by Sadie Jones
‘… Nicer?’ she said.
‘The damage was done.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it was.’
‘I shouldn’t have –’ He stopped.
‘Shouldn’t what?’ she said, quietly. ‘Expected him to get over it?’
‘Maybe that’s it,’ said Griff.
Bea nodded, but could not speak, thinking of Alex, unable to get over it. And how alone he must have felt.
‘And I wouldn’t have sent him to France,’ said Griff. ‘We were always running from one crisis to another. It was stupid, looking back.’
‘I think he loved Paligny, in a way.’
They sat in silence.
‘You’ll feel better, when you’re away from your mother,’ he said.
‘Why didn’t you leave her?’
‘Alimony.’
‘That’s not it.’
‘I could never leave her,’ he said. He didn’t say any more.
There was silence.
‘I suppose we should get ready for this circus she’s put together.’
‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘Whatever you think best.’ He finished his drink and got up. ‘All right?’
They reached the door and he opened it for her.
‘You were quite brilliant, with Philip Roche, just now – very brave,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
24
Bea came out of the study with Griff and they both crossed the hall to the stairs. Somebody had dimmed the lights, and there were voices coming from below, and more, outside the front door.
‘Quick, up you go,’ said Griff.
On the first floor, he left her, and she went up to her room. She felt dizzy, and had to hold on to the banister. Her empty stomach was acid from the brandy and from feeling too much, and knowing. She saw the diagrams, the shading, marking crushed bone. Her legs gave way. She sat on the stairs and shivered. Nobody could see her. She held herself. She smeared her tears with the heel of her hands, eyes tight shut, and pushing her forehead against her hands.
She could smell Dan’s shaving foam as she went into the bedroom. He had just finished dressing.
‘Is everything OK?’ he said. ‘What did Griff want?’ But he wasn’t looking at her.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said.
He was doing his hair. She passed him to go into the bathroom.
‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘What did he say about today? I don’t know what he told you,’ he said.
She turned. ‘What?’
He looked at her, wrong-footed. She didn’t know what he was talking about. She shouldn’t have drunk the brandy.
‘The party?’ she said.
‘What?’ He turned away quickly. ‘Can you be quick? It’s really late.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘I’ll see you down there.’
He went down the three flights of stairs, towards the party, down and down again, hurrying, embarrassed how relieved he was Griff hadn’t told her. Pussy-whipped. He needed not to be so weak. He didn’t have to live his life as a nothing. He had the right to change, if he wanted to. He rounded the top of the stairs and saw below him the big hall, and, beneath that, through the glass balustrade, the lower-ground floor. Guests were scattered in small groups in the various spaces of the house. He had the sense of coming upon a cavern under a mountain, and at the end of it was the garden, like another, deeper, cave, with lights like jewels illuminating it, and the people in it. More people were coming into the hall to go down. Waiters crossed the floor. The very long hanging lights, like stalactites, were amber. Even they looked different, glowing with welcome, now.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, and a girl with a tray of cocktails stopped.
‘Good evening, sir,’ she said.
‘Any chance of a beer?’ He thought how he must look; a guest, but still an ordinary person, just like her.
‘Of course. I’ll come and find you,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
The guests had taken Liv’s direction, and worn bright colours. Only a few wore black. There was a lively, edgy energy to the sound of their voices, and the laughter. Liv was in white linen. Surrounded by people, she looked plain to the point of sacrificial, except for a huge pair of sunglasses, which gave an impression of almost brutish blindness. Her apricot-coloured hair was loose. With a woman holding her arm, and a man on the other side, patting her shoulder, she went out into the garden, as the candles on the tables were lit and the band set up. Blessica came hurrying past, with a tray of clean glasses, and paused.
‘Mr Dan!’ she said. ‘Hello!’
He wondered if it was phonier to greet staff and ask how they were the whole time, or not to pretend. Bea did, but she was the same to everyone. It was like she was missing a status-awareness gene.
