Beautiful Malice: A Novel

by Rebecca James

  The next time I wake, the sun has moved from my window and I can tell by the quality of light that it is afternoon. I can no longer hear Robbie or Philippa, but I can hear the canned laughter and tinny music of the television. I get up and go to the living room.

  Philippa is sitting on the sofa, watching a black-and-white movie, and she looks up as I approach. “Good morning! Or afternoon, actually. I’ve just been waiting here until you woke up. I watched this old movie, All About Eve. It was amazing! I think you’d like it, you should get it on DVD sometime. Robbie and I didn’t know whether you’d want to be alone today or not. And he had to go to soccer. But he said he’d come back later.” She stops talking to take a breath and smiles warmly. “Feeling better?”

  “I’m good.” I sit on the sofa next to her. “Thank you for staying.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” She picks up the remote control and mutes the noise of the television. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.” I nod. “I am, actually.”

  “Great. I bought the ingredients to make a salad. Tomatoes and prosciutto and asparagus and boiled eggs and stuff, my favorite salad in the world, and I got some fresh bread, too. It’s totally delicious. Do you think you’d like some? Should I make it now?”

  “Oh. Wow. Yes, please. But only if you’re sure you want to. You don’t have to do all this. I’m fine. Really. But, yes, if you want to, that would be awesome.”

  “Excellent.” She jumps up. “’Cause I’m starving.”

  I offer to help prepare the food, but Philippa refuses, says that she can’t stand cooking with other people. So I perch on a stool in the kitchen and watch, and when it’s finished we take it out onto the balcony. We eat quickly, both of us ravenous. We don’t talk about Alice, thankfully, or Rachel, or last night, but Philippa is so naturally talkative that there is barely a moment’s silence. She is twenty-three and is getting a master’s in psychology. She tells me how fascinating it is to learn about the way people think, and how much we still don’t understand about the human mind.

  “I can’t believe you’re only seventeen,” she says. “You seem much older, much more serious than most seventeen-year-olds.”

  “Everyone says that.” I smile. “I don’t know whether to take it as a compliment or as an insult.”

  She tells me about her little brother, Mick, and how he’s the drummer in a band that’s starting to generate a real following.

  “They’re playing at The Basement on Friday night. They’re terrific. Do you want to come and see them? With me? I’d love it if you would. I love showing them off to people. They really are amazing.”

  But before I can answer, before I can even think about whether I’ll possibly want to go out and see a band later in the week, there is a knock on the door.

  “Robbie.” Philippa sets her fork down and looks inside. “He said he’d come back after his game.”

  I go to the door. Just as I’m about to open it, just as I put my hand on the lock, the knocking comes again. Louder, more insistent. And I suddenly know that it’s not Robbie. He would never be so impatient.

  But it’s too late to hide, to pretend not to be home; I’ve released the bolt and the door is pushed open. It’s Alice.

  She’s holding an enormous bunch of red roses and wearing a clean white T-shirt and jeans. She’s not wearing any makeup and her hair is tied back from her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed, as if she’s been crying, but she looks so young and innocent that it’s hard to accept that she is the same Alice that I was with last night. Seeing her now, like this, it’s almost impossible to believe that she could be malicious, that she could be the cause of so much misery.

  “I’m sorry, Katherine.” Her lip starts to quiver and her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so, so sorry. I just don’t know what got into me.”

  She hands me the roses and I take them, but I don’t say a word.

  “I just … sometimes I just … I dunno.” And she is sobbing now, her hands up to her face, her shoulders heaving, her voice thick and broken. “Something comes over me and I lose … I just feel so—so angry. As if everyone is, I dunno, judging me or something. But I know it’s crazy because I think they’re judging me for what I’m going to do—what I know I’m going to do—before I’ve even done it … and then I feel I have to do it, to test them, to see if they really do care about me. And I know it’s unfair, I know I can’t really expect people to, you know, put up with this, but I can’t … I mean, I know I’m going to do something, or say something really horrible, but I can’t, I can’t stop, and then I want to do it. It’s as if I have this self-destructive compulsion to lash out at people—at the people who love me.”

