That’s it, thought Michelle. I’ve exhausted my store of people who might give a damn about me. I have lots of nice acquaintances, with whom I’d be very happy to have coffee — if they weren’t back in Charlotte, of course — but no one I could comfortably spill my guts to. If comfortably is the word.
Another name popped into her head. Patrick! Of course! He’d be able to cope with whole gouting wads of intestines.
‘Patrick King,’ said his voicemail. ‘Leave a message.’
Bugger it, thought Michelle. That’s right, he’s up in Napa, breaking the news to the winery owners that their baby is ugly. Although he’ll probably use phrases like ‘negative equity’ and ‘market timing’ that will make his rejection sound like someone else’s fault.
Michelle recalled joking to Darrell that she’d filed her mother’s number under ‘W’ for ‘When there is no one left in the world who will take my calls’. But I’m not that desperate, thought Michelle. Close, very close, but not there yet.
Then another name popped into her head. And for all its initial strangeness, the more Michelle thought about it, the more the idea appealed. After all, thought Michelle, the two of us are in almost exactly the same boat. So to speak …
‘Virginia,’ she said when her call was answered. ‘It’s Michelle.’
‘Oh!’ Even Virginia’s impeccable manners weren’t quite up to this. ‘You’re calling me.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Michelle. ‘Shock to me, too.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Virginia’s tone was suddenly urgent. ‘Are the children all right?’
‘Yes, yes, fine,’ said Michelle. ‘They’re absolutely fine.’
‘And — Chad?’ Virginia said cautiously.
‘Physically? Fine. Mentally? Not so sure.’ Michelle decided to launch straight into it. ‘I think he’s considering leaving me.’
‘Michelle!’
Michelle had a vivid image of Virginia’s pose at that moment. Spine ramrod straight. One hand lifted dramatically to the pearl choker she always wore.
‘He’s formed this mad idea that we should all travel round the world for a year. Sell the house in Charlotte to pay for it. God knows what he expects to do when we get back — live in a trailer park, I assume. Earn a few bucks shooting varmints and brewing moonshine.’
‘And you don’t want to go, I take it?’
‘No! This is not what I signed up for.’ Michelle blew out a breath. ‘That’s why I’m afraid he might leave. He’s dead set on going — and I’ll go over my dead body.’
‘Which, I assume, you won’t want to have disposed of in a Viking pyre?’
‘Virginia?’ Michelle wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘Did you just make a joke?’
But instead of replying, her mother-in-law said, ‘Do you love Chad?’
‘Of course I do! But he’s just—’
‘I love my husband very much,’ said Virginia, ‘which makes it so hard to see him unhappy. And harder still that I have no idea how to help.’
Inside Michelle, an odd sensation began to burgeon and spread. It wasn’t quite guilt, more like the faint crawling feeling that comes from realising that the opinion you’ve propounded adamantly all your life has been based on faulty information. And that if you’d been in full possession of the facts, you would have kept your mouth firmly shut.
‘Do you think Chad’s unhappy?’ she said to her mother-in-law. ‘I thought he was just unhappy with me.’
‘I suspect one feeds the other,’ said Virginia. ‘Lowell has some deep unhappiness at the root of all this, I’m convinced of it. But getting him to admit that — well, I’d have more luck trying to remove those goddamn sacks from his study. And at least I could use the contents to make soup.’
‘Virginia,’ said Michelle faintly, ‘you swore!’
‘What are we going to do with our unhappy men, Michelle?’ said Virginia, her voice suddenly brisk and businesslike. ‘I’m assuming there’s no chance Chad will bring all of you for Thanksgiving?’
‘More chance of you getting your hands on Lowell’s garbanzos,’ said Michelle glumly.
Then she said, ‘Oh my God. Wait. I have an idea …’
At five-thirty on the dot, Aishe knocked on the door of Nico’s office and went in. He didn’t look dismayed to see her, exactly. But he was certainly wary. Oh well, thought Aishe. He won’t have to worry about me any more.
‘Hi,’ she said, before he could speak. ‘I’m quitting. This is my last day.’ She realised suddenly what that meant, so added, ‘Sorry for the short notice.’
