“This is yummo,” I say.
Robbie laughs. “Very funny.” But the smile leaves his face too quickly and he looks down at his bowl, pushing the spoon around without eating anything.
I lick my lips clean, dry them on the back of my hand. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I didn’t come here to talk about me. Honestly. What about you? Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I’m fine.”
“You never told me about your sister. You’ve always been so brave about it. And I’m always telling you all my problems. You must … I mean …” And he looks at me, hurt and angry all of a sudden, and slaps his hand on his leg. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I put my bowl on the coffee table, crouch close in front of him, and put my hands on his knees. “I’m sorry, Robbie. I know I’ve hurt your feelings by not telling you. I know it must seem that I haven’t trusted you enough or something, but it wasn’t that. I promise.”
Robbie looks down at me, silent, waiting.
“When Rachel died there was a lot—no, there was a huge amount—of media attention. I was stalked by the press. Mom and Dad were, too. And it was awful. And they said some really horrible, horrible stuff about our family and about me, stuff they just made up or that they just twisted so much.” Just remembering that time makes me cry, and I wipe my eyes and sniff, try to stop the flood of tears.
Robbie sits beside me on the floor and puts his arm around me. “You don’t have to tell me.” He sounds shocked, and I know that I’ve made him feel bad, that he will blame himself for my tears. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t know. God, Katherine, I’m a complete idiot. I just don’t know how to keep my big fat foot out of my stupid mouth.”
This is such an absurdly inaccurate description of Robbie’s character that it makes me laugh. I wipe my eyes. “You haven’t made me cry. I cry whenever I remember that time. And I remember it a lot. I just want to explain why I didn’t tell you.”
“It’s okay, it’s fine, you really don’t have to.”
I push his arm from my shoulders, slide away, and sit so that I’m facing him. “But I want to, and I’m going to. So just be quiet and listen. Please.”
He nods.
“My name isn’t really Patterson,” I say. “It’s Boydell.”
Robbie’s eyes widen with recognition. He’s heard of us, of course; he remembers the Boydell sisters.
“See? You know. At least you know what the papers said.”
“I remember the name.” He shakes his head. “I can’t remember much else, oh, except that your sister was some kind of musical genius. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, she was.”
“Shit, Katherine.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
“That was your sister? My God. What happened to her was so fucked-up. Those psycho bastards that did it. It was unbelievable.”
“Yes. And the media made us famous afterward. Famous in a really bad way. A destructive, invasive way that made us all … that made us even unhappier … as if it wasn’t already unbearable enough,” I say. “And there were psychologists and all sorts of people who knew nothing making comments about us, about our family life. It was revolting. We just felt completely … invaded. Violated.”
“Like what? What did they say?”
“All this really mean stuff. A lot of articles said that Mom and Dad were pushy and ambitious for Rachel. And of course they were, to an extent. But Rachel was a true genius, a prodigy. I mean, there’s no way anybody gets to be that good without being ambitious, without working their heart out. And the papers were so happy to lap it up and take advantage of it while she was alive. I mean, there used to be all these articles titled ‘Our Local Prodigy’ and stuff. They loved it all. But then after she was murdered, everything changed. It was like they turned on us, became our enemies. We went from being the family everyone was proud of to being this pushy, horrible, selfish family that everyone loved to hate. I mean, they didn’t exactly lie, but they made everything sound so bad. Like they’d say Rachel had to do three or four hours of piano a day, and she did, of course she did. But they made it sound as if Mom and Dad forced her into it. They just made it sound so ugly. And it was all wrong. Rachel really loved the piano, she wanted to work at it, she wanted to be the best in the world, she said that all the time. Mom and Dad were ambitious for Rachel, that was true, but they loved her more than anything. They were good to her. They were good to both of us. We were a happy family,” I say, my voice shaky now. I sigh and put my head in my hands, try to stop myself from trembling. “We were happy.”
“Of course you were.”