  I feel the hard core of my anger start to dissolve. “Come on.” I take her arm and pull her gently inside.

  I get Alice a plate and she sits with Philippa and me on the balcony and we share our food. At first Philippa is wary and cold and watches Alice suspiciously. But Alice is her usual open, warm, and engaging self and she apologizes profusely for the night before. She laughs at herself and mocks her own behavior so candidly and with such self-deprecating good humor—she is contrite and ashamed and amusing all at once—that it is impossible not to forgive her. And I can tell after a while that Philippa is thawing, that despite her mistrust, she, too, is succumbing to Alice’s charm. The three of us stay outside talking and laughing well after the salad is gone and only move back inside when the sun disappears and the air is too cool to be comfortable.

  “Let’s get some movies. Order pizza,” Alice says.

  “Oh. I don’t know,” I say. “I really need some sleep.”

  “We won’t stay late,” Alice says. “And I just don’t want this day to end yet, do you? We’re having too much fun. I don’t want to go home and be alone tonight.” She goes to Philippa and takes hold of her arm with both hands. “Please, Philippa? Let me prove that I’m not really that awful witch you met last night. I’ll go and get the movies. And some food. And you two don’t have to do a thing. Or spend a cent. It’s on me tonight. Please?” She looks at us, imploring. “For me? Please?”

  Philippa looks at me. “It’s up to Katherine. It’s her place. She’s probably sick of us.”

  I shrug. “I’m actually hungry again, if you can believe it,” I say. “And vegging out in front of a movie sounds good.”

  We find a menu for one of the local pizza places and choose what we want. Both Philippa and I offer to go with Alice, to help her carry everything, to contribute some money, but she refuses our offers, insists that she wants it to be her treat entirely and sets off on her own.

  When she’s gone, Philippa and I go to the kitchen to wash up the salad plates.

  “She’s not as crazy as you thought, is she?” I say.

  Philippa has her hands in the dishwater, and she keeps her eyes down as she answers. “She can be very nice. Very likable.”

  “Yes.” I elbow her playfully. “But you’re not answering my question. I mentioned the word crazy.”

  It makes me feel a little disloyal to be talking about Alice, a very close friend, with someone that I’ve only just met. But I like Philippa. She is obviously very smart, but she’s also warm and kind and interestingly quirky, and I hope very much that we’re going to be friends, too. Already I trust her judgment and value her opinion.

  Philippa sighs, takes her hands from the water, and wipes them off on her jeans. She looks at me and shrugs. “I still think she might be a little crazy. You know, one of those super-extreme people. The kind of person my dad would call ‘high-maintenance.’”

  “But that’s a parent’s perspective.” I laugh gently to soften the impact of what I’m about to say. “And that’s a bit cold, isn’t it? A bit … well, she’s a person. And she doesn’t act like that all the time. I’ve never seen her like that before. And she’s my friend. And in lots of ways she’s an excellent friend. Honestly, you haven’t seen how generous and kind she can be. So should I really just dump her? Dump her and run because
it’s a hassle to have a friend like that? I think it’s a bit … well, a bit wrong to treat people like that.”

  “Oh.” Philippa stares at me. She looks both surprised and sad all at once. “You’re probably right. But that’s a very nice way to look at it. I’m clearly not as nice as you, because I probably would dump her. I’d probably dump her and run as fast as I could in the opposite direction.”