Nico stared at her, then got up from behind his desk, came round and perched on the edge of it, in front of her.
‘I suppose there’s no point in me asking why?’ he said.
‘Do you care?’ The instant it was out, Aishe regretted it.
Nico gave a quick shake of his head, a half-smile. ‘You remind me of one of those frilled lizards,’ he said. ‘You know, that do this—’ He splayed his fingers outwards on either side of his neck. ‘— whenever they’re threatened.’
‘I remind you of a lizard,’ said Aishe evenly.
Nico gave her the half-smile again, and glanced up at the clock on his office wall.
‘Want to go get a beer?’ he said.
Aishe, to her surprise and alarm, felt the sudden prick of tears. She’d expected that her resignation would be short and to the point — she’d offer it, Nico would accept it, and that would be that. She had not expected him to be nice to her.
‘I thought you didn’t drink,’ she said.
‘Really?’ Nico frowned. ‘What gave you that idea?’
Aishe shrugged. ‘Because you always seem so — decent.’
Nico shouted with laughter. ‘I don’t think a few beers are going to turn me into Ted Bundy. I might kid myself I’m Tony Bennett, but that’s as far as it goes.’
‘You sing when you’re drunk?’ said Aishe.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Nico. ‘And about as badly as I drum.’ He inclined his head. ‘Want to risk it?’
Aishe was tempted. Someone to have a laugh with, someone to really talk to — how long had it been? Since Frank, she realised with a start. That’s eleven years ago. Eleven years since I trusted someone enough to open up to them …
‘Thanks,’ she said to Nico, ‘but I’d better be getting home.’
For a moment, Nico looked as if he was going to try to persuade her. But then he said, ‘OK. Another time, then? And I do actually mean that. I’m not just being polite.’
‘I know,’ said Aishe. Stiffly, as if the movement was unfamiliar to her, she stuck out a hand. ‘Thanks.’
Nico took her hand in both of his big, tattooed ones and squeezed it.
‘Take care, Aishe Herne,’ he said. ‘Call me crazy, but I think I’m going to miss you.’
Aishe had to sit in her car for a good ten minutes before she could decide whether or not she was going to cry. I won’t, she thought. Not yet.
There’ll be plenty of time for that later.
‘Oh, please come,’ said Michelle. ‘I need somebody to be Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland?’ said Aishe into the phone.
‘A buffer of neutral territory,’ said Michelle. ‘Plus somebody to have that kind of disapproving air that the Swiss do so well. To encourage us to mind our manners.’
‘Gee, that sounds like fun,’ said Aishe. ‘But—’
‘I asked Patrick,’ said Michelle. ‘He said he’d come if you did. Gulliver’s keen,’ she added. ‘I told him he could have a beer.’
‘Could you make this invitation any less appealing?’ said Aishe. ‘I don’t see how.’
‘Please come,’ said Michelle. ‘I’m begging. Grovelling. On my knees. It seemed like such a good idea at the time and now I’m dreading it. Please come.’
‘Chad knows his parents are flying over for Thanksgiving, right?’
There was a short silence. ‘I thought it would be best as a surprise.’
‘You
mean, if he knew he’d hightail it into the mountains with nothing but a swag and a billy?’
‘Please come,’ said Michelle. ‘The food will be good. I can promise that at least.’
‘Is your father-in-law bringing his magic beans? How did she winkle him out of the study, anyway?’
‘See? You’re curious. So I won’t tell you unless you come.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake …’ Aishe blew out a long breath. ‘All right.’
‘My God, thank you!’ said Michelle. ‘I was getting so desperate, I had plans to emotionally blackmail Connie into hopping on the next plane from Charles de Gaulle.’
‘She’d probably do it, too,’ said Aishe.
‘I know!’ said Michelle. ‘Isn’t it wonderful having friends?’
38
It could be worse, Patrick reasoned, as he drove down the 101 to San Franciso airport — he could be on the M25 to Heathrow. At least here the sky is blue and the air balmy, he thought, and even though the trip’s a bit tedious, you don’t feel like you’re in a caravan of post-apocalyptic refugees shuffling across some blighted plain.
