“He’s one of the nastiest men I’ve ever met,” said Mathilda thoughtfully.
“Alan? He’s not so bad.”
“Yes, he is.”
“He’s good at fixing things.”
“He’s a bully.” Mathilda said this as if there was no possibility of argument. Jack felt he should defend Alan, but couldn’t think of anything to say. The panther was roaring again. Mathilda looked over her shoulder. “Does he need feeding or something?”
“I fed him earlier. He’s just angry.”
“I don’t blame him. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be, being locked up all the time?”
“I can hardly let him out.”
“Don’t you think the world would be more exciting with the odd panther wandering around in it? They say there are already big cats living wild around here. He could start a family.”
“Why are you so keen on him? He could have killed you.”
“But he didn’t.”
“But he could have.”
“But he didn’t. He was just doing what he’s meant to do.”
“Weren’t you scared?”
She shrugged. “Of course I was.”
“But you still did it.”
“Don’t you ever do things you’re scared of?”
Jack felt his throat tighten up. “I used to. Not any more.”
“Why not?”
A thin breeze was blowing through the trees. He saw her shiver.
“Let’s go inside.”
“Are you avoiding the subject?”
“Yes. No. Yes. Probably. Look, it’s getting cold and my panther ripped your dress up. I think going inside is the reasonable thing to do.”
She laughed. “That’s because you didn’t see what they were all doing in there.”
He took her hand and led her to the bright kitchen.
“This place is a wreck,” said Mathilda severely, picking her way over shards of glass. “Were they throwing these at the walls?”
“I knew there was a reason I never have parties.” He pulled her towards him and laid his mouth over hers. The taste made him feel as if he was falling into deep water. Her hum of pleasure vibrated in his belly. Then she moved away.
“We ought to clean up.”
“What, right now?”
“Do you want to come downstairs tomorrow and stand on it?”
He imagined the glass piercing her pale foot. “Okay, but don’t you do it, I will.”
“Let’s do it together. Where’s the brush?”
They rummaged through cupboards, Mathilda amused by his total bewilderment in his own kitchen. He found a dustpan and brush beneath the sink, exclaimed in triumph, and turned around to find Mathilda right behind him. He had to lean against the sink to stop himself from touching her.
“Here,” he said, holding them up like weapons.
“Well done.” She took them out of his hand.
“No, no - ”
“Yes. I’m going to sweep up. You’re going to tell me about yourself.”
“I’d rather talk about you.”
“Is that you trying to make me think you’re a nice guy?”
He watched the flex of the long muscles in her legs as she knelt gingerly and picked up the larger pieces. The sink was cold against his back. Her features were strong and distinctive, far above the commonplace of pretty. She would dominate any stage all by herself, she filled the room.
“What part would you most like to play?”
“Hamlet.”
“Really?” He swallowed the obvious objection. “Why?”
“Hamlet’s the part every actor wants to play,” she said, pushing her hair out of the way. “It’s like, I don’t know, playing Wembley for musicians. My God, if you asked Peter Sellers what part he’d most like to play if he could.”
“But why?” he persisted. She looked at him severely. “I’m just curious.”
“I used to know this bloke,” she said, still sweeping glass into the dustpan. “He said you find in Hamlet whatever you bring to it. If you’ve just broken up with someone, you’ll think it’s about Hamlet’s relationship with Ophelia. Girls think it was Hamlet’s fault for being pushy, and boys think it was Ophelia’s fault for not putting out. If you don’t get on with your mum, you’ll think it’s all about Gertrude; if you don’t get on with your dad, you’ll pick Claudius. Public schoolboys with a classical education think it’s about the inexorability of Fate. Angry young men think it’s a rant against the class system and the expectations imposed on us by our parents - ”
Boldly, he sat beside her and took the brush away so he could cradle her hand in his.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s about how it’s easy to get trapped in a part you’re playing. He starts off pretending to be mad, thinking that’ll help him, but by the end - ” she shrugged. “What do you think Hamlet’s about? I’m presuming you know it.”
He offered a silent prayer of thanks for the now-defunct privilege of a grammar school education. “I read it at school, when I was about fifteen. I thought he needed therapy. Who plans to kill people because a ghost tells you to?”
“But the ghost was right.”
“So? He saw his dead father walk through the wall. That’s no basis for a decision, is it?” Her eyes were fixed on his face. “So you think Hamlet’s about someone who’s mentally unstable?”
“I, did I - shit!” He laughed. “Did I just confess to being mentally unstable?”
“I told you we were going to talk about you.”
“You did. I just thought I’d managed to divert you, shit. I was hoping to save my tortured-genius story for the second date.”
“Would you call this a date?”
He flushed, but saw that she was smiling too. “What would you call it?” he asked, stroking her palm.
She gave this some serious consideration. Jack brushed his lips tentatively over her fingers.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “Getting to know each other. Would that cover it?”
It was hard to know how to touch her. Dressed only in her knickers and Alan’s green jacket, she was so close to naked that touching her anywhere seemed an invasion.