  I’m mildly embarrassed by her penetrating gaze and busy myself putting plates and cups away. “It’s just that I know what it’s like to feel … to feel like people don’t want to be with you because it’s all just too hard. After my sister died, I got that feeling a lot. From all of my closest friends. They were all concerned and kind and they tried so hard … but it was such a fun time for everyone else. It was the end of the school year and there were dances and parties and all that. No one wanted to sit with me in my room and cry. No one wanted me coming to their party, ’cause they’d have to worry about me, you know, look out for me and try and make me happy. I was just a drag. And I couldn’t blame them. I knew that I was a downer. I knew nobody wanted to think about death and murder and tragedy … but I had to. It was my life.” I shrug, surprised by my own words. I haven’t actually thought any of this through before; these ideas are more or less forming as I speak. But they feel real. They feel right. “I just think that if you’re a true friend, you have to take people as they are. The fun times and the boring times. The good and the bad.”

  “I can see what you mean. I totally get it.” Philippa pulls the stopper and starts to wipe around the sink. “But I still don’t think you should be friends with people who bring a lot of negative crap into your life. I wouldn’t. No way. But that doesn’t mean you should do what I would, does it? I mean, we’re all different, aren’t we? We all have to make our own way in this crazy world.” And I can tell that she’s making an effort to keep her voice warm and nonconfrontational. She wants us to be friends as much as I do.

  Eventually Alice gets back and we sit around the kitchen table and enjoy the food. Robbie arrives at about eight when we’re cleaning up, the three of us laughing and cheerful. At first he’s a bit cold toward Alice, and a little disapproving toward Philippa and me. But we give him what’s left of the pizza and continue talking, and eventually he starts to thaw, to allow himself to be drawn into the conversation, to smile, even. And Alice is so gently solicitous, so loving and considerate toward him, that I can see he’s finding it impossible to maintain his anger.

  We end up in the living room, the lights dim, the four of us quiet and relaxed with food and fatigue. Alice picks a DVD and goes to the machine to put it on. Before she presses Play she turns to face us.

  “I just want to say something first. Before we all fall asleep.” She smiles sheepishly. “First up, I want you all to know”—she looks pointedly at Philippa and then Robbie—“that nothing happened between Ben and me last night. He left right after you all did. And that’s the honest truth.” Robbie tries to suppress a smile, but it’s perfectly clear that Alice’s announcement has made him very happy.

  Alice continues. “But most importantly, I was horrible last night, and I want to officially apologize. To all three of you. Philippa, Robbie, but especially to you, Katherine.” She looks down at me, her eyes wide, beseeching. “I had no business saying what I did last night. None at all. And I don’t actually think it’s true for a second. Just because I would have had horrible, evil thoughts like that if I were in your shoes doesn’t mean you ever would. I was, what do they call it, transferring? Yes. I was transferring myself onto you. Which is unfair and ridiculous, and I’m so unbelievably sorry and you will never, ever know how much I hate myself for hurting you. You are always so good to me, Katherine, and I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’d really love it if you’re willing to give it to me.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, hoping that the dim light will hide my blush. “Sit down and be quiet.”

  “I will,” she says. I hear a tremor in her voice and wonder if she’s about to cry again. “But first I just wanted to say how much I treasure your friendship. You have no idea how important it is to me. How special you are, Katherine. You have no idea.”

  17

  It was much darker inside than out. There was no proper lighting, just strings of lights hanging from the ceiling that barely pierced the thick darkness. It was hard to see, and the tin walls of the enormous shed made the noise echo and vibrate—there was such a wild cacophony of music and laughter and shouting and people that walking inside was disorienting, even a little frightening. Rachel and I stayed close to each other, holding on to each other’s arms.

  Carly strode ahead, confident and sure, completely in her element. We followed her toward a big old free-standing tub that was filled with ice and cans of beer and Coke. Carly lifted three cans of beer out and handed one each to Rachel and me.

  “Whose is this?” I asked.

  Carly shook her head, indicating that she couldn’t hear.

  “Can we just help ourselves?” I shouted.

  Carly shrugged and looked around. “I don’t see anyone stopping us,” she shouted back, grinning. “Let’s go.”

