Demo Page 11

  We need to talk. I… it’s crazy what we’re doing. It’s … She could hear her voice rise again, hysteria seeping through.

  Julian put his fingers to her lips. Shh, he said. Wait. Clare’s here.

  Where? Laetitia jerked away from him and looked round the room. Where?

  In the bathroom. Look, I’ll… get rid of her. He was whispering now, his voice soft, tugging at the edges of her panic, smoothing it down like a linen sheet, cool on a bed.

  And then she realized what he’d said. Clare? Clare? Julian, she’s sixteen. She’s a child. You didn’t… you haven’t been? Oh my God! Julian!

  It’s not like that, he said. It wasn’t like that.

  So, what is it like? Her panic was turning to anger, her face felt hot now, her eyes gritty.

  It was only… it was… it’s you I want, Laetitia. You know that. Fucksake, man, I’ve been telling you for long enough. Come here. He pulled her towards him again and she stayed stiff in his arms at first, then drew back.

  Get rid of her? You can’t just discard her like… like a used condom or something. She’s a child. What’s that going to do to her?

  She’ll be fine. She’s more mature than she looks. It’s just something that happened. A product of circumstance. It just happened. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s nothing. Honestly, babe, it’s nothing.

  Laetitia studied his face. It was earnest, his eyes wide. Innocent. Nearly. She laid her head again on his smooth chest, unexpectedly smooth for a man with all that hair on his head. And on his face. Clare wasn’t her concern. Julian pulled her so tightly to him that the muscles in his arms trembled and the breath went out of her.

  They could have stayed that way all night, but there was Clare. In the bathroom. Clare to be dealt with. Simultaneously they stepped back from each other. Julian exhaled a great sigh. His breath smelt. Of tobacco, of garlic, of the metal smell of his sleep. She breathed in deeply.

  Right, he said. Clare. Wait here. I’ll sort it out, babe. I promise.

  She tightened her grip on his hands till their arms were stretched straight between them before her fingers would disengage. Like the principal dancers in a pas de deux about to pirouette and jeté away from each other to opposite sides of the stage. She folded her arms across her chest, cold suddenly, and watched Julian back towards the bathroom, his eyes never leaving her face.

  At the last moment he turned, rapped sharply on the door. Vaguely the sound of water running became audible to her. She was having a shower. At a time like this. The girl was having a shower.

  Clare, Julian said.

  A frisson of pleasure went through her at the thought of the expulsion to come. Defenestration. The word popped into her head. The Defenestration of Florence. A Star Trek phaser set on Beam you up, Scottie; little Scots girl, disappear. I am a truly horrible person, she thought. This is a sixteen-year-old. Not much more than a child. An image sprang to mind of herself at sixteen, her gaucheness in adult company, her hands huge, hanging at her side. She shook her head and the muscles on her face tightened.

  Clare. Julian knocked again, more sharply this time. Clare, it’s alright, you can come out.

  The girl wasn’t responding. Laetitia felt a spurt of anger. Julian’s ear was to the door and his dreads stood out chaotically, pointing in every direction. She smoothed down her own hair and swatted the tears drying on her face. A cursory glance at her hands found they were stained with mascara now, and shaking. She stuck them in the back pockets of her jeans, rocked on the balls of her feet till she found a precarious equilibrium.

  Clare, what’s keeping you? C’mon. Julian was becoming irritated. His voice had that harsh quality that unsettled her. Now she wanted it to work on Clare.

  Clare, for Christsake! Julian said.

  Finally the door began slowly opening. This girl was milking the situation for all it was worth. Laetitia stood stiffly on the spot. Julian came to her, put his arms round her. Then he stepped back, let his hands weigh heavily on her shoulders, brought his face level with hers.

  OK, he said. You ready?

  The girl came into the room.

  She looked at the bed. Then her eyes darted round, her enormous eyes. They found Julian, stayed on his face. This girl is determined not to see me, Laetitia thought, either from fear or sheer will. Her dark red hair was tousled, falling onto the shoulders of her white hooded top. She looked lost. She looked… She looked…

  Hi, she said.

  She looked like the white girl. Scared and lost. Whistler’s White Girl. Symphony in White Number One.