‘Hey,’ he said, and turned away.
The waitress brought his beer. He took it, and stood looking out through the glass back of the house. In the heart of London, here, the horizon was all treetops and chimney pots, and, above, the fuzzy lilac glow of the city sky.
Bea drank water from the tap and showered and washed her hair, dressing without drying it, and then went down. She felt light-headed, she had to eat something. Even knowing how her mother operated, she was surprised at the size of the crowd. She looked for Dan, from group to group, in the fairground of a garden. It had everything but bunting. A waiter stopped and smiled and held out a tray.
‘No, thank you.’
She looked, but she could not see Dan. Ed’s wife Elizabeth passed, conveying appropriate sympathy, but busy, on her way elsewhere. Bea was largely ignored, invisible. The atmosphere was charged. The guests were alert, their heads and eyes turning and seeking, like periscopes. She saw her brother Ed, talking intently to Arun who, obedient to the Adamson edicts, wore a pale pink linen jacket. His wife, holding his arm, was draped in crimson silk.
‘Bea!’ Someone shouted her name. ‘Hey! Bea!’
It was Will, on the lawn below. His wife was with him, and other friends of Alex’s. They all looked up. She made the last descent, into the garden, and Will hugged her. He didn’t have to ask why she looked as if she had been crying. He had been crying himself. They were all upset.
‘This is so weird,’ said Bea.
‘I know. But it’s good, right? Your mum is amazing. It must be hard for you, too. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ Her towel-dried hair dripped onto her neck and she squeezed it out.
‘Sit with us.’
‘OK. Thanks. Have you seen Dan?’
‘Look, he’s here.’
Dan came out of the crowd. He looked – happy.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What took you so long?’
Her mother’s voice, as loud as a bell through the speakers, brought the party to a momentary halt.
‘Dinner, everyone! Sit down! Wherever you like.’
It took some time for people to seat themselves at the long tables, decorated with flowers and cloths. Supper was brought out. The younger people stuck together, like tourists. Many of them wore black, ignorant of or ignoring Liv’s instruction. They were emotional and kind to each other. Bea could see most of them were a little drunk, or maybe high; coke, or MDMA. All the old crowd, come to celebrate Alex’s life, able to play with the things that had helped destroy him. Some of them had children, and the children played on the grass, or sat on the steps with their phones, where the waiters were trying to walk, taking selfies and giggling. The weather wasn’t warm or settled. The sky was overcast. A breeze snatched at the garden and terrace heaters were switched on. Among the older people, Bea recognised a few faces, and others, probably photographed often enough that they were absorbed into the consciousness, looked as if she should recognise them. It was a rich crowd; not the clothes or face work, or the tone of their voices, or the excess of the feast. The richness was far stronger than that. It was in the people themselves. She wondered
what level of wealth it took, to rearrange the molecules. Too rich and too poor were slippery creatures, they were always out of reach. But she knew, in every part of herself, how sick it was to live with such disparity, when beyond the garden wall, just there, was poverty. Not even a mile away, not another country, but hers. It wasn’t an effort to think of it, she had only to stop trying not to. It took constant vigilance to live blinkered, so the rich wouldn’t lose their minds with terror, under the eyes of the poor, and the poor lose hope. She wasn’t hungry but she ate, to steady herself, and get rid of the brandy feeling, then she drank wine to blunt her senses. She needed not to see too clearly. Beside her, Dan was excitable and staring, like he’d had a line of coke. Maybe he had. There must be enough of it around. She was astounded at the carnival atmosphere, as if death and disaster fed her mother and her mother fed the house. Apart from Will, and one or two others, near her, she could not see one shred of honest feeling in the crowd. She caught Griff’s eye, occasionally, knowing what they knew, having heard what they had just heard, but he was as loud and ebullient as ever. He was used to pretending. It was second nature to him.
‘Remember at Westminster,’ Will was saying, ‘down the Two Chairmen? So long as we took our ties off, we always got served. Alex could charm the birds from the trees.’
