‘OK, let’s go see your grandma.’
When we reach the door of the lounge I see that Blake and his mother are involved in an intense discussion. As soon as her eyes catch our arrival she stops talking, and, smiling widely, stands to greet her grandson.
‘Oh, what a beautiful child,’ she exclaims. ‘Blue eyes and a round face. A moon child. Just like you, Blake,’ she says.
‘No, he’s not,’ Blake retorts harshly and I wonder what they are really referring to.
She laughs and holds her beautifully preserved hands, the tips pale pink ovals, out to Sorab.
But Sorab only buries his face in my neck, and looks longingly at his father, at the place where he really wants to go.
‘He’s a bit reserved with strangers,’ I explain apologetically.
‘Hello,’ she coos brightly, but still buried in my hair, Sorab turns his face fractionally towards her, and stares at her unsmiling.
‘He doesn’t tend to say much,’ I add.
Helena laughs. ‘He’s exactly like you, Blake. This is exactly how you were.’
I look at Blake. He is watching us without expression. When he catches my eyes, his lips curve upwards. Helena goes back to her seat and snaps open her white crocodile handbag with an expensive clunk, the discreet whiff of perfumed new leather, and a glimpse of the exclusive Gadino label. She fidgets about inside it and comes up with a lollipop, which she then unwraps slowly and deliberately, as she comes toward us. It is on the tip of my tongue to tell her that we have not introduced him to sweets or sugar, but I resist the urge. Fascinated, Sorab looks at the tantalizingly red lollipop. He wants it.
‘Go on,’ she encourages. ‘It’s for you.’
He snatches his hand out, but she pulls the sweet out of his reach. He stops and regards her. She opens her arms out and he rears back and watches her steadily. She offers him the lollipop and again he reaches for it only to have it drawn back. Any other child would have cried but he waits quietly, aware that it will be offered again. When it is, he lunges for it so hard, he almost jumps out of my arms. Helena is so taken aback by surprise that she doesn’t react in time, and Sorab grabs the prize in his fat hands and falls back against me.
Before anyone else can take it away from him he pops it greedily into his mouth while eying Helena with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Helena laughs delightedly and turns toward Blake.
‘Turns out he’s a chip off the old block. He’ll take, but he won’t give.’
I gasp at the insult, but Blake stands and says smoothly, ‘We have to go. I’m taking this little fellow here to the kiddie pool. Do you want to spend some time with him tomorrow morning?’
Helena smiles and nods gratefully, and for the first time I realize that she must have the normal instincts of a grandmother. At that moment my heart melts a little. She cannot be all bad. I will be as nice as I can to her.
‘All right,’ Blake says. ‘I’ll have the nanny come around to your suite at about eleven a.m., but please don’t give him any more sweets.’ Blake holds his hands out and Sorab eagerly leaves me for the higher perch.
Helena turns toward me. ‘Will you have tea with me tomorrow, Lana?’
That takes me by surprise. I turn to look at Blake, but he is watching me expressionlessly. Up to me.
My hands are suddenly clammy. ‘That will be nice,’ I accept.
‘Good, that’s settled then. See you at four.’
‘See you then,’ I say, and we leave her at the table. I dare not glance back, but I can feel her eyes on us until we get out of the door, and turn the corner.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘That was intense.’
‘You don’t have to go tomorrow, you know?’
‘I know that. I’ll be OK,’ I say, and kissing them both, go off in search of Billie.
I find Billie lying on her front on a sun lounger. Her bikini top is undone and her back is evenly brown. She opens her eyes and looks at me while I take off my shift dress and, rubbing some of the suntan lotion that her mother makes at home on my shoulders and stomach, sit down beside her.
‘Well, did he bite her?’ she asks languidly.
I slather more onto my arms. ‘No, he didn’t, but he tricked her into giving up her lollipop, and then refused to go to her afterwards.’
‘Lollipop?’ Billie says, lifting her head, suddenly cheered by the thought of a fresh grievance. ‘That’s not fair. How come I’m not allowed to give him sweets and she is?’
