by Lucy Lord
‘Hi Ali,’ she says, walking over and giving Alison a kiss. ‘You look pretty.’
‘Thanks Al,’ says Alison, trying to mask her surprise. ‘You look great.’
‘I’m so tired you wouldn’t believe it. Hi Charlie.’
‘Hi Al.’ Charlie gets to his feet and gives her a dutiful peck.
‘Bella.’ She looks over at me. ‘Thanks for the shirt.’ Feeling guilty about not replacing the Jil Sander number after Andy had been so kind about Dad, I maxed my dodgy Egg card on a new one and gave it to Max, who had it delivered to her office by one of his eager Dalston minions. ‘Better late than never, eh?’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry for being so stupid … I s’pose you don’t need me to tell you I was pissed?’
‘No, that was quite clear. But I may have been a bit out of order too,’ she concedes, accepting a glass of merlot from Charlie. ‘God, what a day.’ And she sits elegantly on one of the plump sofas, pale slim legs displayed to good effect against the navy blue twill.
‘Why? What’s happened?’ I am so glad to be forgiven that I’ll accept any scraps. I may sometimes (in my cups) be a bit of a loose cannon, but generally I can’t bear to think of people not liking me.
‘Apart from the child torture case I’m working on, you mean?’ She smiles briefly and I can see the strain on her face. ‘Oh I’m sorry, but one just gets so caught up in the hideous details of these things that one forgets other people only read the bits they can actually publish in the papers.’ Jesus. Puts me in my place.
‘Shall we talk about the wedding instead?’ says Ali. ‘I had a look at the flower girls’ trial bouquets today and they are totally adorable.’
‘Thanks Alison, but you know what? For once I’d just like to forget about the wedding.’ Andy’s head jerks up in surprise and the rest of us follow suit. ‘On top of everything else, I’ve had my bloody mother on all day, and she goes on and on and ON …’ She bashes her forehead against her palm in time to her words. Good God, she’s human after all.
Andy laughs, putting an arm around her shoulder. ‘My future mother-in-law is a bit of a control freak.’
‘You know what they say,’ says Charlie, laughing drunkenly and slapping his thigh. ‘Look to the mother-in-law to see what you’ll be lumbered with in years to come!’
It’s too close to the bone and we sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment or two, Groove Armada reminding us to think of sand dunes and salty air rather too loudly.
‘Can you talk about the case?’ I ask Alison, changing the subject.
‘Shouldn’t really, except to say that some people shouldn’t be allowed to procreate.’ She looks sad again and I almost see what Andy sees in her. Without the frown or Gordon Brown fake smile her features fall naturally into a droopily pre-Raphaelite version of beauty.
‘So, Bella.’ She turns to me again, and I am terrified, as if I’m about to be summoned to the headmistress’s office. ‘I heard about your dad. I’m sorry. Andy and I both agree that even though your father – may I say it? – has issues, that silly little whore was absolutely out for everything she could get.’
‘My father doesn’t have issues!’ I am immediately in defensive mode. There is silence apart from Groove Ar-fucking-mada, who are now singing about ‘shaking that ass’. ‘Well, OK, maybe. But he’s not a rapist. Thanks for the vote of confidence anyway.’
‘Bella,’ says Skinny, looking me straight in the eye. Am I about to get detention? ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I appreciate what you must be going through. Occasionally the legal system really sucks. Your father being named, whether he’s guilty or not, while Kimberly keeps her anonymity, for starters.’
‘Yeah, I know. I really don’t see how that’s fair.’
‘And if your father had raped a thousand times before – hypothetically, of course – they couldn’t bring that up in court …’ She’s on a roll now, her voice rising. ‘And in this case I’m working on, even though the stepfather of the child that’s just been tortured to death actually raped a baby girl less than a year ago, I’m not allowed to bring THAT up in court either.’ She puts her head in her hands again and I notice, shallowly, how silky and shiny her black hair looks. Andy strokes it.
‘Darling, we do know that everybody is entitled to legal defence, however horrific their crime. It’s one of the first things you learn at law school. It’s part of our constitution.’