“So, um, do we need to do any more cleaning now, or do you think oh, Jesus - ” She slipped a cool hand beneath the waistband of his jeans and squeezed; Jack staggered and clutched at the edge of the sink. “Oh - ” She took one of his hands and pressed it hard between her thighs. “Jesus, Mathilda, that’s absolutely beautiful - ” He slid the jacket off her shoulders, kissing the exposed skin. The sink pressed coldly against his back. “This is crazy, I’ve got seventeen bedrooms, we don’t have to do this in the kitchen - ”
“There aren’t any clean beds.”
“How mmm, oh God, how do you know?”
“There were people in every single bedroom when I looked earlier - yes, just there - ”
“There’s one they won’t have found - ”
“Jack, are you ever coming to, oh!”
Evie stood in the doorway, her frock immaculate, her hair brushed and pretty, her brown eyes wide with surprise. He let go of Mathilda, guilty and annoyed with himself for feeling guilty. He’d forgotten Evie was even in the house.
“I thought you’d gone to bed,” he said.
The look on Evie’s face was hard to read. He could see he was missing something important, but couldn’t work out what. Then, Evie suddenly smiled brilliantly at Mathilda.
“It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type, or I’d be scratching your eyes out. It’s alright, don’t feel bad, I’m used to it. No, really, it’s okay you weren’t to know. Why don’t I find you a dress and I’ll see you to your car?”
“But she’s staying - ” began Jack, furious.
“No, I’m not,” said Mathilda, and shook off Jack’s hand. “Sorry,” she said to Evie, “I didn’t realise.”
“Didn’t realise what?”
“That you really are Jack Laker,�
�� said Mathilda. “Seventeen bedrooms? Is that so you don’t have to change the sheets in between?”
The scorn in her face was hard to look at.
“Oh, my God no, no, no look I wasn’t, Evie isn’t - ”
Mathilda was already halfway out of the kitchen. Evie turned to watch her leave. Jack shoved her aside and ran after Mathilda.
“Please stay,” he begged.
“I don’t think so.”
“Look, Evie’s just staying with me for a bit - ”
Mathilda shook his hand off her arm. “Please don’t touch me.”
“She’s no-one important - ”
Her eyes blazed. “I said please don’t touch me!” She stalked down the hallway and out onto the gravel.
“But she’s not my girlfriend!” Jack yelled. “Why won’t anyone believe me?”
But Mathilda was already gone.
Jack scrabbled madly through the bowl for the keys to his Jaguar. The roads were narrow, but if he was quick and not too careful on the corners -
“Don’t you dare go after her!” Evie snatched the keys from his hand and threw them against the wall.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Looking after you.”
“I, what? I don’t need looking after! And while we’re at it, how dare you imply to Mathilda that - ”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” Her face was white and furious. “How could you, with that girl?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“What business?” Evie’s eyes were burning bright. “How can you ask?”
“Because we’re not a couple!”
Evie slapped his face. Jack looked at her blankly.
“What was that for?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. But, what you - ” her anger was dissolving into tears. “What you said, that was a horrible thing to say, why would you say that?”
“But I’m just telling the truth! I’ve never said I love you, I’ve never said we were an item - ”
“So what the hell is this, then, if not a relationship? Me living in your house? Cooking your meals? Organising your parties? Phoning up your bloody manager, having him turn the air blue, then sweet-talking him into coming to see you? What does that make me, if not your bloody girlfriend?”
“But look, Evie I don’t, you don’t - ” He had no idea where the sentence was going.
“Look, I don’t expect you to be a saint,” she said. “I know what it’s like when you’re out on the road. I know you’re not going to be, you know faithful. I mean, all those girls, throwing themselves at you. What man wouldn’t? And I’ll live with that, I swear I will. I’ll never even have to know for sure. Just be discreet, and come home to me afterwards.” She tried to smile. “And just - not under our actual roof, you know?”
“This is insane.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t love you!”
“But I love you. You know that. I always have. We’re good together, we’ll make it work, I know we will.”
He thought about taking her hand, then decided against it. “Listen to what you’re saying. This isn’t how real people live!”
“Real people?” Evie snorted. “How’s your life ever going to be real, Jack? You’re not a person any more, you’re a commodity. Do you think that girl wanted anything more than a notch on the bloody bedpost?” Her nose was running. She wiped it furiously with her hand. “All she wants is to brag about screwing Jack Laker, so she can get her name in the papers.”
“She didn’t even know who I was!”
“Of course she sodding well knew!” sobbed Evie. “She’s an actress, you idiot.”
Her words soaked through his skin, turning his bones to lead.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said at last.
“What doesn’t matter?”
“I don’t care if she did just want the notch on the bedpost,” he said. “I don’t care if she wanted publicity. It doesn’t change how I feel. I saw her in the garden and - ”
“And?”
“I think I fell in love with her. I’m sorry,” he added weakly.
“You’re sorry? And you love her? That’s what you’ve got?”
“It’s what I feel.”
She stared at him. “Okay.”
“Really?” He couldn’t believe it was going to be this easy. Guilt prickled at his joints. “And you’re sure you’re okay about this?”
“I understand. You need to get her out of your system. Fine. I’ll get out of the way for a while.”
