So, they were looking at pudding – Kate was having cheesecake, Jon the brûlée, Anna the chocolate mousse – but as usual Lizzie was having trouble deciding. She’d spent nearly ten minutes flitting from one choice to the next like an anxious butterfly.
‘Come on, slow coach,’ sighed Anna impatiently. ‘Just have the mousse like me.’
Lizzie nodded and closed her menu, but then a few seconds later she shook her head and opened it again. Anna groaned.
‘What ice-cream do you think they have?’ she whispered to Kate.
‘How do I know, you silly sausage? You’ll have to ask.’ She smiled at Lizzie, who suddenly looked terrified.
‘I’ll ask for her,’ said Anna.
‘Let her do it, Anna.’
The waiter appeared and the rest of them ordered. ‘And you, mademoiselle?’ he said to Lizzie, in a French accent so overblown Kate was convinced it could only be dramatic affectation.
Lizzie went red and looked at the tablecloth.
‘My sister would like to know what flavour ice-creams you have,’ Anna said, loud and satisfied, with a smile that almost broke her face in half.
The waiter turned to face her. He beamed. ‘Well, mad-a-mwazayll. Too-deh! On ze menoo! We ’ave strorberree, shockalah, vaneee-ya, and for zee sorbets zair is zee leemon, pinnyapple and . . . errrr . . . zee mongo!’
Anna started it. Jon went next. Lizzie and Kate gave in last. They laughed so much that tears streamed down all their faces. It was a painful number of minutes before they managed to tame their laughter and tuck it behind aching straight faces. The waiter, puce-faced and unable to hide his affront, turned to Lizzie.
‘You would like?’ he said curtly.
‘I’d like,’ she said, desperately trying to hold herself together. ‘The . . . um, the . . . um . . . mongo.’ And as she exploded, so again did the rest of them.
Kate concentrated on that final scene. She turned the other laughs down, removed Jon, then Lizzie, then herself, the noises of the people in the restaurant, the indignant huffing of the waiter, until all she could hear was Anna.
‘There you are, my darling,’ she whispered. ‘I have you.’
She eased the laugh out of the story, careful not to let it slip away from her like a thread of silk in the breeze. When she finally had firm hold of it, she relaxed and breathed in the painty smells, and let the beautiful noise of her eldest daughter laughing ring about in her head as if she were savouring the very best chocolate melting over her tongue. Then she opened her eyes and touched her brush to her palette and began to paint Anna how she was that day, with her halter-neck top and her swan’s neck and the end of the mongo-laugh creasing her eyes into pools of life.
All’s Fair
‘Hello Jon.’
Jon had no desire to speak to his brother at all, and wished he hadn’t picked up the phone.
‘Dan, this isn’t a good time. Can I call you tomorrow?’
‘Not good tomorrow,’ said Dan. ‘Look, I just wanted to let you know I’m flying over.’
‘Why?’
‘What on earth do you mean, why? Do I need a reason for coming back to see my family?’
‘Yes, Dan, I would imagine you do.’
Dan laughed. ‘Big brother Jonny, always so terribly cynical.’
‘It’s not cynicism. I just know you too well.’
‘As you wish,’ Dan said. ‘On this occasion you’re right. Mother asked me to come back for the old boy’s birthday.’
‘You don’t normally,’ Jon said, snapping back to life. He thought of his mother and her desperate tears. ‘Why this year?’
‘No idea. She said it was important, then she buttered on the guilt. Blah, blah, you never call. Blah, blah, you never visit. Blah, blah, blah.’
‘I think she’s finding it all quite hard.’ Jon paused. ‘She didn’t come to Anna’s memorial service because she didn’t want to leave Dad.’
‘Oh, I forgot about that. How did it go?’ said Dan, as if he were asking about a job interview.
‘Fine. You know, it was a school service.’
‘And how’s Kiki?’
Jon had been expecting this question, but even so he couldn’t stop the familiar knife twisting in his gut. Jealousy, such a ridiculous, juvenile emotion. Until Kate, Jon had never felt it. From childhood onwards he’d watched Dan stroll through life, women knocking on his door, success falling at his feet, friends queuing up, money, looks, style, talent; Dan had it all, but not once had Jon been jealous. Until Kate.