“So,” I say, taking a deep breath. “That’s why I changed my name and became Katherine Patterson instead of Katie Boydell. And that’s why I moved here. I didn’t tell you, I didn’t really tell anyone except Alice, because I just didn’t want to be Katie Boydell anymore. I just didn’t want to be that girl. I didn’t want you to know about me before you actually knew me. If that makes any sense at all?”
Robbie nods, puts his hand on mine, and squeezes.
“But I wanted to tell you, Robbie. Really I did. Lots of times. Especially when you were telling me all about your mother, and you were being so truthful about how much it hurt you, and I really, really wanted to let you know that I understood just how you felt.”
“I thought you seemed particularly clued in to it all. As if you’d thought it all through or something.” He smiles, teasing. “I just thought you were super-intelligent, super-sensitive Katherine, but really it was just a case of been there, done that. A case of been there, done that even bigger and harder than anyone else.”
We finish our ice cream, which has melted to puddles in our bowls, and I tell Robbie about the night Rachel was murdered. And just as I did when I told Alice, I sob and sob in angry frustration. Robbie listens carefully and shakes his head in horrified disbelief. He brings me more ice cream and holds my hand and asks me a thousand gentle questions. He cries with me and we dry each other’s tears, laugh at our shared misery and snotty noses and red-rimmed eyes.
At midnight I tell Robbie that I’m exhausted and need to sleep. But when he offers to leave, I ask him to please stay. To sleep beside me. Not for sex but as a friend. Because I don’t want to be alone, because I need comfort and closeness. And he says yes, that he’d love to, that he’s glad I asked.
I give Robbie one of my spare toothbrushes, and we brush our teeth side by side in the bathroom, taking turns to spit into the sink. Somehow, the fact that we’ve cried together and revealed so much of our inner selves has brought us closer. We lie side by side on our backs beneath the blankets. It’s dark in my bedroom, and I listen to the sound of Robbie’s breathing and enjoy the soothing warmth of his body beside mine.
“I wouldn’t normally sleep with another girl’s boyfriend,” I say. “Even though we’re not actually doing anything, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? But somehow, for some reason, all of those normal rules don’t seem to apply to Alice.”
“That’s because Alice doesn’t follow any of those so-called normal rules herself. She doesn’t respect any boundaries, so why should anyone else when it comes to her? It’s the Alice phenomenon: hang around her for long enough, and you start behaving badly, too. I mean, come on.” He laughs. “What about the other night with Ben and Philippa? And what Alice said to you about your sister, and the way she was flirting with Ben? She hardly treats anyone else with respect, does she? We’re entitled to a bit of bad behavior, too, aren’t we?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. Anyway,” I say, “I’m not sure that we are behaving badly. By being here together tonight, that is. If we’re not hurting anyone, then it probably doesn’t matter.” I shake my head in the dark. “No. It can’t matter. Because we’re friends and we’re looking after each other and we’re not hurting Alice. Even if she knew, she probably wouldn’t really care.”
“Alice would care,
all right. But not for any of the normal reasons. Not because she loves me so much that she can’t bear the thought of me being close to someone else. She’d care because she’s not involved. She’d care because she’s not the puppet master in this situation.”
I don’t respond because I don’t like the implication that Alice has as much control over me as she does over Robbie. I can understand Robbie feeling that she controls him—after all, he’s in love and he puts up with a lot of crap from her. He allows himself to be available to Alice whenever she wants him. But I’m just Alice’s friend and my perception isn’t distorted by lust, I’m not madly in love with her. But I don’t want to point this out tonight. I don’t want to say anything to add to Robbie’s misery.
“Anyway,” he continues, “you used the word boyfriend. You actually said that I was Alice’s ‘boyfriend.’” He laughs, and it’s a dry, bitter, unhappy sound. “But I’m not really, am I? I’m just someone she uses when the mood takes her. I’m just a loyal puppy that she can use and abuse whenever and however she wants.”
