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‘I said—’ Gulliver reached out and poked Benedict with a ruler. ‘I’ve finished it.’
‘Right.’ Benedict blinked at him. ‘Er, well done.’
‘I didn’t say I finished it correctly.’ Gulliver swivelled from side to side on the chair. ‘But, as it happens, I did. A clean one hundred per cent. I think I need to move up a level.’
‘Right . . .’
Gulliver gave his tutor an appraising look. ‘We could give up studying and play Doom? Or,’ he added when there was no response, ‘we could surf the porn sites. There’s one with Latvian schoolgirls that’s supposed to be super hot.’
‘Definitely not,’ said Benedict.
‘I thought you weren’t listening.’
Benedict sat forward and propped his forearms on his knees. ‘The words “Latvian schoolgirls” are pretty much guaranteed to gain anyone’s attention.’
‘How about playing Doom then?’ Gulliver said. ‘I did get a hundred per cent.’
‘How about music practice?’ Benedict said. ‘After all, you are on stage in—’ He checked his watch. ‘Two-and-a-half hours.’
‘Nah.’ Gulliver shook his head. ‘I’m practised out. I don’t mind listening to music, though.’
‘Well—’
Gulliver ignored his tutor’s faint protest and opened up the music file on his computer. ‘I got some new stuff from one of the guys in the band.’ He clicked play. ‘What do you think?’ He noted the expression on Benedict’s face. ‘Not your thing, huh?’
‘It sounds like a load of engine parts in a tumble dryer,’ said Benedict.
‘Norwegian death metal,’ said Gulliver. ‘Barstad. It’s the last name of the singer,’ he added. ‘I’m not insulting you.’
‘I can just about cope with Rammstein,’ said Benedict. ‘But that, I fear, is a monotonous grinding guitar riff too far.’
‘Banging,’ said Gulliver.
‘Yes, thank you, Dr Dre. Your musical opinion has been noted.’
‘Nope,’ said Gulliver, hitting pause. ‘I can hear banging. On the front door.’ And he slid off the chair, and lolloped down the stairs.
‘It’s Patrick!’ Benedict heard Gulliver yell upwards.
‘Oh, joy,’ said Benedict to the empty room. ‘Twice in one day.’
To be fair, he thought, Patrick hadn’t said anything that morning, or alluded to anything, or even looked at Benedict in a particularly pitying manner. All he’d done was nod at him and say hello. Then he and Michelle had gone to the café.
But it was the fact that he knew, thought Benedict. That’s what made his skin crawl with humiliation. He knew that Benedict had no idea that his father had died. And, perhaps worse, that he had no one in the world who’d cared enough to tell him.
‘I’m going to take Gulliver,’ Patrick said to him as he entered the kitchen. ‘He has to be there early. Aishe will come later with Michelle.’
Benedict stopped and frowned. ‘Who’s babysitting Harry and Rosie?’
‘Their dad, I gather,’ said Patrick. ‘You ever met him?’
‘I haven’t,’ said Benedict. ‘However, I have seen photographs.’
Gulliver handed him a soda. ‘Doesn’t mean he’s alive,’ he said. ‘She could have his mummified corpse in the basement.’
‘When your mind isn’t in the gutter, it’s straight out of a Charles Addams cartoon,’ said Benedict.
‘Someone tried to give me an Addams Family nickname when I was younger,’ said Patrick. ‘Lurch. Like the butler. I persuaded them otherwise.’
‘Whereas Gulliver’s hair more resembles Cousin Itt,’ said Benedict.
‘I have no idea what you’re on about,’ said Gulliver, glancing between the two men. ‘And you’re weirding me out.’
Patrick cast an amused look at Benedict. ‘Do you need a ride, too?’
Benedict’s heart sank. He knew he should be at the concert for Gulliver’s sake. But the prospect of being in the same room with Izzy and Eddie and Aishe was so appalling that his brain shut down before the thought even made it halfway. He’d been searching desperately for a valid excuse to bail, but short of injuring himself in a way that would require urgent medical attention without actually being life-threatening, he had drawn a blank.