They had met at Dan’s twenty-first birthday party. Jon turned up very late. And alone. He had done everything he could to find a girl to take, but it had been a fruitless search, which peaked with a dreadful blind date. He’d been desperate; turning up to Dan’s party without a girlfriend was unthinkable. He would never hear the end of it. To Dan, Jon was a pitiful joke. The invite had included a dress code – ‘wholly inappropriate’ – and told him to bring a girlfriend. Jon could almost hear the goading in those scrawled few words:
If there is one!
He imagined how much Dan had smirked as he wrote that. Dan the Stud. Dan the Player. Dan the bloody Man. But Jon’s little black book of dead-end dinners, awkward kisses and (a pathetic two) one-night stands threw up nothing but flat no-thank-yous, and so there he was, outside the party, no girl and preparing for Dan’s relentless destruction of his manhood. His dread thickened – parties were occasions to be endured, the only satisfaction to be gained was from surviving them – and it took him well over twenty minutes of nervous loitering before he finally felt able to face it. He pushed open the doors, went down the stairs towards the thump and hum of the basement. As he neared he was met by a thick fug of cigarettes and marijuana, and a wall of laughing, screaming and music so loud his ears rang. People spilled out of the party room ahead, lining the walls of the corridor like touting hookers. He walked past them, feeling them look him up and down, imagining them sniggering. Three times he nearly turned round, but each time he spoke to himself firmly. It’s your brother’s twenty-first birthday party. You must at least show your face.
He pushed through the throng of scantily clad women and men, squirming in his tweed suit and bow tie, which at the time of choosing seemed perfectly wholly inappropriate for a twenty-first birthday party in the basement room of the trendiest art school in London. The London in-crowd, however, clearly took wholly inappropriate to mean nearly naked, and now all he felt was ridiculous.
‘I’m looking for Dan?’ he asked a nearby girl, having to shout to be heard above the thunderous bass. She turned her head slowly, looked blankly through him, her eyes glazed and fixed on a vanishing point somewhere behind him.
Jon looked at a man next to her who wore nothing but women’s suspenders, underpants and small rounds of tin foil stuck to his nipples. ‘Do you know where I can find Dan?’
The man with tin-foil nipples gestured to the back of the room.
Jon followed the direction of the man’s point.
And that was when he saw her.
She was dressed in black PVC boots that reached up to her thighs and what appeared to be a black one-piece swimming costume, with a white band around her neck and a floor-length black coat with a scarlet satin lining. Her hair was cut in a short bob with a blunt fringe. She was the most striking thing Jon had ever laid eyes on. He was transfixed, and the rest of the party blurred around her. She caught him staring, but rather than look away she held his gaze, and he was drawn towards her like a sailor to a siren, his heart pumping louder than the music with nerves and excitement.
‘Hello,’ he said. How brave he was!
‘Hello,’ she replied.
And then she smiled.
The smile was something the like of which he never imagined could exist. It illuminated her face, showed her perfect teeth, wrinkled her nose, crinkled her gleaming eyes and bunched her cheeks. Not a single part of her face was left out of that smile. He was stunned.
‘I like your outfit
,’ she shouted above the music. ‘You look fabulous!’
He stared at her, unable to talk, scared that as soon as he did she’d lose interest and vanish.
‘I love the tweed!’ she pushed on, reaching out to run her fingers down his lapel.
He had to find his tongue. It was now or never. ‘You’re taking the Michael, I feel.’ His heart sank at his dismal offering and he readied himself for her leaving.
But she didn’t leave.
She laughed.
‘Taking the who?’ she said.
‘Um . . . the Michael. It’s the Mick really. But I say Michael instead. I don’t know why, really . . . it’s just . . . well, a joke. Anyway, it means you’re teasing me.’
She laughed and touched his arm. He looked down and saw her hand on his sleeve, the skin covered in splodges of ingrained paint, neat nails, more paint beneath.