“If that’s how you feel, Robbie—”
“Yes,” he interrupts. “Of course that’s how I feel.” He sounds angry and miserable. “That’s how it is. And I tell myself over and over that she’s bad, that I have to stop seeing her. But then I hear her voice or see her face and I …” His voice cracks and he’s quiet for a moment, struggling to bring his emotions under control. “You know what?” he whispers shakily. “You know the thing that’s really sick about all this?”
“What?”
“My dad has been seeing someone. A woman he met at a party one night. Shit,” he says suddenly, “you wouldn’t believe it, but her name is Rachel.”
“What’s so sick about that? It’s a common name. I’ve met lots of Rachels since my sister died.”
“No, that’s not the weird bit. I just remembered that out of the blue. But see, my dad’s been happy since he met her. Really happy. Happy the way he was before my mother got sick.”
“But that’s so great, Robbie. Have you met her? Is she nice?”
“No. I haven’t met her. I don’t want to meet her. I don’t want to know about her.”
“Oh.” And I’m quiet for a minute. “Do you feel he’s betraying your mother or something?”
“Nope. Not at all. My mother’s dead. She’d want Dad to be happy.”
“So?” I’m puzzled. “Why aren’t you happy for him, then? What’s the problem?”
“I’m jealous.” His voice is full of self-loathing. “That’s what’s so sick. I’m so pathetic that I’m jealous of my own father. I know I should be happy for him; he’d definitely be happy for me. But all I can think is how come he gets to be in love and have this fantastic relationship while I’m having my heart torn to shreds by Alice? How come he gets to be so happy? He’s an old man. I’m the one meant to be having the great love life. Not him. It’s humiliating. I can’t even bear looking at him and the ridiculous lovesick look he has on his face.”
“Oh, Robbie.” I’m glad he can’t see the smile on my face.
“See? I’m an evil bastard. I’m bad. I deserve all the crap I get from Alice.”
And I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. Robbie is quiet and his silence, the feeling that I shouldn’t be laughing, only makes me laugh harder. I try to stop, try to cover the sounds of my mirth but then it doesn’t matter because suddenly Robbie is laughing, too. We laugh so hard that the bed shakes and we kick the blankets off and roll around. We laugh until our stomachs hurt and it’s hard to breathe and we are almost choking. When we stop, my face is wet with tears.
“Anyway,” I whisper carefully, trying hard not to laugh again, “if you’re not bad, you can’t be good.”
“What? You have to be bad to be good? That’s stupid. It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“No.” I giggle quietly. “It doesn’t, does it? What I meant was that if you see the bad in yourself, and dislike it, and try not to feel it, then that’s good. Nobody’s really good through and through. At least I don’t think so. Trying to be good, or at least trying not to be bad, is probably as close as we can get.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he says.
“Maybe I am.”
Now we are quiet. Silent in the darkness. I hear Robbie’s breathing become more even. I close my eyes.
“You’re nice, Katherine.” His voice is soft, drowsy.
“You’re nice, too, Robbie.”
“If only I’d met you before. Before I ever met Alice,” he says. “We could have … we might have …” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“Yes,” I say sleepily. “I know.”
19
“They’re great, aren’t they?” Philippa is staring up at her brother’s band on the stage. She’s beaming with pride, tapping her feet in time with the music.
“They’re fantastic.” I nod and smile with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. And they are. They’re all accomplished musicians, and their repertoire is well rehearsed, smooth. It’s the kind of folksy, easy-to-listen-to rock music I would normally enjoy from a live band, but I have a major headache and I really want to be home, in bed. When Philippa showed up at my place earlier in the evening to pick me up, she was so excited about the night ahead that I was unwilling to disappoint her. I hoped that my headache would eventually go away, but it has only gotten worse. Our table is too close to the stage, and the music is too loud, pounding, painful.
Philippa’s brother, Mick, is playing the drums. He’s very good-looking in a cool, withdrawn kind of way—I haven’t seen him smile once all night. He’s pale, like Philippa, and has longish black hair that hangs over his eyes. And every so often I’ve caught him staring over at our table quizzically, wondering, no doubt, who the new girl with Philippa is.