  She stepped straight into the crowd dancing in front of the stage and started stamping her feet, nodding her head, moving in time with the music. She lifted her beer can at us, winked, and took a large swig, then put her other arm up and waved us over.

  Rachel looked at me questioningly, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to dance yet. It was quite possible that my boyfriend, Will, would be there, and I wanted to search for him. But I reached over and took Rachel’s beer so that her hands would be free and indicated, with a nod, that she should join the others.

  Just as she did when she played the piano, Rachel lost herself when she danced. All her self-consciousness disappeared and she moved smoothly and rhythmically and in perfect unison with the music. She looked at me with such an enormous happy grin on her face that I laughed. I was pleasantly tipsy with all the alcohol, giddy with the crowd and the music, and high on the contagious sense of excitement surrounding me. I was excited with the possibility that I might see Will. And I was sure that he’d be just as pleased to see me as I’d be to see him.

  I leaned back against the wall, sipped slowly on my beer—which I didn’t really like—and watched Rachel and Carly. I had just dicided to take a walk around the shed to see if I could find Will when he appeared right in front of me.

  He was smiling his wonderful snaggletoothed grin and shaking his head in fake disapproval at my being there. I smiled back, but neither of us said a word, just moved together until we were pressed against each other and I could smell his smell—spice and something chocolaty and the faint tang of sweat—and his lips were against mine and our mouths were open and exploring hungrily.

  We kissed and hugged, then separated so that we could look at each other, then we laughed and pushed our bodies together again. We were both so delighted to find each other, both so excited by the atmosphere and our mutual desire, that we couldn’t stop smiling. Even as we kissed I could tell that Will’s lips were curving upward in a grin.

  And as he pushed against me I could feel that he had an erection—and knowing that I did this to him so quickly, that he just had to see and touch me and his body would react like this, was exhilarating. I felt a responding flutter and I knew that I wanted to go all the way with him. To make love. Not tonight, but soon. Very soon. And I pressed my hips against him in answer. A promise.

  And because I was now with Will, the beer started to taste good, and I was suddenly very glad for the darkness—it was comforting and romantic. It made me feel cocooned, as if, despite the crowd, we were alone together.

  18

  The night after Alice’s apology I’m watching television, curled up on the sofa in my pajamas, flipping through channels with the remote control, when there’s a knock on the door.

  I immediately think it might be Alice and wonder if I should hid
e, turn off the television, climb under the covers, and pretend I’m not home. It’s not that I’m still angry with her, but it’s late and I’m tired and even the thought of her never-ending energy is exhausting. But I don’t hide. I sigh, flick off the television, and go to the door.

  It’s not Alice, it’s Robbie, and he’s obviously come straight from work because he’s still wearing his uniform. He looks as tired as I feel. He grins and holds up a tub of chocolate ice cream, a box of hot chocolate mix, and a packet of Oreos.

  “I come bearing gifts,” he says. “Chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate.”

  I laugh and hold the door open, stepping back so that he can enter.

  “I wanted to talk.” Robbie hesitates in the doorway. “I hope you don’t mind. We just didn’t get any time alone yesterday. And there’s so much to talk about. I mean, I really wanted to talk to you about your sister and all of that. And about Alice, of course.” He shakes his head and speaks in a rush. “But I know you’re probably beat, so if you’re too tired to talk, I thought I could just make you a hot chocolate and tuck you in, and leave you in peace and come back another time.” He looks at my pajamas. “You were just about to go to bed, weren’t you? Sorry. I’ll just—”

  “Robbie,” I interrupt. “Stop. Come in. I’m not that tired. I haven’t suddenly turned into a fragile old woman. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you, too.” I take the tub of ice cream from his hands, turn and head down the hallway. “And I want some of this. Right now.”

  We go to the kitchen, scoop out two generous bowls of ice cream, and take them to the living room.

  The ice cream is delicious—richly chocolate with a swirl of even richer chocolate fudge through it. I smear some on my lips deliberately and smile clownishly.