‘I’m not! I promise!’ she said. ‘This is a bloody sweatbox. You’re dressed in a stupidly hot suit that a toff would wear to do shooting, or whatever they do. You look wholly inappropriate. I tried to be too clever and I just look like a tart, which is what Dan wanted, of course, so is wholly appropriate and so, by definition, doesn’t obey the dress rules. See my problem?’
He was smitten.
‘What do you mean, too clever?’ he asked.
She looked at him, then put her hands on her hips, smiled and posed, jutting a leg forward. He stared at her, thunderstruck with desire. She feigned irritation then pushed her hands together in prayer. He stared. She shook her head and grinned.
‘You see? People should never try to be clever. Wholly inappropriate? A dog collar? I’m a vicar. A woman dressed as a vicar? At this godless party?’ She lifted her leg, bent at the knee. ‘High heels on a vicar? Inappropriate.’ She opened her coat and he stared at the exquisite curve of her waist. ‘Scarlet lining? Black boots? Not very holy!’
Jon laughed. ‘Holy! Wholly. Yes, yes, I get it! You’re right, that is clever.’
‘Nope,’ she shook her head. ‘Just a tart, like all these other tarts.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful.’ He paused. ‘And very chaste.’
She smiled again then held out her hand. ‘I’m Kate.’
‘I’m Jon.’ He took her hand. ‘The toff.’
She laughed. Then someone came up behind her and put his arms around her, hands rising up over her breasts. He kissed her neck, then looked up and grinned at Jon.
‘Kiki, you’ve met my brother, I see.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, his eyes staying on Jon. And there it was, the first stab of jealousy Jon had felt, cutting into him with its serrated, acid edge. ‘Just be careful he doesn’t bore you to death,’ he said, then he winked at Jon as if that made it OK. ‘Good to see you, brother. Get yourself a beer, loosen up, maybe lose the dickie bow, not sure it does much for the ladies, if you know what I mean.’ He winked again. ‘And now, my little Kiki, let’s see if we can’t take this party up a gear.’
Kate smiled at Dan, all long lashes and moist lips, and then she and Jon watched him sashay away, kissing everyone warmly, men and women, as he passed, then lifting his arms and pumping the air in time with the beat. Kate and Jon turned back to each other.
‘I don’t think you’re boring at all, by the way,’ she said. ‘And keep the tie. It’s funky.’ She smiled again. ‘See you later.’ And then she danced after Dan.
Jon was born again. Evangelical. It was love. His brother’s girlfriend; wholly inappropriate.
Jon hung in a corner with a bottle of beer the whole evening, his eyes bolted to Kate, moving her back into his line of vision when she skipped out of it, or became obscured by others. The music raged around him, people jostled him, he became hotter and stickier, but he never let his eyes leave her.
By the early hours of the morning the remaining partygoers were a gooey drugged-up mess, locked in amorous pairs or passed out in heaps. If the scene was a modern-day Hogarth, then Dan was the ultimate rake. Nude from the waist upwards, his chest glistened with sweat, his hair flopped over his face. He held Kate up against a wall, his hands either side of her shoulders, kissing her aggressively, her hands around his rear. Delicate fingers. Perfect nails. Those painterly marks.
Jon drank from his bottle and seethed. He wanted that girl. She was too good for Dan, too good to be just another in his line of conquests. He watched as she drew her face away from his brother and ducked beneath his arm. She disappeared in the direction of the loos, and he walked over to Dan.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Good party.’
‘You still here, bro?’ Dan’s mouth was shiny with saliva. Hers.
Jon nodded. ‘Kate’s great,’ he said.
‘Kiki?’ Dan smiled a drunken leer. ‘Sure is. She’s special. I think she’s the one, mate. I really do.’ He batted Jon on the shoulder. ‘I’m in love.’
Jon shook his head. ‘You’re not in love. Think of all those women you’d have to give up.’
‘She might be the one to change me. Anyway, she’s cool; she’ll let me sleep with other girls. Sex is one thing. Love is something else. They don’t relate, man. You should try it.’