‘Benedict’s got a ride,’ said Gulliver, with a leer. ‘Her name’s Izzy.’
‘Oi,’ said Patrick. ‘None of that. Show some respect.’
‘Respect, again.’ Gulliver rolled his eyes. ‘What is the deal?’
‘Deal is simple,’ said Patrick. ‘You show respect, I won’t clip you round the earhole.’
‘Are you sure you two have never met before?’ Gulliver muttered.
‘Come on,’ said Patrick. ‘Get your stuff organised. We’ll grab a taco on the way. Though if you want to stay friends with your band mates, I strongly recommend you hold the beans.’
When they were ready and outside the front door, Patrick turned to Benedict. ‘Sure you don’t want a ride?’
Benedict shook his head and watched as Gulliver and Patrick drove off in Patrick’s rental, a brand-new silver BMW. If he was renting that standard of car, Benedict decided, he must drive something seriously expensive at home.
If Benedict were a real man, he thought, as he began to trudge down the street, he’d have his own car. He wouldn’t be trekking to the bus stop and sitting with all the other cash-strapped losers. He would be able to afford new shoes and pay the power bill. He wouldn’t have a wardrobe of clothes that didn’t actually require a wardrobe because they could all fit into a rucksack. He wouldn’t be earning the minimum wage with no prospect of advancement. He wouldn’t feel aimless, directionless and hopeless.
Most of all, thought Benedict, listlessly kicking at a horse chestnut, he wouldn’t be dreading tonight. If he were a real man like Patrick, the kind with a car, he’d be taking charge of the situation. He’d tell Izzy that it was over, Eddie that he was a wanker, and Aishe that he loved her.
Wasn’t he fortunate that dreams were free?
Michelle opened her door to Aishe and ushered her in. Held to Michelle’s ear was the phone receiver, through which Aishe could hear a distant squawking. The person making the noise appeared to not be drawing breath.
‘Sorry,’ Michelle mouthed. ‘Mother-in-law.’
She beckoned for Aishe to follow her down to the kitchen.
‘Yes, but—’ Michelle attempted. She tried again. ‘Look, I really don’t—’
Aishe took it upon herself to pull out a chair. Michelle clamped the phone between her shoulder and her ear so she could free both hands to chop carrot sticks. Rosie was in her highchair, smacking the back end of a plastic spoon onto yoghurt in a bowl. Aishe gauged the range of the splashes and moved her chair half a foot to the left.
‘Virginia, Jesus!’ Michelle stood bolt upright, knife poised in her hand as if she were about to throw it. ‘You need to call a shrink! Seriously! That is not normal! I mean, the rest of his behaviour hasn’t exactly been top of the sane charts, but that? That is straitjacket territory!’
Aishe could hear the squawking on the other end of the phone wind up like a circular saw cutting through metal. Michelle turned around and leaned against the bench. She was holding the knife flat across her chest now, reminding Aishe of old engravings of Joan of Arc.
Aishe caught Michelle’s eye and pointedly tapped her watch. Michelle rolled her eyes and nodded.
‘Virginia!’ she said. ‘I have to go. No, I— Yes, I—’
Down the hall, Aishe heard the front door open and shut. A minute later, in walked one of the most handsome men Aishe had ever seen. There were photographs of him around Michelle’s house but in no way did their two dimensions do him justice. He had the sort of glowing blondness and robust physique that cast him instantly as the hero of some epic poem, in which he would split his time evenly between wassailing and dismembering. Aishe mentally swapped his suit for chainmail and a beaten iron helmet topped with horns, and his briefcase for the kind of double-headed battle axe that goes ‘zinggg’ when it’s swung.
Chad – for it must be he – dumped the briefcase on the floor and glanced between his wife, Aishe and his daughter, who gave a happy shriek and renewed her attack on the yogurt with extra vigour.
‘Hi,’ he said with a certain wariness.
Michelle pointed the knife at him and glared.