‘Shut up, Andy, you’re sounding like a Yank,’ says Charlie. I’m glad he said it.
‘But how can you do it?’ I ask, for it is something that has bothered me for years. How can the cream of the country’s intelligentsia actually get people off heinous crimes, knowing they’re guilty, and live with themselves?
‘You know what?’ Alison looks up. ‘I honestly don’t know any more. It’s all about gamesmanship and beating your fellow lawyers, which I’m very good at.’ She laughs, slightly bitterly. ‘But it’s not about justice, which is what I signed up for.’
Nobody knows what to say to this, so Charlie changes the subject clumsily, asking Andy to go next door with him to look at something manly and utterly incomprehensible on his computer.
Ali gets up to go to the loo. I top my glass up from the bottle of merlot on the table and offer some to Alison. She puts her hand over her glass and shakes her head.
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ Her eyes are glittering with malice, just as they did that time at Osteria Basilico.
‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business.’ I am so surprised I don’t know what else to say.
‘And don’t you think you’ve outstayed your welcome? Charlie and Alison only invited you to lunch, and it’s nearly eight o’clock now. I know they both have to get up early tomorrow.’
‘What, you mean with their proper jobs?’ I say, utterly unprepared for such a volte-face.
‘Oh come on, I’ve apologized for that. I just think it can’t be nice to be a millstone round people’s necks, constantly dependent on their kindness and goodwill. I mean, just look at you. You drink far too much, you look an absolute mess, your so-called career –’ she does the inverted commas fingers sign, smiling evilly – ‘is only just starting to go somewhere because Ali feels sorry for you. Quite frankly, I’m surprised Ben stuck around for as long as he did.’
Jesus. Just as I start to think she’s not all bad, she comes out with this? She must have just been trying to fool the others into thinking she’s human. Well, I won’t be making the same mistake twice. Traumatic job or no traumatic job, she’s a fucking bitch and I hate her.
She’s right about me looking a mess though. I’m in flip-flops, holey old Levis with fraying hems as they’re too long if I don’t wear heels, and a faded T-shirt that used to be a vibrant shade of green. My clothes are hanging off me (the only good thing to come out of my recent traumas), my hair is tied up in a messy ponytail and my fringe is so long that I can hardly see out. I try to curl my feet up under my legs as I notice how badly chipped the ancient red polish on my grotesquely long toenails is.
I am trying to work out how to respond to the wounding personal attack when Ali comes back into the room, followed by the boys. She offers more drinks all around, but Andy shakes his head.
‘Thanks, but we’d better get going. The table’s booked for eight thirty.’
They drain their glasses and walk out, Alison back in gracious and charming mode, her small bottom and long legs looking far too attractive for my liking in the khaki shorts.
‘Bugger me,’ says Charlie. ‘She’s almost the Alison she used to be at Cambridge.’
‘Slim and dark,’ says Ali wistfully.
‘BUT NOT EXOTIC!’ I shout, also wistfully – if it’s possible to shout wistfully. Pride prevents me from repeating what the bitch has just said to me as I secretly suspect she’s right on every count. ‘God, what a horrid job. I’m so glad I just paint pretty pictures for a living. It will be a living, won’t it?’ I ask Ali, touching wooden floo
rboards.
‘There are no guarantees, but I reckon so.’ She smiles. ‘Shall we finish this silly game then?’
Mindful of what Alison has just said, I tell them I should be going, but they insist I stay to finish the game, at least. I lower the tone and cheer myself up by putting down an F next to RIG and happily plonking ROT underneath, giggling to myself.
Charlie wins with ZEN, then asks, ‘How about a game of Trivial Pursuit?’
‘You and your bloody oriental mysticism. Zen indeed,’ says Ali. ‘I’m a bit tired, but you’re welcome to stay if you want, Belles.’
I’d love to stay for Trivial Pursuit (which I know I’d win, trivia being my specialist subject, after all) and more booze, but, hating the idea of being a millstone, I feign tiredness too. Charlie, by dint of twisting my arm, persuades me to stay for one more drink, but soon it’s time to say goodbye.