‘Remember that time in Tuscany?’
‘Remember Alex’s parka, in the nineties?’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Remember –’
She wasn’t ready for this. She didn’t know how they could have such fun with it, so soon. He was hardly cold. Or rather, said her shock, he was almost frozen. His corpse was shrouded in a plastic bag. Locked in a metal drawer. She hoped they would not bury him. She could imagine the purifying annihilation of cremation, the bright blaze, releasing him. She couldn’t bear the thought of his body in the ground. Then Griff was standing on the stage, with a microphone. The background music died.
‘Good evening, everybody.’
His amplified voice was right next to her, deep and clear. The people stopped and watched him quietly.
‘You may have noticed there were one or two reporters outside the house. What happened to Alex is seen as fodder by certain newspapers in this country. I don’t have to ask you not to speak to them. It’s pretty disgusting they should come here, trying to get at us now, if you ask me.’
A few people said, ‘Hear hear.’ He nodded his thanks.
‘For those of you who don’t know, the investigation into my son’s death is ongoing. Just now the –’ He stopped.
His eyes were closed as he stood before the hushed guests. He opened them.
‘I don’t know when my son is coming home. I don’t know when we can have a funeral. Thank you for coming tonight.’
He left the stage to subdued clapping. The music started again.
‘At least it’s not fucking Ed Sheeran,’ said Bea, and laughed.
She saw how shocked the people nearest her looked, and that Dan wasn’t laughing with her. Her heart hardened and defended itself. The conversation started up around them. She was going to lose herself. She needed to tell him about Roche’s visit.
‘Let’s go in,’ she said.
‘I was in Peckham today,’ said Dan.
The word was out of place, ridiculous. She thought she’d misheard.
‘Peckham? Oh, did you go to see your mum?’
‘No. I was there with Griff.’
‘With Griff? Why?’
‘He offered me a job.’
The music got louder. The speaker near her blared.
‘Did you hear me?’ said Dan. ‘Your dad offered me a job today.’
Waiters leaned between them, and cleared, and others stood ready, with trays of dessert.
‘Yes, I heard,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘No. Can we talk about this later?’
‘Yeah, sure, if you want.’
Dessert was a syllabub, served in sherry glasses, sprinkled with purple petals. Bea saw her mother getting up from the table to cry, and be comforted, standing. Recovering, she laughed, and sat down again.
‘I just can’t believe your mum managed to do all this,’ someone said. ‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘Is Liv all right?’ said Will’s wife. ‘She looks so beautiful.’
‘She’s fine,’ said Bea. ‘She’s loving it.’
She got up and left, and went through the tables to the front, to join her father, who was with his own small group of favoured men. He introduced her, king-like.
‘This is my daughter – you all know her. Bea.’
They greeted her, and made space.
‘She hates me,’ said Griff. ‘Don’t you, darling?’ He was slightly drunk.
‘I can’t bear you,’ said Bea.
‘Surely not,’ said one man. Alex’s godfather, Rupert somebody. In shipping, she remembered.
‘I’m sure you set a good example,’ said another, who owned a private bank, laughing.
‘Bea doesn’t think so. She’s a truth-teller. Or a-sayer, or a-seer, whichever word it is.’
‘I’m a psychotherapist,’ said Bea.
‘Oh, marvellous,’ said the godfather.
‘Well done you,’ said the banker.
‘What job did you offer Dan?’ she asked him. ‘Why?’
As one, the men turned away, to give them privacy, but Griff addressed them.
‘She’s angry with me.’
The men gave the impression they were part of the conversation, waiting to see what Griff wanted them to say, and if his daughter was going to make a scene they could talk about, later on.
‘I told him,’ Griff said, ‘I said: the world is drowning, and I’m offering you a place on the lifeboat.’
‘Your analogy is paranoid,’ said Bea. ‘You’re confusing survival with greed.’
‘Here we go, lecture me,’ said Griff.