Still, he was annoyed. Mainly because he couldn’t quite work out how Michelle had persuaded him to trek all this way, first thing on Thanksgiving morning, to pick up her in-laws. I don’t even know her fucking in-laws, he muttered, as he indicated to take the airport exit. I haven’t even met her fucking husband, for whose benefit I’m supposedly doing all this!
It’s a surprise, Michelle had said. Chad hasn’t seen his parents since we moved. In Patrick’s experience, family who arrived unexpectedly had a good chance of being as welcome as half a cockroach in a reheated penne arrabiata. But Michelle had seemed sincere — and she was clearly desperate. Despite that, thought Patrick, I was sure I’d said no. Yet some-fucking-how, here I am …
San Francisco airport was miniature compared to LAX, for which Patrick was grateful. He checked the arrivals board and saw that the Lawrences’ flight had been delayed by an hour. He blew out a breath and went in search of coffee.
He found an Italian café, decorated in the Viennese konditorei style that made it stand out like one of its own cream cakes against the sterile background of the airport walls. At this early hour, on Thanksgiving, the domestic terminal was practically deserted. There were a couple of people at the café’s tables — an older woman reading and a young man who was slumped down on the tabletop, head on his arms, apparently asleep. Patrick took his coffee and his custard tart — bad for his cholesterol, but fuck it — over to a table.
He drained his espresso in two quick mouthfuls, but as he was lifting up the custard tart he took a closer look at the very blond head of the young man asleep on the table.
‘Fuck me,’ he said, prompting the older woman to stare at him, schoolmarm fashion, over the top of her book.
Patrick ignored her. He got up and walked over to the young man and shook his arm.
Benedict jerked upright with a rattling intake of breath. It took him a few seconds to focus. When he did, the image he had in front of him — a dark-eyed, smirking giant — was so completely inconceivable his brain refused to process it.
‘Morning, sunshine,’ said Patrick. ‘Been here a while, have you?’
Benedict glanced around blearily, as if still trying to decide whether he was in the grip of a hallucination. ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said.
‘It’s nine in the morning,’ said Patrick. ‘On Thursday. If that helps.’
Benedict was now convinced that he was the victim of some enormous cosmic joke.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Patrick. ‘Thought you’d already legged it?’
‘I tried. Difficulty is, when you have no money, your options become limited. To get to London on a flight that I can afford, I’ve had to go on standby, which has meant waiting around here overnight. I have a flight now — from New York. And I’ll be getting there via Dodge City, Kansas, Dubuque, Iowa and Wilkes-Barre/Scranton, the gateway to northeastern Pennsylvania and the Pocono mountains.’
‘Ouch.’
‘So what are you doing here?’ said Benedict again.
Patrick stared down at him with an appraising smile Benedict found most unnerving.
‘Among other things,’ said Patrick, ‘I’m about to offer you a last-minute reprieve from the death sentence of domestic air travel.’
Two coffees, a prosciutto sandwich and a large-sized torta della nonna later, Benedict was still saying no.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘For so many reasons. Besides, I’ve said all my goodbyes. You can’t go back after that. Not even if you’ve forgotten your hat.’
‘You didn’t say goodbye to Gulliver,’ said Patrick.
Benedict reddened. ‘No. Well. I intended to write.’
‘Better make it quick,’ said Patrick. ‘He’s off to London with me tomorrow. To live.’
Benedict paused, forkful of torte halfway to his mouth. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘We’ve got him into a good school,’ said Patrick. ‘I think it’ll suit him.’
‘What about Aishe?’ Benedict said quietly.
‘She’s a bit old for school.’
Benedict put down the fork, torte uneaten. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘She’s selling the house. After that?’ Patrick shrugged. ‘She’s a grown woman. She’ll make her own decisions.’ He checked his watch. ‘Come on,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’ll be in five fathoms of shit if I miss the in-laws.’
‘Er,’ said Benedict, rising to his feet in alarm. ‘I don’t recall saying yes.’
