I don’t have a black eye, and that’s amazing. I’m looking in the bathroom mirror. It’s morning and the cheekbone under my left eye is a little swollen and a little red. But there’s no bruising. I doubt that anyone would ever notice. I’m guessing that I only notice because I’m so familiar with my own face. It hurts though. Not a raging pain, just a presence. It sits like a coiled snake, waiting to strike, waiting for a wrong move. So I make the wrong move by poking at it. The pain is immediate, spreads all down my face and even spills out into my shoulder. And although it’s pain, it’s strangely addictive so that I can’t help poking it a couple of times more. It’s like how you can’t help poking a mouth ulcer with the tip of your tongue. Like that, but much more intense.
There is a bruise on my ribs though. It’s blue in the middle and red at the edges. It doesn’t hurt at all until I move. Then I feel it, sharp and shrill. I’ll just have to live with it, I guess, until it fades away. I certainly don’t have any desire to poke at it, that’s for sure.
A banging at the bathroom door. Every morning it’s the same.
‘Are you finished in there? Come on, I’m gonna be late!’
I so want to tell you that the voice is harsh and obnoxious, but you can hear it for yourself and clearly that is not the case. The diction is perfect, disguising even the tiny lapse into slang. And the sounds are sweet. Like the tinkling of angel bells or the lazy babbling of a gentle brook. Not that I’d ever tell Madeleine any of this; she has a high enough opinion of herself already, does my darling sister.
No, really; she is a darling. And I love her to bits, even if she is three years older than me and we sometimes find ourselves squabbling. There’s quite a bond between us, to tell the truth. We just do a good job of disguising it sometimes.
‘Mom –’
Here we go again…
‘Tom’s hogging the bathroom and I’m gonna be late!’
Late for what, I wonder? But this is a ritual, so I check on the towel around my waist and open the door ready to play my part.
Madeleine is standing just beyond the frame. She’s wearing these great pyjamas – Tiffany Blues from Bedhead – and her blonde hair is only slightly dishevelled. It’s still obvious why boys are always swarming around her.
‘God, what’s happened to you?’
No ritual banter this morning then. I brush past her.
‘Nice PJs.’
I don’t look back but I know that she’ll be glowing inside from the compliment. For Madeleine, nothing on Earth is more important than fashion. She’s the reason that I like fine clothes myself. I guess you could say that she trained me. Over the years, I’d hate to guess how many hours I’ve spent in her room, watching her try on clothes. And no, I don’t actually watch her getting dressed and undressed, sicko; she has a walk-in. My job is always to say what I think goes and what doesn’t. I’d have to say that Madeleine has trained me well, because I do have a very good eye. I really do.
You might wonder why Mom doesn’t spend this kind of time with Madeleine. Well, you should know that Mom and Dad are the kind of people who only had kids to complete the picture. Successful careers – check. Great house in the suburbs – check. Mercedes and BMW in the garage – check. Two beautiful, trouble-free kids – check. At least, that’s what I think. And yeah, come on; just look at us. We’re beautiful alright.
We are not neglected or mistreated – far from it. There’s always been money. And Madeleine and I have always been able to indulge our love of fashion. But what we’ve never had tons of is time and attention. We’re not alone in this, I know, and I’m not whining. I just want you to know that while our relationship with our parents is not exactly sterile, Madeleine and I have always turned to each other for comfort and advice.
So I’m not surprised that Madeleine notices the redness on my face. She’s bound to, really. Still, I very much doubt that anyone else will.
Walking downstairs, I’m dressed and feeling cool and confident. Clothes can do that for me. It’s like I’m a different person, defined by the cut and the cloth. And – I’m only a little ashamed to say – by the labels. This morning I’m wearing black leather lace-up shoes by Santoni, Gene Meyer socks, Hanro boxers, a white cotton shirt by Missoni, and a charcoal-grey two-piece suit by Loro Piana. There’s a Gianfranco Ferre belt around my waist and a white linen Claytons handkerchief in my top pocket. I don’t wear a tie – I’m only going to school, after all.
