‘Not really,’ she said drowsily now, ‘just tall.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean just that, because I’m so tall, and kind of noticeable, people think I’m more different than I am. Imagine I’m six inches shorter and see if you can think of anything else really different about me.’
‘You’re more beautiful than most girls.’
‘That’s not different though. And anyway, there are lots more beautiful than me. Anyway, I’m not. I can look really dire.’
‘I’ll take that on trust,’ he said, ‘but I find it hard to believe.’
‘That was great,’ she said, looking at him consideringly. ‘Really great. I enjoyed it.’
‘Good,’ he said. He was afraid she didn’t really mean it.
She had kissed him briefly, and turned away and fallen asleep; it was almost five. He had slept too, curled round her, echoing her long body, almost as long as his, thinking how different it was from encircling Briony’s small frame.
And as he lay, enduring his physical misery, he kept returning to Briony, to thoughts of Briony, and to the sort of man who could turn from a beloved partner of four years and within a week of her leaving his life could find himself not just enjoying another woman physically, but disturbed, emotionally troubled by her; and thinking how shallow, faithless, worthless such a man must be. And unable to endure those particular thoughts, he got up, the better to leave them behind him, found a towel, showered, dressed – God, how he hated not having clean clothes – and made Kirsten a cup of tea, laid it by her bed, kissed her tumbled hair slightly awkwardly and went back into the kitchen. It was a horror movie: heaped up, overflowing ashtrays, dirty glasses with dregs of wine and fag ends in them, plates piled hastily on every surface including the floor and the windowsill, dirty knives and forks parked in the kind of places that make sense to people at parties, in empty saucepans and beer mugs, jugs, plant pots, on magazines, even a few in the slots of the toaster. The living room was similarly accessorised (knives and forks in vases, plates parked unsteadily on the books in the bookshelf), with cushions stripped off sofas and piled on the floor, presumably to provide more sitting space, various clothes that people had left behind, including inexplicably a pair of brand new men’s shoes, and for some reason which had no doubt seemed good at the time, one of the curtains was caught up in a huge knot. There were a couple of burns on the arm of a sofa, and a very nasty looking bit of spillage on the beige carpet, but it could have been much worse.
He had started tidying up, because he felt he had no option, could not leave it, but she suddenly appeared in the doorway, stark naked, mug of tea in hand, and told him to stop.
‘Don’t spoil some very good memories. I would truly, hand on heart, rather do it slowly, on my own, when I’m feeling better. Tory said she’d come and help, not that I feel too fond of her, bringing that slag round, but please, Gray, don’t you do it.’
‘Well,’ he said, fairly easily persuaded, for his queasiness had been increasing with his task, ‘well, if you’re sure.’
‘I’m sure. Come and talk to me. I’m going back to bed.’
‘OK. As long as it’s only talk. I don’t think I could manage any more.’
‘You disappoint me,’ she had said, smiling, pushing back her hair. He followed her into the bedroom, aroused again to his own surprise by the sight of her high, taut buttocks, her long, long thighs, and the fall of her breasts as she got into bed, pulled the quilt up and lay back on the pile of pillows.
‘You’re lovely,’ he said again.
‘Thank you. And thanks for the tea. Gray – ’
‘Yes?’
‘Gray, it was lovely. Really lovely. I mean it. But I think – well, I think that should be that, don’t you? I mean we don’t want to start thinking it’s serious, or that we’re in love or anything, do we?’
‘No,’ he said, carefully careless, ‘no of course not. And anyway, you don’t believe in it, do you? In love?’
‘How do you know that?’ she said, staring at him.
‘You told me so. The first time we met.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t, no, it’s true. Oh God – ’ And she began to cry.
‘Hey now,’ he said, moving nearer to her, pushing her hair back from her face, ‘don’t, don’t, what’s this about?’
‘I’m such a cow. Such a bitch. I just go crashing through life, doing terrible things to people, taking what I want, I’m so selfish, so bloody immature – ’
This last was so patently true that he had to smile. ‘Well, I don’t quite agree with all of that,’ he said.
