Beautiful Malice: A Novel

by Rebecca James

  “We’ve got Mick’s drum set. And his records. His parents thought you might like to keep them.”

  I can’t bear to think of Mick’s silent drums, his unplayed music. But I nod my thanks and turn away, clasp my hand over my mouth.

  Mom puts her hand on my blanket, over my thigh, and runs it up and down my leg soothingly as she talks. “And we told them about the baby, of course.”

  “Oh,” I say, and I try to be polite, to show some interest, but I just want her to go away and leave me in peace. Let me howl in private. It seems odd that just a few days ago I cared so very much what everyone would think about the baby. It now seems completely irrelevant—the baby itself an impossibility.

  “They were shocked, of course, naturally, at first. But I think that they were pleased, in the end. It’s Mick’s baby, of course, and that’s something. Some consolation,” she says. And I nod, waiting for her to go, but she doesn’t move, and I can tell by the pressure of her hand, by the way she sighs, that there is something she wants to say.

  “They wanted me to tell you how much they appreciated what you did,” she says. “Trying to help him, risking your life.”

  I turn away.

  “You did everything you could.”

  But it wasn’t enough, I think, not nearly enough.

  I meet them for the first time at Mick’s funeral. Mick’s father looks like Philippa, his mother uncannily like Mick, and she pulls me close to her and hugs me tight. And I cling to her and breathe her in and eventually have to be forced to let her go.

  I spend the next six months living like a robot. I do all the right things—I eat well and get plenty of exercise walking around the neighborhood—but I feel disconnected from what is happening, uninterested in the baby. Mick’s parents visit a few times, and Philippa, and it is only when I’m with them, when I feel some connection to Mick, that I feel anything close to being alive. The rest of the time I feel like some kind of zombie. The walking dead.

  Labor starts the day before my due date, and in the beginning the pain makes me glad—it’s only physical, much easier to bear than the emotional agony I’ve become used to—and I feel a perverse sense of satisfaction as it gets increasingly worse and worse.

  But the pain lasts for two days and two nights and eventually becomes so immense and overwhelming that I beg the gods for it to stop and scream and shout at the nurses to help me, but they only nod and smile and tell me to crouch down and finally I am pushing, pushing, pushing the universe from between my legs, and then she is here. Sarah. Mick’s daughter. My baby girl.

  And I don’t know whether it’s the glorious cessation of pain or some kind of hormonal rush, but I feel a deep and overwhelming sense of love and gratitude. For my baby girl, for Mom and Philippa, who have helped me bring her into the world, for the nurses, for the entire world. I feel—as I haven’t felt since Mick died. And I lift my daughter, still slimy and wet from being born, and hold her against my chest, and I whisper a quiet prayer to Mick, a solemn promise, to protect and love our daughter forever. To keep her safe.

  39

  Robbie smiles. At first his smile is tentative, almost afraid, but when I smile back and nod, he beams, shakes his head, laughs. And in the next moment he is in front of me, his hands in mine.

  “My God. Katherine! It’s you. I can’t believe it. It’s really you.”

  Close up, I can see that he looks older—of course he does, it’s been five years—and it suits him. His face has become more masculine, squarer, more rugged, somehow.

  “Mommy, Mommy, who’s that man?” Sarah is tugging at my leg, looking up at Robbie curiously. He crouches down so that his eyes are level with hers.

  “Hello. I’m Robbie. I’m an old friend of your mommy’s.”

  Sarah tilts her head, gazes at Robbie intensely. “But you don’t look old. You don’t look like Nan and Pop!”

  Robbie laughs, and Sarah, unable to resist the lure of the hill, collects her toboggan and begins dragging it back up.

  Robbie and I stand side by side, watching her. “She’s beautiful,” he tells me. “Gorgeous.”

  “Yes. She looks like her father.”

  “And you.”

  There are a billion and one things I’d like to say to him—a conversation that could go on for hours—but right here, right now, I can think of nothing to say, not a word. And we stand there, the two of us silent, until he puts his hand on my arm.