I smile inwardly and start on my legs. ‘She’s not either. Blake’s already told her not to.’
She leans the side of her head on her elbow. ‘What was his reaction to the lollipop?'
‘His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head, he liked it that much.’
She laughs. ‘I hope you caught it on your phone?’
‘No, I was too much in a state.’ I put the lotion on the floor between us and lie down.
‘Shame. I’d have loved to have seen it.’
I close my eyes. ‘You know what? I’ll keep Sorab tonight. You hit the town with Brian and enjoy yourself.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve really, really missed that mischievous, little runt. I’ve decided I’ll never be so far away and so out of touch from him again. Besides, it’s your holiday too.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘I’ll go see one of those shows where the girls shoot ping-pong balls out of their fannies.’
I open my eyes. ‘You’re going to see a sex show?’
‘Yeah, Brian’s promised to take me.’
I laugh and lie back down. ‘Right. Tell me all about it tomorrow at breakfast.’
‘Do you want to have dinner at the Moon rooftop bar terrace?’ Blake asks when I get back to the room.
‘I know it’s a must do, and I do, but not tonight. Tonight, can we just order room service and stay with Sorab?’
And so that is what we do. We have a beautiful night together, the three of us. After dinner, we bathe Sorab together, and play with him, until he gets tired. Then we take him to our bed and cuddle up together. Finally, as he does whenever Blake is around, he crawls on top of his father’s body, and falls asleep.
We talk in whispers late into the night and go to sleep with Sorab’s warm, small body tucked between us. My last thought as I fall into sleep is that I can’t believe just how lucky I am.
Seven
Victoria Jane Montgomery
A nurse takes me to the evaluating psychiatrist later in the afternoon. The door opens and I see a man sitting at a desk. He is very still, but his eyes, behind his spectacles, are alert and intelligent. I can tell instantly that he is a man of great cultivation and charm who will speak with imagination and humor.
He stands and welcomes me as if I wasn’t a patient, but a guest. It is an act, naturally, but one he excels at. You see, he wants to see me as whole, but he cannot help turning me into parts—the parts that work and those that don’t.
I already know his name. One of the orderlies mentioned it and it is on his door. Dr. J. McBride. Anyway, he extends his hand, which surprises me. I put my hand in his and he looks at me with deliberately expressionless eyes. So he is hiding. He doesn’t want me to know how very curious he is about the Montgomery heir who has fallen under his care.
I smile serenely at him.
Someone opens the door and calls him outside. I am not sure that it is not just a ruse to see what I will do left to my own devices. When he leaves I move toward the window. The vast grounds are empty. Patients are not allowed out. Smokers have a small barred balcony to do their deed. I gaze at the sky.
‘What are you doing?’ he says, from the door.
I turn to face him. ‘Listening to the birdsong,’ I lie. I had been thinking of the phoenix. Remembering that night when the sky had split open and he had dropped out of the light-filled crack. Wondering where he came from, where he has gone to.
He relaxes, his disquiet stilled. He is probably of the opinion that people who
listen out for birdsong, whatever their inner difficulties, or however shattered, must be lovely, or harmless at worst.
‘You were listening rather than watching,’ he adds.
‘Yes, yes. Exactly that. The starlings were Mozart’s muse. Ein Musikalischer Spass.’
He smiles, pleased. It is now obvious to both of us that there could be something not quite right with me, but that I am definitely not mad.
‘Birdsong is organized chaos,’ he says.
I whip my head around. Ah, Ordo ab chaos. Order out of chaos. So: he is one of us. My father has seen to it. Excellent. Eventually it will be useful. I used to be too impatient to be a good chess player, but now I have the time. To think. To plan. To make my moves.
‘Will you permit me to examine you?’ he asks so graciously, it is as if I had a say in the matter.
I smile my acquiescence. It seems Dr. McBride and I will get on just fine.