I’m glad when the band stops for a break. The sudden quiet makes my head feel a little better. Philippa’s brother talks to the other band members for a while, then he comes and stands beside our table.
“Hey, Pip,” he says, touching Philippa on the shoulder. He stares at me, his expression quite blank and unfriendly. I smile but he looks away, toward Philippa.
“Hey.” Philippa takes his hand. “This is Katherine. I told you about her, remember?”
“Yep.” Mick nods, still unsmiling, and looks at me for the briefest of moments. “Hi.”
I’m not in the mood to put up with such unfriendliness and have no inclination to try and charm him. “Hi,” I say, just as coldly, and then I turn away, look around the bar.
“Katherine’s got a headache,” Philippa tells him. I turn to her and frown, surprised. I haven’t told her I have a headache, so I’m not certain how she knows, and I’m also a little irritated that she thinks my unfriendliness needs explaining. It’s her brother who’s being rude. I’m only responding to his rudeness. Philippa leans forward and puts her hand on mine. “Mick can get rid of it.”
“Rid of what?”
“Your headache,” Mick says. He’s staring at me again. “If you want me to.”
“What?” I shake my head, suddenly certain he means to offer me drugs. “Oh, no, thanks.” I lift my glass of sparkling water. “I’ve got to study tomorrow.”
“He doesn’t mean drugs, silly, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Philippa laughs, reading my mind. “He can make it go away with massage. It really works. It’s amazing. Trust me. Try it.”
I picture this strangely unfriendly man massaging my shoulders, touching my skin, and almost laugh, the thought is so absurd. “No. I’ll be fine. Thanks anyway.”
But before I realize what’s happening or have time to react, Mick is sitting in the chair opposite me and taking my right hand between his. He holds it still, and with the fingers of his other hand he presses the soft, fleshy spot between my forefinger and thumb, moving in small, firm circles. He runs his thumb up over my wrist, then back down my palm and middle finger.
I’m about to laugh and pull my hand away, express my cynicism towar
d such methods, when Mick squeezes my hand even tighter and says, “Not yet. Give it a chance to work.” And then he smiles.
His smile is the most transformative smile I’ve ever seen. It enlivens his entire face; what once seemed surly, dark, and closed up is now warm, open, kind. His grin is large, his teeth straight and white, and his eyes are deep-set and brown and framed by insanely long lashes. He is handsome. Incredibly so. And I’m suddenly quite certain that he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
Amazingly, the squeezing tension in my temples is easing. It’s as if with each little circle he presses into the skin of my hand he’s erasing the headache. He’s no longer looking at me, no longer smiling, but is staring at my hand with an intent expression on his face.
And then, without warning, he pinches the skin between my thumb and forefinger so hard that it hurts.
“Ouch.” He releases my hand and I snatch it away. “That hurt!”
He looks at me, quizzically, waiting.
“It’s gone.” I put my hand to my temple in disbelief. “My headache’s completely gone.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it? I told you it would work, didn’t I? My clever little brother.” Philippa looks at Mick proudly, but Mick keeps his eyes on me. He still doesn’t smile, but I can now see that there is a definite warmth in his expression, a hint of amusement. He stares at me for so long that I begin to feel embarrassed, feel my heart beating faster, the skin on my cheeks flush with color.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.” I turn away from his disconcerting gaze and look at Philippa. “Let’s have another drink,” I say, bringing my glass to my lips and draining the remainder quickly. I stand up. “Another one, Philippa? Do you want something, Mick?”
“No, thanks.” Philippa shakes her head.
“I’ll have a beer,” Mick says.
“Sure,” I say, and I head toward the bar.
“Wait!” he calls out. I turn back. He smiles at me, and I’m glad I’m not standing too close, that there’s no way he can hear the pounding of my heart, feel the tremble that has started in my hands. “Just say it’s for the band. It’s free.”
Beautiful Malice: A Novel Page 11