  “I’ve got to get back to work. I can’t really stop like this.” He turns to look at the crowd of people on skis behind us. “They’re waiting.”

  “Sure,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “Of course.”

  “It was great seeing you,” he says. “A bit of a shock.”

  “Completely unexpected.” Now that I know he is going and I am safe, I can look him squarely in the eyes. “A lovely shock, though. It was great seeing you, too.”

  He squeezes my arm, nods, turns away. I am about to go and follow Sarah back up the hill when he calls my name.

  I turn back. “Yes?”

  “Are you busy later? Tonight? Do you want to have dinner?”

  We agree that it would be best to have dinner in my cabin so that Sarah’s routine isn’t disrupted.

  Robbie arrives at six-thirty with the ingredients for a meal. Sarah has already eaten and had a bath and is tucked up on the sofa in her pajamas, totally entranced by a DVD.

  Robbie sits next to her and talks about the characters in the movie while I open a bottle of wine. We sit at the small round table, opposite each other.

  At first we are overly polite and our conversation feels awkward. We talk of the weather, of work, of things neither of us really cares about, but eventually, finally, Robbie mentions Alice.

  “Did you miss her? That first year when you were in Europe?” I ask him.

  “Yes.” He nods. “I did, despite everything she’d done. I missed her a lot. At first, before she died, I was tempted to come home. I kept thinking that I just wanted to be with her, no matter what she’d done. And then there was no point. I didn’t even come back for the funeral. I couldn’t handle it.”

  “No. I know. I didn’t go, either.” And I look down at my hands, which are clasped tightly together on the table. I’m ashamed, now, of my spite, my anger. “I hated her so much by then that it would have been hypocritical. I was glad she was dead. I couldn’t go to her funeral and pretend to grieve. I hated her.”

  “Katherine,” Robbie says, and I look up at him. He shakes his head, smiles tenderly. “Of course you hated her. It was only natural. It was her fault that Mick died, everyone knew that. You were pregnant and really happy for the first time in years, and she ruined that for you. Of course you hated her. I hated her for that, too.”

  “Did you even consider coming back for the funeral?” I ask him.

  “No. Not really. My dad called me and told me that she’d drowned. He saw it in the papers and he ended up calling your mother. She told him everything—about Mick, about Alice’s brother, Sean, and the whole connection with your sister, and it was just so shocking, so disgusting … I couldn’t face it. It made me question everything, my entire relationship with Alice, all those months the three of us thought we were friends. Was it all just some kind of sick game? Was anything real? I was so angry with her. I couldn’t have come to her funeral.”

  “I wondered that, too. Whether any of it was real or not. The whole friendship—I mean, did she secretly hate me the whole time? Was she just waiting until she could get her revenge?” I shrug, smile bitterly. “I certainly chose the wrong school, didn’t I? Of all the schools, I had to choose the one where Alice went.”

  “But how did she even know you? How did she know who you were?”

  “She must have recognized me. From a newspaper photo, I guess. Her parents found all this stuff in her apartment after she died. A whole thick file on the court case. Newspaper clippings, court transcripts, everything. There were photos of me and Rachel. She must have seen me walk
into that high school and thought all her dreams had come true. From the very beginning, she knew who I was and what had happened.”

  “Jesus. It’s so creepy. So wrong.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, leaning forward and looking at me intently. “I’m sorry now that I didn’t come back. I should’ve come back and helped you, been a better friend. I should’ve come back, for your sake.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “You couldn’t have done anything. You couldn’t have helped. It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  Robbie is quiet and I’m afraid that I’ve hurt his feelings.

  “Robbie?” I say.

  “Just thinking of all the time I wasted because of her. Of all the time I wasted missing her, wanting her, when all of it, absolutely all of it, was a lie. I’d have been better off loving a rock.”

  I laugh. “At least you wouldn’t have expected anything from a rock. It couldn’t have disappointed you.”