‘Thanks so much for a lovely day – it’s the best I’ve had for months. And that food was exceptional, Ali. Byeeee and thanks again!’
The minicab driver puts Magic FM on the radio at my request and we sing along to things as random as Carole King’s ‘You’ve Got a Friend’, Jet’s ‘Are You Gonna Be My Girl’, the Kinks’ ‘Waterloo Sunset’ and, best of all, Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’ – to which our mutual screeching is as heartfelt as it is unharmonious.
When we get to Portobello I notice a couple of photos of children in school uniform on the dashboard.
‘Gorgeous kids! What are their names?’ I ask effusively.
‘Harrison and Rhianna. They’re my angels.’
I so don’t want tonight to end; I so don’t want to be reminded that everybody except me has someone to love. And as I walk up the rickety staircase to my empty flat, I don’t think I have ever felt so alone in my entire life.
Chapter 16
The next few days are a blur of lawyers and police, and countless crisis meetings with my nearest and dearest. Dad has been given bail, on the condition that he doesn’t leave the country, so Mum is putting him up until the trial; the date has been set a month from now. We all agree that the most important thing is to try and keep the story out of the Press for as long as we can. Once the case comes to court, it will be nigh on impossible, which doesn’t bode well. As Dad says, ‘Even if I am acquitted, I’ll be ruined. Shit sticks, and I’ll always be known as the photographer who was tried for rape. No smoke without fire …’ That bloody expression again. It appears that Bernie has friends in high places who so far have stopped any police leaks, for which we’re hugely grateful.
Dad has only told a handful of friends whom he thought he could trust, but two of them, on the instigation of their wives, have actually stopped speaking to him. If this is the reaction, even pre-trial, I can’t bear to imagine the global vitriol that will be poured on him once the papers get hold of the story. There are bound to be judgemental editorials, commenting with pious disapproval on every aspect of Dad’s life. Old girlfriends (of whom there are literally hundreds) will no doubt come out of the woodwork. So much of his career is based on image that not only will the lucrative commissions stop, but a shadow will be cast over his entire lifetime’s body of work. I can imagine people looking at all the photos he’s taken of nude models over the years and speculating over which ones he might ‘also have raped’.
And this is the good version, the ‘Not Guilty’ version. If he’s found guilty … Well, let’s just say I can’t get Bernie’s comment about rapists ‘not having a good time of it inside’ out of my head. I honestly cannot imagine my father surviving it. He is such a free spirit, such a traveller, such a lover of nature and beauty. Being banged up for years for something he didn’t do will absolutely destroy him. And that’s before you start thinking about the prison buggery potential.
So Andy is trying to find out if there’s anything about Kim that might preclude the case coming to trial at all. It transpires that she claims not to have shagged Dad at all until the final night in Mallorca, when she says he forced her. She only went with him to Mallorca, she says, for professional reasons. Which is of course true. According to Dad, he did take some photos of her in his studio there, so this might hold water. On the other hand, we all know that she’s a lying cow, and I, for one, am willing to stand up in court and testify to what I heard from the kitchen garden.
It’s a horrifically tense time, clearly, but it has at least taken my mind off Ben and Poppy. Now the pain and madness have worn off I probably miss being part of our cool little gang more than anything. Poppy, Damian, Ben and occasionally Mark were the hub of my social life for much longer than my ill-fated romance (if it can be called that). And after spending my formative years in what might kindly be termed a social wilderness, I loved the feeling of being in with the in-crowd.
So I fill the void with painting, determined to give the exhibition my best shot.
One balmy evening I am standing on my balcony, glass of white wine in one hand, paintbrush in the other, when my phone rings.
‘Hey Maxy.’
‘Belles, listen.’ His voice is excited. ‘Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Erm, yes. Why? What’s going on?’
‘I’ve been doing a bit of detective work of my own and I’ve found something out about Kimberly!’
‘Bloody hell, what is it? Tell me, quick!’
‘I think she’s part of some weird cult.’ What? ‘They’ve got some sort of ritual sacrifice going on tomorrow afternoon in a wood near the South Downs. We’ve got to go and see what dirt we can get on her.’
I laugh. ‘Maxy. Don’t you think that’s clutching at straws?’