  This was not going to be easy. But it’s my shoulder Julian’s arm is round, she thought. My shoulder. He could sense her tension, squeezed her arm. Without looking at him, she knew their old attunement was there.

  Clare… he said.

  What?

  But Julian said nothing. His fingers squirmed, digging into the flesh of her upper arm. Where were the certainty and irritation of a moment ago?

  What? Clare said again. A note of defiance was creeping into her voice. But her pink face had gone as white as her jumper. She stood uncertainly, her left hand plucking at the leg of her jeans.

  Clare, look, I…

  Julian was going to blow this. His voice was growing feebler by the minute. Feeble, feeble, feeble. And he was looking at his wretched feet.

  Let’s all sit down, shall we? she said. She looked about the room. There was the chair. Gold wicker. No doubt handsprayed by the redoubtable Mrs Abensur. She lifted it. Her muscles were so tense, it shot up, lighter than it ought to have been. An image of wings on its feet came into her head. Enid Blyton’s flying chair. She set it down facing the end of the bed and looked at Clare.

  Please sit, she said. The girl looked back at her, as if she might bolt. A woodland sprite ready to dart behind a tree. A nymph.

  Nymphette.

  She kept her hands on the chair till the girl came and sat, her hair brushing the backs of them. Damp, artfully tangled, the dew of the forest still on it. A thickness falling down the middle, a single plait, half concealed by curls. No, not a plait. A dreadlock. She looked at Julian. She could kill him. At this precise moment, she could kill him.

  She sat on the end of the bed. Her hands were shaking so badly she had to clasp them round her knee to still them. There was a strange lightness seeping into her body. As if she might levitate. As if she needed something to hold her down. A guy rope. Stones in her pockets. She thought she caught a whiff of chloroform. But where on earth could that be coming from?

  Julian sat beside her. His weight on the bed reclaimed her. Even though he appeared to have lost it. Totally. He was going to be useless in this. Worse than useless. He was keeping his eyes on the carpet. She looked at Clare.

  Good shower? Her voice sounded clipped like her mother’s. Strangulated.

  The girl shrugged. She was slouched down in the chair, trying and failing to look unconcerned.

  Alright, I suppose, she said.

  What happened to your hair?

  Clare looked up at her, uncomprehending, her eyes darting from Julian back to her. No help for you there, Clare, Laetitia thought. You’re on your own. She drew strength from the knowledge.

  It’s just a wee bit damp. Clare’s voice was growing quieter.

  No, at the back. She pitched her voice to match Clare’s, but the honey was laced with acid. She knew it and couldn’t help it. This child was quaking in front of her and here she was peeling off strips of her pale skin.

  Oh, that? Clare said, with her infuriating glottal stop. Julian was showing me how to make dreads.

  Perhaps now he’d come in. Offer an explanation. Take some responsibility. But his eyes were still down. He looked ghastly too. Laetitia wondered if she was as pale as the other two. If they were a threesome in pallor. Ghosts at their own feast.

  I see. Well, I think you’d better comb it out, hadn’t you, before you get home. Your father wouldn’t like it.

  Clare looked at her hands in her l
ap. She just sat there.

  So…

  Clare, I think you should go back to your own room. At last Julian had raised his head and spoken. He was even managing almost to look at Clare. Almost. Clare’s head was still bent, but she was looking up at Julian through the hair that half concealed her face. Even behind the tangle of curls, Laetitia could see her blush. She felt something close to empathy for her. Close, but not enough to offer any kindness. She wanted her out. Now.

  Clare made a move finally. It was painful to watch. She walked about the room, face screened by the red hair, picking up her belongings; stepped carefully over their legs, hers and Julian’s, thigh to thigh now on the bed; opened the door and was gone.

  I’m home. Laetitia set her rucksack down on the polished wood floor of the hall.

  Mummy, I’m home. She breathed in the smell of the place: wood polish, that exclusive room freshener that started off trying to convince you everything was lemon fresh, but soon came out in its true odours – cloying sweetness, with a suspicion of cat’s piss seeping through underneath. And fresh paint. What had her mother been decorating now? The depression that invariably accompanied her return started to drift like mist around her.