  “True.” And though he is smiling, his eyes are wet with tears. “And my dad, you know. I didn’t speak to him for a year because of her. And it was stupid, a complete waste; the thing with Alice wasn’t even his fault, he was set up, just like the rest of us. And I stayed angry with him, even when I’d heard that she was dead. I don’t even know why. And that still pisses me off now, you know, that year of us not being friends, my dad and me. Because of her.”

  “It’s funny, though,” I say, and I look over at Sarah, who is now asleep on the sofa, her thumb in her mouth. “I regret so much about that time and I wish, almost every day, that things had turned out differently. But I can never really regret meeting Alice, can I? If I hadn’t met her, I would never have met Mick. I wouldn’t have had Sarah. How can I regret that? It’s impossible to wish your own child away.”

  “You have to regret that Mick died. He was innocent, completely uninvolved. Alice is why he died. But you can’t regret Sarah, can you? It’s weird, isn’t it? Everything to do with her was weird,” he says, his voice bitter. “It was all screwed up.”

  “You’re still angry?” I ask. “You still hate her?”

  “A bit,” he admits. He smiles ruefully. “But only when I think about her. Which isn’t that much anymore. What about you? Are you still angry?”

  And as I think about it, look into myself, examine the tender spots within and search for the deep, hot core of anger that burned for so long, I realize it has gone. “I think I just feel a whole lot of pity for her.”

  Robbie raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “I know it might sound very insincere. All new-agey. But she didn’t know how to care about anyone but herself. She wasn’t taught to love. Her own mother didn’t love her. Can you imagine what that must be like?” I glance over at Sarah, whom I love more than life itself. “Alice was empty inside. Heartless. Living like that would be hell.”

  Robbie nods but doesn’t look convinced.

  “I can see it,” I continue, “in Sarah. She watches me, copies me. If I’m kind, she’s kind. If I’m loving, then so is she. Imagine not having any influence like that. Imagine not being taught to love other people. It would damage you horribly.”

  “Maybe.” Robbie shrugs. “Maybe that explains some stuff about her. But that doesn’t completely absolve her. Not in my eyes. Other people have it worse and grow up to be decent human beings.”

  We are quiet for a while, both of us preoccupied with our private thoughts.

  “Anyway, I’ve missed you,” I tell Robbie. “I didn’t realize how much until tonight. But I’ve really missed you.”

  “And me you,” he says. “The only difference is that I knew how much I missed you. From the day I left.”

  “But you didn’t try to stay in touch?”

  “No.” He shrugs. “Before Alice drowned, I deliberately didn’t contact you. I just thought it would make it too hard to stay away. Talking to you. Missing you. Missing her. And then after Alice died I was in shock. I was depressed, I think. A bit. And then after a while, I just didn’t know if you’d want to hear from me. I had heaps I wanted to say, though. I wrote a hundred long e-mails that I ended up deleting.”

  “I wish you’d sent them.”

  “Me, too.”

  And we smile, keep our hands clasped together, drink our wine.

  Robbie cooks dinner, and we talk for so long, so late into the night, that I invite him to spend the night with Sarah and me in the cabin. He sleeps in the big bed next to me. It’s not sexual. Robbie wears a T-shirt and a pair of my pajama bottoms. I wear a modest winter nightie. But it’s nice to have a warm adult body in the bed next to me, good to feel a little pampered. And when Sarah comes in the middle of the night, she laughs delightedly to find him there and insists on snuggling down between us.

  I watch Robbie—his eyes drowsy—adjust Sarah’s pillow, tuck the blankets up over her, smile tenderly.

  Robbie makes breakfast, scrambled eggs and toast, and the three of us eat companionably together.

  “Are you going to be my daddy?” Sarah asks out of the blue, her mouth full of eggs.

  “Sarah!” I try to laugh it off. “Don’t be silly.”

  But Robbie doesn’t act shocked or contradict Sarah, he simply smiles. And I’m glad that he doesn’t look at me, because I can feel my face burning hot.