Patrick picked up Benedict’s rucksack.
‘I’ll shout you a flight to London direct,’ he said. ‘Business class.’
Benedict raised his eyes to the high ceiling and then dropped them to the floor, where he tapped his foot for a bit. Then he said, ‘I have nowhere to stay.’
‘And that, I can guarantee,’ said Patrick, handing him his rucksack, ‘is dead last on the list of things you need to fret about.’
Patrick’s personal concern was that he wouldn’t recognise the Lawrences from the photo Michelle had shown him. As it turned out, Virginia looked exactly like her picture, pearl choker and all. Chad’s father, on the other hand, Patrick thought, looked like he’d been put through the preliminary stages of embalming. You could see that he’d once been a tall, strapping man, but now his yellowing skin sagged off his bones like wet washing on a line, and he walked bent over at the shoulders, as if his head was too heavy to hold upright.
Patrick introduced himself, hoping that Michelle had let them know he was coming to pick them up. Whether she had or she hadn’t, Michelle’s mother-in-law was too well bred to show surprise. It was only when Patrick offered his hand to her husband and received a bewildered stare in return that a frown creased Virginia’s forehead. But she recovered, and accepted Patrick’s hand with a delicate grasp of her own, and a small, tight smile that reminded Patrick of his mother, putting on what she referred to as her ‘committee face’.
‘And you’re English, too,’ said Virginia to Benedict, after Patrick had introduced them.
She makes it sounds like an unfortunate genetic defect, thought Patrick. Which is, I suppose, how others might see it. The French, for starters.
‘Do you have any luggage?’ said Patrick.
‘We have one suitcase,’ said Virginia. ‘With, er — a few things of my husband’s.’
Patrick, who had been apprised of the situation by Michelle, decided the suitcase was almost certainly not full of beans. Neither was Lowell, he thought. Unless he’d been nibbling away at his stash during the nights …
‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘And welcome to sunny San Francisco.’
‘Although I gather the rainy season is imminent,’ said Virginia.
‘Is that so?’ said Patrick. ‘Well then — we’d better get a fucking move on.’
Michelle had asked Aishe and Gulliver to
arrive mid-morning.
‘I’ve told Chad you’re coming,’ she’d said on the phone. ‘And Patrick.’ Michelle paused. ‘He was a bit surprised about that.’
‘Good training for him,’ Aishe had said. ‘We’ll see you at ten.’
At ten-fifteen, Aishe found herself in Michelle’s kitchen, cutting crosses in the stalks of Brussels sprouts while, beside her, Gulliver was doing his best to chop the skin off a particularly firm pumpkin.
‘Fuck!’ he said as the knife slipped. He slid a glance towards Michelle, who was covering a large turkey with foil. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Michelle, checking the oven temperature. ‘Chop, chop!’
Aishe watched Michelle put the bird in the oven. ‘Is that going to be ready in time?’
‘Don’t care,’ said Michelle. ‘Haven’t got time to care. Too stressed.’
‘Can I make a cranberry sauce?’ said Aishe, putting the finished sprouts to one side.
‘I don’t know!’ Michelle gazed at her wildly. ‘Can you?’
Chad, Rosie on his hip, poked his head around the kitchen door. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Perfect!’ His wife beamed at him, a slightly manic glint in her eye. ‘I’m making pumpkin pie.’
‘Really?’ said Chad dubiously.
‘Yes! It’ll be excellent.’
Chad hesitated. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’
‘Yes,’ Michelle said. ‘Because we’re all absolutely fine.’
When he’d gone, Aishe got a bottle of riesling out of the fridge, poured a glass and silently handed it to Michelle.
‘I also know how to make pumpkin pie,’ Aishe said.
‘Do you?’ said Michelle. ‘Oh thank God.’
The front doorbell sounded. Michelle leapt, causing her wine to slosh in her glass. She briefly placed her hand over it to prevent spillage, then tilted back her head and downed the whole glass in one gulp.
‘Mercy!’ She gave her head a brisk shake. ‘Oh well, here we go. Show time.’
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 34