  She turned to close the door. The broken stained-glass panel above the handle had been replaced. A good match. Near perfect, except that the new red was a little more vivid, the turquoise a touch too green. Otherwise the nymph still stood among reeds on the bank, her brown curls permanently held off her face by a tiny pink hand, her toe dipped forever into the glassy pool. Laetitia’s favourite piece of the jigsawed glass; the way the pink foot turned green in the water and, between the two colours, no black leaded line. Consummate artistry, her mother liked to tell guests. She’d never reveal to them that the house was a comedown. After Wellwood House, a severe disappointment. So much more convenient, she’d say, for all one’s needs. She made Laetitia wince, she was so transparent; her need for approval utterly naked.

  Hello. Are you there, Mother? It’s me, Laetitia.

  Laetitia heard a sound from above and her mother’s blackslippered foot appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Is that you, darling? You’re back early.

  I’m back exactly when I said I’d be, Mother. The rest of her came into view on the stairs.

  Well, no need to be touchy, dear. You know how I lose track of time.

  Under the hall light, she could see that her mother’s hair was a shade or two lighter than it had been when Laetitia had left for the start of term. And it was styled to swing glossily at every move of her head. She’d clearly succumbed at last to the advice of her friends: Dark hair at our time of life, darling, ages one so.

  I like your hair. It’s different.

  She flicked it in an exaggerated Miss Piggy gesture from both sides of her face and held her head at a coy angle. Do you think so? I’m so glad, sweetie. I’m not used to it yet. But look at you! She held her arms out to Laetitia and drew her into a bony embrace. Laetitia submitted stiffly till her mother stepped back, keeping a tense grip on her shoulders.

  You look lovely, bunny rabbit, my own lettuce leaf. She managed that trick she had of looking deeply into Laetitia’s eyes without seeing anything. And she had used up her entire repertoire of endearments in the first two minutes; any moment now, the needling would start.

  You’re wearing your red cashmere. I’m so glad. Did it keep you warm? It ought to have at the price I paid for it. Shockingly expensive, deValois, but the best quality anywhere in the country. Now, come and have a drink.

  She took her hand and pulled her towards the drawing room. Something was wrong; Laetitia could feel it. Her mother was even more relentlessly superficial than usual. That brittle sweetness, like the caramelized sugar on a crème brû lée. The image that always followed instantly, a spoon cracking through the crust to the soft mess underneath. Her father breaking the ice on the pond, hefting the pick over his shoulder, crashing through on the first downswing, the explosion of rooks from bare branches, the splash of icy water, the orange flash of the old carp, startling against the white.

  Laetitia pulled her hand out of her mother’s. No, I’d like to dump my stuff in my room first.

  Dump, darling? Her mother turned to look at her, the lines at her mouth etched clear, one side of her face brushed by an upflicked strand of glossy hair. One doesn’t dump. Bin men dump. Demolition men dump. I dare say other sorts of tradesmen…

  Yes, alright, Mother, I get the photy, as they say in Glasgow. Laetitia was pleased with her glottal stop, but she’d have to work on ironing out the diphthong. Not that her mother was alert to such fine distinctions: she pursed her mouth and said nothing.

  I’ll come down and join you for drinks in a minute. Laetitia went to pick up her rucksack from beside the hall table, turned and made for the stairs.

  I’ve moved you.

  Her mother stood clasping her hands in front of her, pearlized nail varnish offering reflections of the hall light in subtle gleams. Her chin was up and her mouth was a hard line.

  What do you mean, you’ve moved me? Where to? Laetitia stood in front of her mother and, for the first time she could remember, saw that she looked her age. She was tired, strained, her skin taut across her cheekbones. What’s been happening, Mummy? Are you alright?

  Oh, perfectly, darling. Her mother’s voice warmed at her use of ‘Mummy’; no doubt to her it evoked an earlier, simpler time when she had been loved by her daughter. She took a step towards Laetitia and clasped her free hand.

  I’m sure you’ll like your new room. It’s compact and cosy with plenty of space for… well, everything you need. After all, dear, you don’t stay here permanently any more, and—

  Where have you put me?

  In that little room at the back.

  The box room?

  Well, I only called it that, but actually it’s quite large. It’s —

  And what have you done with my room?

  I’ve had another bathroom put in. A proper one.

  A bath room!