‘Why aren’t your opinions lectures, only mine?’ said Bea. ‘Your “survival” has turned London into a super-condo.’
‘Oh yes, I’m Godzilla, aren’t I?’
‘That wasn’t me, Dad, that was the Daily Mirror.’
‘I don’t make the rules. Nurses and teachers are never going to live in Belgravia, Bea – get over it. Vast amounts of revenue flow through this city, from the banks and property. Vast.’
‘What does it do for anyone? You and this lot are the only ones who benefit.’
‘Not just me, love,’ he said. ‘You too, Trust Fund Beatrice. I hear you want to access your capital, as Dan put it. You’ll have to drop the bleeding-heart socialist crap now, won’t you?’
He saw how shocked she was. He looked away from her face, and stared up to the sky, terrace heaters reflected in his eyes, tawny orange, chimney red.
‘That boy must have you on the ropes,’ he said. ‘You must be terrified, to abandon your principles after all this time.’
The music stopped. Lights came up on the stage. Everyone turned to look.
‘Good evening,’ said Will into the microphone. ‘I’m Will, Alex’s friend, and this is my band. Liv asked us to play a few songs.’
Whoops. Clapping. He adjusted the microphone, and looked down at his hands on his guitar, but Liv, below him, waved for attention. She came up the steps, her white shift shining gold. She took off her dark glasses and smiled. The party was hushed and waiting. He handed her the microphone, and she took it in both hands, her mouth close to it.
‘We would’ve liked to be doing all this for Alex’s wedding day,’ she said. There was a feedback whine. ‘Sorry! Hello.’
‘Hello!’ said many voices.
She beamed. ‘I can’t see you very well.’ She searched the crowd and pointed. ‘Johnny – darling Johnny.’ The man next to Bea waved. ‘Christine and Mike – thank you.’
Quietly, Bea got up. She kept to the side of the lawn, trying not to run. Liv’s voice swelled and filled the garden.
&nbs
p; ‘Lolly and Marco,’ said Liv, amplified, behind her. ‘And Lee, darling. I’m so glad you could make it. Thank you, darling, thank you. I loved my beautiful son. If I could trade places with him, I would. I called him my little prince.’ Her voice rose. ‘He was so sweet, so gentle. He was too gentle for this world.’
Bea had reached the terrace. She ran into the kitchen, up the next flight of stairs to the ground floor, up again, and up again until she reached her room. She remembered Alex, in the garden at Paligny, swinging the axe as he gazed at the sky. She remembered the nightingale’s song.
25
Dan didn’t follow Bea. He watched the band with everyone else. The party guests bobbed about near the stage, like a mini music festival for old rich people, while the waiters cleared the tables under the cover of the music. Bea didn’t reappear. The band played ‘Blackbird’, last, and everyone cried and clapped. It said something about Dan’s life that he was having the best time he’d had in weeks, watching middle-aged white men play to a crowd of millionaires at a memorial for a guy he hadn’t even liked.
Liv was constantly in a crowd, but when there was time, she sought him out, and came up to him. She was like a wood sprite, thought Dan, who was quite drunk. Her pupils were dilated in the dark.
‘How are you, Dan?’ she asked.
He wondered how Bea could hate her mother like she did. His own mother had messed up a lot, but he could still be in the same room with her. It was Bea who had helped heal him. Bea, who was still hung up on hating her own mother, like a teenager.
‘Yeah, I’m all right, Liv, you doing OK?’
‘I’m – doing – OK,’ she said slowly, nodding, repeating the words as if they were profound. ‘Doing OK, thank you.
She held his arm, with two hands, gazing around, smiling at the people drifting back towards the house, each of them pausing to squeeze her hand, or blow her kisses.
‘What a beautiful night,’ she said flatly.
‘It was. I’m so sorry.’
‘God,’ she said. She put on her dark glasses.
‘Cool look,’ said Dan, with stilted levity.
It worked. She was laughing again. ‘Come on inside with me,’ she said.