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. Not at all. Not one bit. I think you’re wonderful. Warts and all.’
‘I haven’t got any warts, have I?’ she said, half-anxious.
‘Of course you haven’t. Old saying.’
‘So you don’t think I’m awful?’
‘No,’ he said tenderly, passing her a handkerchief, ‘I don’t think you’re awful at all. I hope you don’t think I am either.’
‘Of course I don’t. Why should I?’
‘Well – one minute I’m crying on your shoulder about my girlfriend and how I miss her, and the next I’m in bed with you. Not very gentlemanly behaviour.’
‘You seem quite gentlemanly to me,’ she said, unexpectedly. ‘I like it. I really do like it. And you. But now you must go. Please, Gray. Thank you for everything, but please go.’
And that, it seemed, was that: dismissal. No messing: just dismissal. He had served her (probably, in spite of what she had said, not very well) and distracted both of them from their individual miseries, and now he was to go.
‘Fine,’ was all he said, and kissed her briefly on the mouth. It stirred memories of the first time he had kissed her, in the Harbour Club the day after the story broke in the Graphic, strong sensual memories; he would have given a great deal to be back there, at that point in time again.
Chapter Twelve
‘Got some change, lady?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten briskly, looking at the huddled figure in the sleeping bag with distaste, ‘and please get off my doorstep at once, or I shall call the police and – ’
‘Kirsten, you have a heart of stone.’
‘Barnaby! Barnaby, you slime bag. God, you almost gave me a heart attack. What on earth are you doing here, and why didn’t you tell anyone you were back? Come on inside, oh God, it’s good to see you – ’
She took his hand, pulled him out of the sleeping bag and into the flat, hugging him, kissing him. She adored her brother. Even though he was so undoubtedly the favourite. Of both her parents. Even though he was never there when you needed him. Even though he got away with murder, over and over again …
‘Right, now,’ she said, pushing him down into a chair in the kitchen, ‘beer?’
He nodded, grinning at her. ‘Several. Please.’
‘It’s so good to see you. But you look awfully thin – ’
‘I am awfully thin. That’s India for you. Talk about Delhi Belly – ’
‘I didn’t even know you were going to India.’
‘Nor did I till a month ago. It seemed like a good idea. Now not so good – ’
‘Do you feel OK?’
‘Just about. Bloody tired. Long flight.’
‘Why didn’t you let me meet you?’
‘I couldn’t get hold of you. Or Tory. Or even Horton.’
‘Francesca?’
‘Out. When I phoned anyway. And Sandie said she didn’t know how long she’d be.’
‘I bet Sandie was glad you were back.’
‘Yeah, she just about had an orgasm,’ said Barnaby modestly. ‘Said she’d drive down and meet me herself, but Francesca had left the kids with her. In the end I got the Tube.’
‘Oh poor Barnaby. What a welcome. But why are you so suddenly home? I thought you were staying at least another month.’
‘I just
felt so lousy I had to get back. I don’t just have gut-rot, Kirsten, I don’t have any guts left. They’ve gone right down the pan - literally.’
‘Yes all right,’ said Kirsten hastily, ‘spare me the details. Do you think you should see the doctor?’
‘Nah. I’ll be OK. I’d like a meal though. Got anything in the house?’
‘No I haven’t. I’ll go down to the Europa. What’d you like?’
‘Something totally bland. Like chicken soup and – yeah, really gooey white bread. The sort that bungs you right up, you know?’
‘Yes Barnaby, I know. I’d forgotten how disgusting you were.’
She sat watching him eat it, studying his gaunt sunburnt face, his tangled long blond hair, his bony wrists and thin arms.
‘Barnaby, you look as if you’ve got – well, are you all right?’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, I swear. Haven’t got anything really nasty. You should have seen the other fellows.’
‘What other fellows?’
‘Oh, the ones I came back with. That was good, Kirsten. Really good. Thanks a lot. How’s things?’
‘Oh – all right. Nothing you want to hear about,’ said Kirsten. ‘Not yet anyway.’