  Yes. I needed…

  Does Daddy know about this? Have you told him?

  Her mother moved away from her and walked towards the drawing room. At the door she turned, held on to the frame. Her face was white and her fingers trembled against the wood.

  This is my house, not your father’s, though you seem to find it extremely difficult to grasp this simple fact. My house. And may I remind you that it was your father who precipitated the break-up of this family with his serial infidelities, and his decision that we sell Wellwood and that I move with you into this dreary Victorian terrace, while he lives it up somewhere in the sun with… with…

  Clearly she couldn’t bring herself to say the name without spitting. Feathers and blood. Nails. Her voice had risen in a crescendo, and Laetitia realized she had walked straight into the trap. Once her mother got into her WRONGED WOMAN stride, there was no gainsaying her. All conversations were structured by this ineluctable fact: she had been wronged in the one major area of life, so take care lest you wrong her again by challenging her in any way. Having suffered such a devastating blow, she deserved only to be cosseted and indulged for the rest of her time on the planet. Her tragedy was that there was no one – no one! – in her life with the sensitivity and perspicacity to recognize this and oblige. Certainly not her uncaring viper of a daughter.

  First rule of the game: ignore her. Walk away. Laetitia used to fight her father’s corner. That induced fainting fits and hysteria… well, as good as. Then she tried another tack: sympathy. It was worse, if anything. Drew out that many splendoured thing, her mother’s self-pity.

  She listened for a moment to her mother’s movements in the next room, heard her take a bottle and a glass from the drinks cabinet, chink over to the sofa, sit down heavily, clatter the bottle and glass onto the coffee table. By the fatness of the glug of liquid, she could tell it came from a decanter, that her mother’s current poison of choice was whisky. Great! When she’d left a mo
nth before it had been Pinot Grigio. So refreshing, darling; cleanses the palate. Things must have gone downhill since then. Whisky meant danger. Whisky meant keep out of her way. Give her a body swerve, as the Glaswegians have it. Steer clear.

  Laetitia swung her rucksack onto her shoulder and started up the stairs. She could feel a prickly, itchy heat across the top of her back now as if the soft cashmere had transmogrified into a hair shirt. An allergic reaction. Julian was right about her mother, she was toxic. A waste of space. Toxic waste. Best dumped away from human habitation. By the appropriate tradesman. She allowed the memory to soothe her of Julian’s last kiss when she’d got off the bus in London. Sweet and salt. Deep enough to lose herself in. Only the irritant of the ever-vigilant Clare to mar it, watching them through the window of the bus.

  She stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at the doors that curved round the sides of the landing. They’d been newly painted. A fresh coat of what her mother called a hint of spice, a sort of pallid ginger, if such a thing were possible, with all the warmth and colour sucked out of it. Laetitia put a finger to the first door and ran it down the paintwork, hoping she’d leave an ugly streak. She was in the mood for scribbling on walls with felt-tip pens, easing her fingernails under wallpaper and stripping it away, shred by shred. But the paint was dry. Only the smell of it persisted under the room freshener.

  The door of her old room was next to Mother’s boudoir. For a moment she stood outside, allowed herself, like the hapless victim of a home makeover programme, to visualize it as it had been when she’d left. Only just over a month ago. Her rucksack slid off her aching arm onto the carpet. She opened the door slowly, fumbled for the light. But the switch had been moved outside, of course. A stainless-steel effort, out of keeping with the rest of the fittings on the landing. She pressed it and stepped into the room. Instantly it revealed itself as something straight from the pages of one of Mother’s Sumptuous Homes and Splendiferous Gardens— type magazines: modern, minimal, the acme of good taste. Clearly a designer had been at work; this was no sudden whim. Rows of subtle spotlights were embedded in the ceiling and there were halfconcealed lights behind panels facing the mirror, the better to illuminate Mother in the kindest possible way. From somewhere came the sensation of a low hum overlaying the silence, as if the whole room was a precision-made machine, ready to reveal shiny lubricated pistons, working to some mysterious end, should she happen to press the right button. Or the wrong one. The washbasin was clear glass; the shower like the inside of a spaceship, stainless steel and glass; the toilet and bidet were pristine white; the walls a muted shade somewhere between pale dove grey and mauve.