‘About bloody time!’ She spoke into the phone. ‘Virginia! Your son is here!’
And she shoved the phone towards her husband, who instantly lifted both hands into the ‘no way’ position.
‘Don’t you dare!’ Michelle now had the phone upright in one hand and the knife in the other, as if she were about to carve a roast. ‘Talk to her, damnit!’
Slowly, one eye on the knife, Chad reached out for the phone. He turned away from Michelle and Aishe and lowered his voice. ‘Mom,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m going now,’ Michelle said loudly to his averted back. ‘Harry’s watching television, and needs dinner. Rosie needs — Well,’ she said, as she and Aishe left the kitchen, ‘you’ll figure it out.’
‘Will he?’ said Aishe, when they’d reached her car.
‘Who cares?’ Michelle shrugged and slammed the Rabbit’s door so hard Aishe made a mental note to check the hinges.
‘Father-in-law playing up again?’ Aishe said, after a few minutes in which it became clear Michelle was going to do nothing but silently stew.
Aishe knew about Lowell’s retreat to his study and the cans of beans, and was quite curious to find out what he was doing that could be worse. Exposing himself at children’s playgrounds came to mind, along with taking a dump in the showroom at a bathroom store. And then there was the possibility of him developing a fetish for women’s underwear, which would give the arrival in the mailbox of the Victoria’s Secret catalogue a whole new piquancy.
‘He’s building a Viking longboat,’ said Michelle. ‘In the garage.’
‘A what?’
‘When he dies, he wants his body placed in it, and the whole thing set on fire and sent out to sea.’
‘Does he have any Norse blood in him?’ said Aishe. ‘Chad looks as though he could.’
‘None,’ said Michelle. ‘The Lawrences are stolidly Anglo-Saxon. No, he got the idea from a Burt Lancaster movie that he watched when he was holed up in his study.’
‘Well, on the plus side, he’s come out of his cave.’
‘Only to lathe dowels and mitre joints,’ said Michelle. ‘By night, he’s still bunking down on the Chesterfield, surrounded by the aroma of old man jockey shorts and dusty Heinz cans.’
‘You know,’ said Aishe, after a moment, ‘building a coffin for your own Viking cremation is actually pretty cool.’
‘Cool?’ Michelle stared. ‘It’s bonkers!’
‘But bold bonkers,’ said Aishe. ‘Iconoclastic.’
‘Personally,’ said Michelle, ‘I think it’s yet more evidence of the latent character flaw in the Lawrence men. They attach themselves to an insane goal and then, despite the obvious cost to their nearest and dearest, pursue it come hell, high water or the fire risk from flaming ancient vessels.’
‘Better than having no plan at all,’ said Aishe. ‘Unless you’re in love with the status quo.’
It was probably fortunate that Michelle had no more to say, because Aishe stopped paying attention the instant they pulled up into the parking lot of the local hall, the venue for Gulliver’s concert. Her mind was now focused entirely on the minefield that was the evening ahead and how she intended to negotiate it.
In her mind, she pictured herself with a combination of cool dignity and blatant sex appeal. It would not be Izzy who drew every male eye, but Aishe. But she wouldn’t play to it. Rather, she would hold herself aloof, which was likely to warn off everyone except Eddie. With Eddie, the best tactic would be to wait for the moment when a suggestive comment was forming on his lips, then grind the pointed heel of her boot into his interphalangeal joint.
However, she found that even the faintest image of Benedict and Izzy together, no matter how quickly she banished it from her mind, triggered a writhing mass of emotions that were conducive neither to dignity nor detachment. It was beyond Aishe’s ability and inclination to try to unravel the emotional strands and identify the cause and nature of each. Instead, she grabbed each one as it appeared, hydra-like, throttled it and stuffed it back down.
As she did so, she laid all the blame on Benedict. If he hadn’t been around, she wouldn’t have seduced him so he’d advocate for her with Gulliver. If he’d been terrible in bed, she would never have cared when he left it. If he’d been unkind and dishonest, she wouldn’t have felt guilty for treating him badly. It was his fault that she now felt rejected, powerless and vulnerable.
