something to do rather than watch. The other three bearers were state employees. Pleasant men with steady faces. He remembered Gabrielle’s face as the vicar said some nondescript prayer – grim, perhaps even furious. She had gone to work the next day.
Four months. Not once had he found her crying. When she had left the police, she had cried for weeks. She had never told him what happened. There had been an investigation, she had mentioned that, but she closed that part of herself off from him. There was nothing in the papers. He had been reduced to looking for clues there. He hadn’t pushed her because her toughness had disappeared and instead there was a fragility he didn’t know what to do with.
His father had been violent. He left home at fourteen, his mother already dead five years, and made his own way. Perhaps that was what Gabrielle saw in him when they met. Determination. Lack.
He didn’t let himself dwell on it. He stepped out of the shower, rubbed himself down and wrapped the towel around his waist. His clothes were in a wet pile on the floor tiles. He peeked into the bedroom. Neither Polly nor Gabrielle was in the bedroom. The suit and a white shirt were on the bed.
Still in his towel, he took the wet clothes across the corridor to his own room. Gabrielle wasn’t there. He went back and got Art’s clothes, holding his towel with one hand, the suit in the other, operating the door handles with his elbows. Art’s suit was light, though it didn’t seem particularly expensive. He got dressed and looked at himself. Before his tennis match he had looked so miserable in the mirror, but now he looked like a new man. A man in charge. It was remarkable. The suit was a little loose at the waist, baggy on the shoulders possibly, but on the whole, it fitted. Christ alive. He looked good.
He went to his bedside table and picked up his phon
e. The power was back on. And he was hungry.
In the kitchen, Gabrielle was laughing at something Stefan was saying. Polly was blowing on a piece of steaming pasta by the sink. She nibbled the end of it, then popped the whole piece in her mouth. She didn’t look at him. Art turned, and his face froze for a split-second.
Stefan looked at Art, then at Leo.
‘Wow!’ Stefan said. ‘You look awesome, Dad. You should wear a suit more often.’
Gabrielle’s pulled out the seat next to her. He’d forgotten how startlingly pretty her smile was. She was wearing a white blouse with extravagant ruffles off her shoulders. He hadn’t seen it before.
‘It suits you,’ Gabrielle said, as he pulled his chair in.
‘How did Polly end up doing dinner?’ Art said. ‘Wasn’t it your turn, Leo?’
‘Mind yourself,’ Polly said, pushing a big bowl of pasta between Art and Fleur. ‘It’s hot.’ There was no space between the wine glasses, so Fleur took the bowl and Stefan moved things around, so it could fit in the middle.
‘Do you play tennis, Fleur?’ Leo said.
‘I had some lessons. I didn’t enjoy it.’
‘I didn’t enjoy it to start with either,’ Art said.
‘But you’re a machine, Dad.’ Fleur speared some pasta with her fork and brought her plate closer to scoop some over.
‘Wait,’ Polly said, putting a serving spoon into the bowl. ‘Use that. Art, can you serve everyone?’
Leo looked down at Gabrielle’s clothes. It wasn’t a blouse, but a white dress, possibly silk, that was artfully ruffled from her shoulders to just below her knee. It was a beautiful material. Underneath she had on trousers, perhaps part of the dress, he couldn’t tell, that flared at the bottom. Her arms were bare and muscular.
Stefan began to fill everyone’s bowls with the pasta, starting with Art.
‘No, no, serve your parents,’ Art said. ‘I’ll wait for Polly.’
‘I’m coming,’ Polly said. She put a bowl of grated parmesan on the table and sat down. Her face was damp. Leo felt a tug of affection for her, seeing her do his work. He remembered her leg again, skin peeled down, and felt an erotic charge.
The Complex Page 13