‘How’s Tory?’
‘She’s fine. Terribly busy, of course – ’
‘Of course.’
‘And in love with some ghastly person. Spends most of her time at his place.’
‘What about you? You in love?’
‘No of course not. Not love. You know I don’t believe in it.’
‘Anyone around even, then?’
‘I – well I – ’
‘Come on, Kirsten, tell me. What’s going on in your life?’
‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’
Not quite true; she did. She wanted to very much, but not with Barnaby. However much she loved him. He was hardly going to understand that once again she had fouled up everything, put a perfectly good fun relationship in jeopardy by going to bed with someone else in a fit of pique, someone else she really liked and moreover to whom she owed a lot, someone she had no business using in such a way, someone who really didn’t deserve to be hurt …
Barnaby shrugged. ‘OK. Later maybe.’
‘Maybe.’
The phone rang; please, please don’t let that be Gray, she thought, please don’t make me have to handle that now.
It wasn’t Gray, it was Toby.
‘I just called to let you know I’d been thinking about you,’ he said.
‘Nice for you,’ said Kirsten carefully.
‘Not very. I really didn’t like what you did on Saturday, Kirsten. I thought it sucked.’
‘Oh really? Well, I’m very glad you shared that with me, Toby. I didn’t like what you were doing too much either.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake. I was only dancing with the bloody girl.’
‘Funny sort of dancing, Tobes. Your hands in her knickers, your tongue down her throat …’
‘Oh shut up,’ he said, ‘you sound like some pathetic jealous schoolgirl. Anyway, I really think we’ve reached the end of the road, don’t you? Well, speaking for myself I have. I feel pretty sorry for that poor geezer. No doubt he’s been totally taken in by you, thinks you’re no end of a nice girl. Well, he’ll find out, no doubt. Poor old guy. How old is he, Kirsten? Thirty-five, forty? Your father complex is really beginning to show. Does he know about your father complex yet? I suppose if he’s got any brains at all he’ll be able to work it out. Cheers, Kirsten. I won’t say see you around because I’d rather not.’
Kirsten slammed the phone down and went very quickly over to the fridge, got out a bottle of wine and started stabbing rather blindly at it with the corkscrew.
‘Hey, let me do that,’ said Barnaby. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘Who was that? Sounded like Toby to me.’
‘It was,’ said Kirsten.
‘You still seeing him then? I’m amazed.’
‘Not any more,’ said Kirsten, trying to smile.
He came over, handed her a glass of wine, gave her a hug. ‘It’s really nice to see you,’ he said, and grinned at her. Kirsten hugged him back and thought if she did love anyone on earth it was probably Barnaby. She poured him another beer, sat down and looked at him.
‘What are you going to do next?’ she said.
‘Oh – I don’t know. Going to uni again in October. Till then bum around. I’ll have to get some money pretty quick. I’m broke. Owe one of the lads a few hundred. You got any?’
‘You have to be kidding. And if you’re thinking of asking Dad, don’t be too hopeful. He’s off family life, he’s not speaking to me, he’s in a permanently foul mood, Tory says, and he seems to be away most of the time. Oh and the baby’s ill, got something wrong with her heart.’
‘Really? That’s bad. How’s Francesca coping?’
‘I really wouldn’t know,’ said Kirsten coldly. ‘We’re not exactly bosom friends. Especially since – ’
‘Especially since what?’
‘Oh – I blabbed to some ghastly woman journalist one night when I was drunk. And she published it all in letters a foot high in some Sunday rag. Not good.’
‘Not good. Kirsten, you are an airhead sometimes.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and Liam’s in hospital. Had a car crash, drunk driving.’
‘Blimey. What a family. How’s Granny Jess?’
‘She’s good. She’s been great to me. Stuck up for me to Dad and everything.’
‘Dear old Gran. Now I might go and see her tomorrow. She’ll tide me over financially, won’t she?’
‘I hope that’s not the only reason you’re going to see her,’ said Kirsten severely.