  I walk him out to his car when it’s time for him to go. Sarah clings to his leg, begs him to stay.

  “I can’t,” he says, laughing. “I have to teach people to ski. I have to help keep them safe on the mountain.”

  “When are you coming back?” she asks. “I’ll let you go if you tell me when.”

  He looks at me—and in his look there is a question, a choice—but I’ve already made my choice, I made it the day Mick died, and I will not let the world hurt me again.

  I turn away, bend over to pick Sarah up, and bury my face in her hair so that I don’t have to meet his eyes. “Robbie’s a very busy man, darling,” I say. “He doesn’t have time to come back here.”

  “Auntie Pip, Auntie Pip!” Sarah pushes open the door and lets it slam shut behind her as she darts straight down the path to meet Philippa. Philippa beams and scoops her up, envelops her in an enormous hug.

  “Baby-cakes,” she says. “I’ve missed you.”

  Philippa is taking Sarah to the zoo for the day while I fill out college applications. Sarah will be starting school next year, and I will have time, finally, to continue my studies.

  Philippa walks up the driveway, and we embrace. We go inside, and she collects Sarah’s things—her water bottle, her hat, her favorite doll.

  “I’ll bring her back at about three. We might have lunch at McDonald’s or something. A treat,” she says.

  “McDonald’s?” Sarah bounces with excitement. “Really? Can we, Mommy? Can we?”

  “What a good idea,” I say. “You lucky thing.”

  We take Sarah out to Philippa’s car and buckle her into the baby seat that’s there just for her. When I’ve said good-bye to Sarah and closed the door, Philippa reaches out, a scrap of paper in her hand.

  “This is from Robbie,” she tells me. “It’s his phone number. He wants you to call him.”

  “Oh.” I don’t take the paper. Instead, I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets. “You saw him?”

  “He called me. He wants to see you. He really wants to see you, Katherine.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “No. I don’t want to. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just … I just don’t want to.”

  “You don’t want to? Or you’re too scared to?”

  “I dunno.” I shrug. “Scared, I guess.”

  “Why?” Philippa lifts her eyebrows. “Because he might die?”

  “No. Of course not. No.” I shake my head and rub my eyes. I just wish she would hurry up and go. Leave me alone. “Maybe. All right. Yes. I don’t know.”

  And then she steps forward, takes my hand in hers, speaks quietly and gent
ly.

  “Do you ever think about the kind of example you’re setting for Sarah?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never taking any risks. Being so cautious and afraid all the time.”

  “Afraid? Really?” I turn to look at Sarah in the car. She is busy talking to her doll, fixing her hair. “Is that how she sees me?”

  “Not yet. But she will when she’s older.” Philippa squeezes my hand. “If you don’t try to be happy. If you don’t live your life with some courage.”

  And it’s that word that does it. Courage. I take the scrap of paper from her hand and push it deep into my pocket. Through the car window, I bend down and kiss Sarah good-bye.

  Courage.

  “Hello?”

  He answers almost immediately. But I find myself unable to say a word. I’m suddenly terrified. I hold my hand over the mouthpiece and use all my energy just to keep breathing.

  “Hello?” he says again, and then, “Katherine? Is that you? Katherine?”

  It takes a moment to find my voice but when I do it is more in control, more substantial, than I’d expected. “Can you come over, Robbie?” I say. “Today?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I’ll be there soon. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” And he doesn’t try to play it cool or hide his enthusiasm, and I remember how much I like him, how funny and kind and good and generous he is. And I know, without a doubt, that I’ve done the right thing.

  Acknowledgments

  A heartfelt thank you to Jo Unwin, who is not only a brilliant and indefatigable literary agent but also a talented editor and an inspiring, warm, and generally fantastic individual.

  To my editors—Sarah Brenan in Australia, Kate Miciak in the United States, and Julia Heydon-Wells in the United Kingdom—thank you thank you and thank you for helping to make this book so much better.