Max laughs too. ‘Well, don’t you see we’ve got to at least go and see what they’re up to? We might find out something about the bitch.’
He goes on to tell me he overheard Kim’s name being mentioned in Divine Comedy, in connection to whatever this ritual sacrifice thing is. The whole thing sounds extremely far-fetched, but I can absolutely see where my brother is coming from. We’re both dying to do something to help, and anything is better than the constant impotent waiting.
‘Apparently the ceremony starts at three, so I’ll pick you up at twelve thirty. That should give us plenty of time to get there. Oh and sis …’
‘Yeeesss …’
‘Wear something that will blend in with the woodland surroundings.’ His tone is hushed.
‘You mean camouflage?’ I laugh. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
The next day I am looking in the mirror, wondering whether I should paint camouflage stripes on my face with some greasepaint I bought for a fancy dress party a couple of years ago. I am wearing the khaki combat-style mini that I wore at Glastonbury, a camouflage-print vest top and an olive green baseball cap. My hair is in plaits, my feet in old grey Converse and an oversized pair of shades covers half my face. I think my urban warrior look is rather cool, and decide the greasepaint might ruin it.
I am doing martial arts stalking-type movements in the mirror when the doorbell rings.
‘I’ll be right down!’ I shout.
Outside, I am in for a surprise. Instead of Max in his flash new Lotus, Andy is sitting there, in the driver’s seat of his old green Renault. He takes one look at me and bursts out laughing. I am so glad I didn’t bother with the greasepaint.
‘Glad you find it amusing,’ I say, holding my head up high and going to kiss him through the window. ‘So what’s up? Where’s Max?’
‘He called me an hour ago in a total panic. Geronimo has gone nuts with a knife, and Max has to stay behind and pick up the pieces.’ Seeing my look of horror, Andy laughs again. ‘Not literally. But he has to calm him and the rest of the staff down, which he says could take several hours and all of his powers of negotiation.’ Geronimo is Max’s very temperamental chef. I shudder.
‘Poor Max, but surely he didn’t need you to come and tell me that in person? Why didn’t he just give me a ring?’
‘Because he knows you can’t drive, and he is despera
te for this – er – mission to go ahead. So today, Bella Brown, I am your chauffeur and fellow sleuth. Lewis to your Morse, Cagney to your Lacey.’ He’s laughing again. I’ve never seen him so jolly. ‘Jump in, then! We don’t want to miss the bit where they sacrifice a virgin pygmy goat.’ Ah, I get it. He’s laughing at us.
‘You must think we’re awfully silly,’ I say, looking at him out of the corner of my eye as we head down towards the river. ‘I’m really sorry that Max lumbered you with this. It’s probably a complete dead-end. Don’t you have to be at work?’
‘I’m allowed out and about – part and parcel of the job. If I’d had a deadline, you wouldn’t have seen me for dust.’
‘Well, thank you very much anyway. And you never know, we might find out something …’
‘Indeed.’ But he can’t stop a smirk creeping up one side of his mouth.
We drive in silence for a bit, as the inner-city landscape becomes progressively suburban. It’s slightly cooler today, with a lovely fresh breeze coming through the open windows and a few wispy clouds floating across the cornflower sky. Andy puts on a CD and the opening guitar strains of Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez fill the car.
‘Oh my God, I love this,’ I say. ‘My dad used to play it all the time when we were kids in Mallorca. It takes me right back to the smell of lavender and rosemary and thyme. They grew wild across the mountains.’ Andy looks surprised.
‘How funny,’ he says. ‘My parents used to play it all the time too. But the smells it conjures up for me aren’t nearly so exotic – freshly mown grass, Camel Lights and shepherd’s pie, I’d say.’ He laughs.
‘Do you want to talk about them?’ I ask, quickly doing the sums. If he was seventeen when they died, he’s lived for as long now without them as he did with them.
‘You know, then?’ He briefly takes his eyes from the road to look at me. ‘You know what, I’m thirty-four now. It’s seventeen years since they died. I’ve lived as long without them as I did with them.’ What? ‘That’s a really weird thing to come to terms with.’