The routine of a neurological exam is soothing: reflexes, muscle strength, coordination, tone, visual acuity, hearing, senses, and solving puzzles. Some are repeats I have already performed with the nurses, but I accept the intrusion demurely. When he scratches a pen on the soles of my feet I giggle and he looks at me with an expression that is almost one of fatherly concern.
‘Tickles,’ I explain, with a smile. He smiles back.
‘That ought to do it,’ he declares finally.
‘I was wondering,’ I begin casually, ‘what are your thoughts on the subject of hallucinations?’
It is immediately obvious that it was a mistake to ask. A thin veil comes over his eyes.
‘In the West there is cruel misunderstanding of the condition, often thought to portent madness so many people are unwilling to share their experiences. But in other cultures hallucinations are regarded as a privileged state of consciousness that is actively sought using hallucinogens, solitude, spiritual practices and meditation. Do you…have hallucinations?’ His words are deeply enlightened but his eyes are a trap for the unwary. They watch me suspiciously.
‘Just once, as a teenager, when I dropped an acid tablet,’ I say softly.
‘Ah,’ his voice clears. ‘Do you ever hear voices or see things?’
I look at him calmly. ‘No.’
The veil lifts. How easily I made that small doubt go away. ‘At some stage we’ll have to talk about what you did at the wedding, if that’s all right?’
I smile tightly. ‘Of course.’
‘We’ll need to examine that particularly heightened state of anxiety that you found yourself in.’
‘I’m afraid I lost touch with reality. I was awfully depressed and angry. I didn’t think. I’ve never done anything like that before. Besides, I wasn’t really planning to hurt her. I just wanted to frighten her.’
He gazes at me, harmless as an old goat, as he tries to figure out if I am being honest.
I bend my head. ‘Honest, I didn’t mean to hurt her. And I am terribly sorry for what I did.’
And, surprisingly, he pats my hand reassuringly.
Eight
Lana Barrington
In the morning we go downstairs to an amazing buffet breakfast spread. The profusion of food is quite frankly a shock to me. A vast selection of local dishes, omelets made to order, rice porridge, toasts, cakes, pastries, cut fruit, different kinds of cereal. Blake has bacon and eggs and I have pancakes with maple syrup and fruit. Sorab nibbles on fruit.
Blake offers to keep Sorab for the day while I do some shopping with Billie. ‘I want you to buy a very short, white dress. One of those stretchy materials if possible.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ll find out tonight.’
‘OK,’ I agree with a grin. ‘What will you guys do?’
‘We haven’t decided. It’s between going to see the tigers or Kidzania.’
‘Don’t go see the tigers without me,’ I wail.
‘That’s decided that, then. It will be Kidzania for us.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and plant a very noisy kiss on Sorab’s nose, which he immediately wipes.
We leave the breakfast lounge together and separate in the lift. Sorab blows flying kisses as the lift doors close on us. I walk along the corridor and knock on Billie’s door. She opens it with half-closed eyes, and walking away from me tumbles back into her bed.
‘Good morning,’ I say brightly.
‘What time is it?’ she croaks from under the pillow.
‘After ten.’
She rolls off the bed and drags herself into the bathroom. I open the curtains to let the sunlight through the ceiling to floor windows. I am standing at the window looking out at Bangkok when she comes out in the hotel-provided robe, her face washed, and her wet hair wrapped in a towel.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ she asks.
‘Yup. They have a beautiful spread downstairs. Want to go?’
‘Are you kidding? I’m not eating that shite.’
She picks up the phone and orders breakfast: a bowl of jam and a glass of pineapple juice. I shake my head, and she raises one weary, don’t-say-it eyebrow. She puts down the phone and goes to sit on the bed.
‘So tell me about last night, then,’ I urge impatiently.
Billie lights a fag, takes a huge lungful, and exhales slowly. ‘Brian took me to Bangla Street. I was doing cartwheels with the excitement of seeing a live pussy show, and boy was that street crammed with touts selling ping-pong shows. They were so aggressive as well. One would grab your arm, you’d shake him off, and literally two feet later your arm would be grabbed again. They all carried like a large laminated menu of things the girls in their clubs could do with their pussies. Most of them acted too vague and shady when Brian asked about prices, saying that would be decided at the club. Anyway, one guy was willing to give Brian definite prices so we followed him.’