He rediscovered his anger. “Because I’ve got any fucking chance at all with her after what you just did.”
“Oh, she’ll come back,” said Evie unexpectedly. “Don’t look like that, it’s not a good thing. She’ll come back, and she’ll use you to get what she wants, and then she’ll walk out on you and you’ll fall apart and all the work you’ve done will go down the pan.”
He felt his hand coming up to, to what? To hit her? Jesus, no, he forced it back down to his side. “Don’t say that. Please. Why would you say that?”
“You’ll see. Is it alright if I borrow your car?”
The prickles of guilt were becoming needles. “You don’t need to go tonight.”
“No, it’s alright.” Her smile was worse than any accusation she could have thrown at him. “I’ll go to my parents.”
“That’s six hundred miles away.”
“Forget it. It’s my job to cope, remember?” She wiped her cheeks. “I’ll wait until she’s broken your heart. And then I’ll come back and pick up the pieces. I’ll be waiting, I promise.”
“Evie, seriously don’t bother waiting for me, I don’t want you to.”
“And listen to Alan,” she added over her shoulder. Moments later he heard gears and gravel crunching, and the slow rumble of the Jaguar disappearing down the drive.
The silence was a deep base-note that made his head ring. From the mirror, a wild-eyed, bewildered madman glowered at him, a ghost from his nightmare past. What the hell just happened? What had he done? He winced, and began a slow tour of the premises.
It was just as Mathilda had said. Every bedroom had been used; every ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts and half-smoked joints; every table heaved with abandoned drinks; every bed was crumpled. The baths spilled flaccid bubbles and tepid water over their sides. On the mirror of the turquoise bathroom, the words ‘Jack Laker gives the best parties ever!!!’ were scrawled in orange lipstick. He wondered who’d written it, and whether he knew her. The basin was dusted with white powder.
Did he have a cleaner? Had Evie arranged one, along with everything else she’d done for him? A relationship. His girlfriend. How had he not seen this coming? He must be insane.
Abandoning the chaos, he crossed to the other side of the house. I think I prefer the empty half. Mathilda should have been here with him. Was that the ghost of her perfume in the air? How could he only have met her a few hours ago? And how could he have let her go again?
Behind the panelling of the deserted upper corridor was the entrance to the rooms Evie didn’t even know existed. The rooms he’d paid the architect to hide, then painted and furnished himself, with things he’d chosen himself from ordinary shops in ordinary places, because they reminded him of his childhood. The catch was reluctant to yield, but he pressed persistently at the seam in the woodwork until the door swung open. In the bathroom, he opened the cabinet and stared in.
Looking back at him was his secret cache, the stash he’d been ordered to throw away, but hadn’t. He had barbiturates to lull a thousand housewives to sleep, amphetamines to keep half of London awake, prescription painkillers to blot out a million years of pain. The capsules were big enough to hurt on the way down, but they’d make up for the brief discomfort by cleaning out his head. His hand was on the loose again, rogue rebellious entity with a mind of its own. This time, instead of hitting a girl, he was reaching into the cabinet.
There w
as a cautious knock on the bathroom door. He slammed the cabinet shut. His heart fluttered painfully against his ribs.
“Who is it?” he demanded.
“Mathilda.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes, really. Why?”
He opened the bathroom door.
He wasn’t dreaming.
“Evie passed me on the road,” she said. “I thought I might come back after all.”
“And find out if I really am Jack Laker?” He couldn’t stop the ridiculous grin spreading across his face. The hideous scene with Evie hardly seemed real. He was so pleased to see her.
“Something like that,” she said, and kissed him.
It had been so long since he had done this; so long since he’d felt the sweet shock of strange skin against his own. He was afraid of hurting her, then afraid of not pleasing her, and then simply afraid. When she put her hand on his cock and squeezed, her murmurs of pleasure set him on fire; he was sure he’d never be able to last long enough to satisfy her, and had to push her away. Then she put her arms around his neck and whispered, “It doesn’t have to be perfect the first time, we’ve got all night,” and he groaned in relief and hid his face in her hair.
A few hours later, he was woken by the bathroom light shining right into his eyes. Mathilda, wearing one of his shirts, was staring at the medicine cabinet in fascination.
“That’s a lot of pills. Aren’t you supposed to be clean?”
“I am clean,” he protested. She looked at him disbelievingly. “No, really, I am.”
“Why keep them then?”
“They’re sort of like souvenirs.”
She looked sceptical. “Most people steal ashtrays.”
“It’s a bit hard to explain.”
“You’re supposed to be a modern-day poet.”
It was cold in the bathroom. He led her back to bed and wrapped the green eiderdown around them, smoothing her hair away from his face.
“When I was just starting out,” he told her, “I met this record producer, Brian. He’s dead now, but he owned an indie label called Gumshoe. They were going to sign me, but they went bankrupt. Anyway. He was ex-SAS, big Welsh lad he was, and he had a live landmine on his desk.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Why?”
“That was the thing, you see. No-one ever asked, because asking was cheating. You just acted cool and pretended it was totally normal to have a motion-sensitive bomb on the desk between you.”
The Summer We All Ran Away Page 6