Jon stared at him. Dan winked again and Jon forced a smile.
‘Hey, boys!’ They both turned.
‘Gotta take a slash,’ Dan slurred.
Kate smiled at Jon.
Jon waited until Dan pushed out through the double doors. ‘Have dinner with me,’ he said quickly.
‘What?’ she laughed.
‘Dinner. With me.’
‘I’m going out with your brother!’
‘No. Have dinner with me. Just dinner.’
‘It’s his birthday and you’re trying to steal his girlfriend? How does that work?’
‘He won’t stay faithful. He can’t.’
Her face fell and her eyebrows arched; the defiance in her, the sudden fire, the way it lit her eyes and set her mouth, magnified her beauty such that he found it difficult to speak.
‘Ask him,’ Jon managed. ‘Ask him if he’ll stay faithful.’ He looked up and saw Dan staggering back into the room. ‘If he says he won’t, call me.’ Jon passed her a piece of paper on which he’d already written his number. ‘Just dinner.’
She called two days later. She needed a friendly shoulder. Was the offer of dinner still open? Jon held the phone away from his mouth and dropped to his knees, thanking the skies for the chance he’d been given. She’d found Dan in bed with a girl from their sculpture class. He wasn’t sorry. He said life was too short to say no to these things. But he wanted her, too. He begged her to stay with him. She couldn’t, and, as Jon pointed out that night over dinner, she was better off without him.
Kate had reassured Jon time and time again that she’d never loved anybody the way she loved him, but there was always a part of him that believed at some point she’d realise she’d chosen the wrong brother, and it was the handsome, wealthy artist who lived in a penthouse apartment in Manhattan she really should have married.
‘So when are you flying in?’ Jon asked, ignoring his brother’s ask after Kate.
‘Couple of days. Sunday, I think. I’ve got an opening on Saturday that I can’t get out of. They need me there to smile and charm.’
‘Would you like me to meet your plane?’ Jon forced.
‘Jonny, my man, that would be great. Maybe Kiki could make us some lunch. It would be good to spend some time with her, and you and little Lizbette too, of course.’
The Girl in the Cage: Part One
The day after the memorial Lizzie decided she had to see Haydn again.
Her dad was in the kitchen pouring a glass of orange juice. He’d just got back from work, his suit was crumpled, his tie loose, top button undone. He looked tired, as if he’d had a difficult day.
‘Hi,’ she said.
He turned and smiled a weary smile. ‘Hello, angel, how are you?’
She shrugged. ‘Fine.’
‘How was school?’ he asked car
efully.
She shrugged again. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘You know.’
In truth, school had been hard work. She nearly didn’t go, but she knew she’d have to face the place sooner or later and, a bit like having a jab, it seemed best to get it over and done with. A couple of girls shouted across the playground that her mum was a loony and should be in the psycho ward; there was a degree of general whispering and pointing, and when she walked into the dining room, a few moments of loaded hush. The fact that she’d been unable to think about anything other than Haydn was actually very helpful.
‘I know what you mean.’ Her dad sighed heavily as he opened the fridge to put the juice carton back.
‘I think I might go for a walk,’ she said, as casually as she could.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ he said. He drank his juice in one. ‘Tell you what, give me a few minutes to change out of my suit and I’ll come with you.’
Lizzie stopped in her tracks. ‘Oh. Well, actually, do you mind if I go alone? You know, after yesterday, I feel like some quiet time . . . to think stuff over . . .’ She trailed off, hoping she’d not upset him.
‘Yes, yes, sure. You go on; it’s a lovely evening. Perfect for thinking.’ Lizzie could tell he was disappointed. She hesitated, wondering if she should stay, but then again, she was totally desperate to see Haydn.
‘I won’t be long,’ she said. ‘We could have a game of chess when I get back.’
‘OK. You’re on.’
‘I’ll beat you, so you better be ready.’ She hung at the door, still unsure.
‘Go on, you. Have your walk.’
‘Sure?’
‘Go!’ He smiled and shooed his hands at her.
‘Love you, Dad.’
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