There is a knock on the door and Billie goes to open it. A hotel staff comes in with a tray of Billie’s bowl of jam, a teaspoon and a glass of juice. She signs his receipt, tips him, and he goes out, closing the door after himself. Billie has a sip of her juice and lifts the dome to expose her bowl of jam.
‘God, I’m starving,’ she says. She grinds out her cigarette and, yanking the towel over her head, drops it on a chair. Lifting the spoon she starts spooning jam into her mouth as she walks to the bed. It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I see it—Billie polishing off a bowl of jam for breakfast. I never thought a human being could exist on jam, chocolates, and pizza.
‘There were about twenty-five different things the girls at his club could do. They could shoot ping-pong balls out of their fannies, sew with them, work their muscles so violently that they turned water into soda, open the tops of beer bottles.'
‘Open a beer bottle?’ I interject, shocked, despite myself.
She nods sagely. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. The guy took us to this place—small and smoky, and lit up like a comedy club, but somehow very seedy. There were tables around a stage. We were given one that was so close I could rest my feet at the wooden edge of the stage. The only other people were an elderly European couple, a lone man with a huge beer belly—German probably—and a Chinese or Japanese couple huddled together looking bewildered.
‘Anyway, we ordered our drinks. Apparently, what was unfolding on the stage was the last segment of another show. This girl was filling her vagina with ping-pong balls. She then shot them out with mind-zapping force at the audience. The funny thing was the elderly couple took a few in the chest and head and did not even flinch or duck as the balls hit them. No one clapped when it was over. It was all very odd.’
Billie scrapes her spoon on the bowl, licks the spoon and waves it around.
‘She had straight, long hair, a cute little arse and a tattoo around her belly button which I really liked, but believe me, the only thing she communicated was boredom. I actually can’t remember when I have seen someone look more bored. At this point a group of noisy Aussie sur
fer boy types walked in. As they took their places a man brought a birthday cake and deposited it on the stage. The girl sat behind it, inserted a straw into her fanny, and blew out the six candles on it while the Aussie boys cheered her on with wolf whistles.’
Billie pulls a cigarette out of a box, lights it, and takes a full drag.
‘Then she walked off and another girl walked on. This one, who looked pretty similar to the last one, danced and gyrated a few seconds around a metal pole and then came to the front of the stage, suddenly opened her legs, and fuck me, out plopped a live gerbil. The Aussies were loving it—they screamed and howled—but I was totally horrified.’
She shudders with the memory. ‘You know how much I love gerbils. That’s mental cruelty right there. The poor thing looked drenched and confused. It tried to run off, but the man who had brought the birthday cake came out from behind the curtains, picked it off by its tail, and walked off with it. That put me right off.’
From the time she told me about the gerbil my hand had flown to my mouth in shock. An uncomfortable giggle escapes me. ‘What happened then?’
‘Then she played a recorder with her pussy, which I have to admit was pretty damn impressive. And after that the way she then opened the beer bottle was fucking freaky. She simply squatted down over it, and popped its top off in seconds. By the time she turned water into soda water, the Aussies were starting to get downright rowdy, the single man was leaning forward eagerly, and I had started to feel icky about my moronic decision to go there. I felt really sorry for those women.’
She taps the ash off the end of her cigarette and scratches her leg where a mosquito had bitten her the night before.
‘It’s worse than being a prostitute. At least prostitutes suffer their degradations in private. But these poor women… All of them had the same blank expression. I guess mentally each one had switched off, and taken her mind to a different place.
‘At that point I shot a look at Brian and he had an expression of pity on his face. So we left. But not before we had a massive row about the bill with a big woman on ugly pills and her walrus-faced helper. They had added all these extras on and inflated the bill by about ten times. Brian refused to pay and told them to call the police. That stopped them cold.’
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