You know that’s nonsense, said the voice in her head. You feel that way because you know loss is inevitable, no matter how much you fight to stave it off. Which means that, above all, you feel very, very afraid.
If it wasn’t for you, Aishe hurled the thought back, I would never have deluded myself that feeling safe was an option. I knew people I loved would always go, but you tricked me into thinking otherwise. So now I blame you as well as Benedict!
This argy-bargy had been slamming to and fro in Aishe’s head for days, but with the concert imminent, its noise and intensity had increased tenfold. That morning, two customers had complained to the truck-stop café manager about her rudeness. Fortunately, he had just found a better-paid job running the local liquor mart, so he made apologies on Aishe’s behalf, offered them free coffee and forgot about it.
Aishe had not been so lucky at the shelter. Since that afternoon when they’d driven back with Blackie, Aishe had been making a sincere effort to at least think more kindly of customers. She had not offered again to adopt Blackie; she sensed that Nico was reluctant to say yes, and she was reluctant to be rejected. The dog had soon gone to a local family who seemed practical and responsible and whose two kids, aged ten and eight, obviously adored their new pet. Aishe watched them all bundle into an older-model station wagon and felt a sharp pang of regret, as if she had lost something that she had become aware of only through its absence. Nico was speaking to her courteously enough, but Aishe knew he was keeping his distance. She did not try to apologise to him, mainly because she wasn’t sure she deserved his forgiveness. Instead she tried hard to demonstrate more tolerance with the customers, even those who had no clue what it meant to own a pet. If their hearts were in the right place, Aishe did her best to believe, there’s no reason why their heads couldn’t get there, too.
But the laws of thermodynamics state that energy cannot be destroyed but only shifted from one form to another. In Aishe’s case, her attention shifted from customers to a fresh set of morons, otherwise known as her colleagues. There was one in particular: the new girl, who went by the ridiculous name of Aja, and who thought it was ‘so cute’ that her name and Aishe’s were ‘like, so similar!’ ‘Did your parents name you after a Steely Dan album?’ Aishe had asked in disbelief. Aja had gazed at her. ‘Who’s Steely Dan?’ she said.
Aja was twenty years old and taking a gap year before going to college to study zoology. She had, as one of the cows at the front desk had made a point of saying to Aishe, ‘a real knack with animals. And with people, too. Doesn’t everyone just love her?’
Aja wore very tight jeans. She was slim but full-breasted, beautiful and blonde. She didn’t look exactly like Izzy, but she was out of the same mould. Aishe hated her.
Nico had called her into his office that morning. ‘Aishe,’ he’d said, without preamble. ‘Lay off Aja.’
Aishe had bristled. ‘What has she told you?’
‘She has told me nothing,’ Nico had said. ‘It’s everyone else who’s concerned.’
Aishe wanted to say that everyone had wanted to stick the knife into her from day one. But all she’d done was fold her arms and say, ‘Fine.’
Nico had given her a long look. ‘If this wasn’t second-hand — if I had had an official complaint from Aja — I’d fire you on the spot. You do know that?’
Only a feeling that she still owed Nico had prompted Aishe to nod and look down instead of staring coolly back at him.
‘No more chances, Aishe,’ Nico had said. ‘Not one.’
And he’d pulled a piece of paper from his in-tray and turned his attention to that . . .
‘Are we going in?’ Aishe heard Michelle say, ‘or are you picturing the French chateau you’ll buy when Gulliver earns his millions as a rock star?’
‘The only rock musicians I knew had to sell items of clothing in order to eat,’ said Aishe. ‘It’s like that joke: what do you call a drummer without a girlfriend?’
Michelle shook her head.
‘Homeless,’ said Aishe.
She opened the car door. ‘Come on,’ she said to Michelle. ‘If I do nothing else right tonight, I’m going to make sure I clap embarrassingly loudly.’