‘Listen to you!’ said Barnaby. ‘You always did have a pi streak. How’s Mum?’
‘She’s been bad,’ said Kirsten briefly. ‘In – in the clinic again. But all right at the moment. She’ll be so pleased you’re back.’
‘Yeah, I’ll go and see her too. In a day or two. God, I feel better suddenly. Tell you what, Kirsten, I’ll have a couple of hours’ kip and then let’s say we go out. I’d really like that. To a club or something?’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Kirsten. ‘I don’t feel like going out. And I’ve got a big day tomorrow at my new job, I can’t afford a hang-over – ’
‘Kirs-ten!’ said Barnaby. ‘What’s with this stuff? Turning into Daddy’s good little girl, are you? He won’t mind if you’re late, surely.’
‘I’m not working for Dad any more,’ said Kirsten. ‘I got fired.’
‘You what! Did he catch you with your fingers in the till or something?’
‘No of course not. It was the stuff in the paper. He’s not speaking to me at all.’
‘Well,’ said Barnaby, throwing himself back on the sofa, ‘I never thought to hear you refusing to go out because you had to get up in the morning. What happened to you, Kirsten? Did you reach middle age or something while I was away? I hope it’s not catching.’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Kirsten. She sat and looked at him; behind the teasing there was a serious note. It was true; she had changed, had begun to be less carefree. She thought of the Kirsten of even a year ago, still at university, who would stay up all night, drinking, smoking (anything), dancing. She looked at a picture of herself stuck on the fridge; she was at a ball at Bristol, head thrown back, laughing, her hair flying round her like a halo, the bodice of her ball dress hanging perilously on the edge of her nipples; what had happened to her in just a year? What was she doing, getting even half involved with some guy twice her age, what was she missing out on, throwing away? It was scary. She looked at Barnaby and said, ‘OK. You’re on. Where d’you want to go? The Gardening Club? You go and get some kip and I’ll wake you at one, OK?’
‘That’s my girl,’ said Barnaby.
The trip to the Gardening Club was not actually a good idea. Kirsten hadn’t enjoyed it at all, had felt irritatingly distance
d from it, the noise, the heat, the darkness in the three underground rooms, even of the Happy House music; maybe, she kept telling herself, she was just out of sorts, tired. Barnaby was all right at first, found a couple of friends, danced a bit, smoked a bit, and then suddenly appeared in front of her looking terrible. ‘I’ve got to get home,’ he said, ‘can you get a cab?’
Kirsten got him outside somehow, sat him down the pavement, where he sat doubled up, clutching his stomach, groaning, and hailed a cab. The driver looked at Barnaby, then at her and shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘not in my nice clean cab. Sorry, love.’
This happened twice more; she was just beginning to despair when a police car pulled up by her.
‘You all right?’
‘Oh – yes,’ said Kirsten hastily, ‘yes, I’m fine.’
‘Your friend doesn’t look fine. What’s the matter with him?’
‘He’s got a terrible stomach upset,’ said Kirsten, ‘he’s just got back from India. He’s my brother,’ she added; she felt they should understand that, without knowing why.
‘Yes?’ The younger of the two looked at her and grinned. A cynical grin, but nonetheless a grin.
‘Yes, honestly. I shouldn’t have let him come out tonight, I know. Now I can’t get a cab to take us home.’
‘Been drinking, has he?’
‘No,’ said Kirsten firmly, ‘he hasn’t. And nor have I. Or doing anything else, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Barnaby looked up, his face haggard in the darkness, contorted with pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘I’ve just got to get to a bog – ’ and then collapsed again onto his arms.
‘Dear oh dear,’ said the young policeman, who seemed genuinely nice. ‘Looks like he should be in hospital. Tell you what, you get in the car, both of you, we’ll run you up to Casualty at the Middlesex. Be there in five minutes.’
‘Oh but – ’ said Kirsten.
‘Otherwise, miss, I think it’s a call to the parents, don’t you? If you’ve got any.’
‘Of course we have,’ said Kirsten with dignity.
The Dilemma Page 32