Okay, so this outfit is a bit over the top, even for me. But I feel like treating myself. I still feel a bit uncomfortable about what happened with Eddie last night. I can’t believe he attacked me like that. And I didn’t try to protect myself, I just ran. What does that say about me? Well, let’s not go there.
Why did I say those things last night? Why couldn’t I have just lied and said that I slavered after Joanna Stevens like everyone else? Would that have been so difficult? Even saying nothing would have been better than admitting to finding Helen attractive. And that’s all I had said really. Why had Eddie twisted it? I don’t know.
But I’m a different person this morning. In Eddie’s eyes at least, I’m a pervert and a coward. I’m avoiding asking myself if that’s how I now see myself too. A coward, I mean. I know that I’m not a pervert. Wonder if Eddie will spread it all around the class?
I saunter into the kitchen. It’s huge and perfect, as you’d expect, all chrome and bleached wood and Italian tiles on the floor. It’s all Mom’s doing; God, but she does have exquisite taste. It’s where Madeleine gets it from, for sure. But it’s icy in the kitchen, even though Mom is there, a picture of Gucci and Prada casuals. It’s too perfect, the kitchen, if you know what I mean. Not even a crumb lying around, not the least indication that any cooking has ever been done in there.
‘Hi Mom.’
She looks up from where she’s sitting at a counter, ingesting rye-toast – as if by osmosis, the feeble nibbles she’s taking. She’s not wearing sunglasses for once and she looks at me as I look back at her.
‘God, Tom, what’s happened to your face?’
She’s genuinely concerned, so the redness and the swelling must be obvious after all, and I’ve been deluding myself that no one will notice it. Sometimes we all do that, don’t we? See things the way we’d like them to be, I mean, rather than seeing them the way they actually, obviously, are.
‘It’s nothing, really. Just an accident.’
This is not a conversation I want to have. In part, I’ve dressed to provoke her. I want her to tell me that I am overdressed for school. She has a way of saying it so that I can tell that she thinks I’m looking sharp. I like the buzz that that gives me, her appreciation of how I look and what I’m wearing. I’m going to be disappointed this morning and I might as well be honest with you; I don’t take disappointment well. I mean, I don’t throw tantrums or anything, but it gets bottled up inside me and it can be days before I’m feeling loose and normal again.
She’s up off her seat now and I can’t turn around and walk out. She comes towards me with a look of motherly concern on her beautifully made-up face. A hand reaches up as though gently to touch the swelling, but I turn away. The hand goes down but she is still there as I turn back to face her. I notice a slight crumb at the corner of her mouth and I absently brush it away, like I’m the parent somehow and she is the child.
I can smell her perfume from here; Enigma, by Alexandra de Markoff, all rose and iris and jasmine.
‘Leave it Mom, it’s nothing.’
I turn away again and she knows I’m hiding something. She’s not stupid, after all.
‘You haven’t been fighting, have you?’
Her tone suggests that she can’t imagine I’m capable of fighting. I don’t know how I feel about that; I mean, it’s true to say that I’ve never been involved in a fight, but I’ve never considered myself to be soft. And the fact that I dress the way I do and haven’t been bullied would suggest that there isn’t a general perception that I’m feeble. At least, I think that’s how it works. Of course, there’s the question of last night and the business with Eddie, but like I said, I am in no mood to pursue that train of thought.
‘You’re not being bullied are you darling?’
It’s like she’s reading my mind. In a way, I wish she was. Evidently she finds the thought of me fighting unlikely and she’s taken the next logical step and assumed that I must be a helpless victim or something. And what cuts like a cold blade is the fact that nothing in her tone suggests that she finds this unbelievable. So in her eyes there’s no chance I could be a fighter, but a feeble loser victim is something she can see in me.
I’m not getting what I want here so I might as well get out, go to school. It’s sunny and it won’t hurt to hang out at the bus stop and take in some rays. I’m going to need my books and some shades – Fendi black wrap-arounds with this suit, I think – and they are back up in my room.
‘Tom, if you want to stay home from school and talk…’
I hear her calling after me as I stomp up the stairs but I ignore her. I grab the briefcase with my books in it and slide on the shades. In moments I’m out on the landing again, heading for the stairs.
‘Tom… come in here a minute.’
Madeleine’s door is ajar. I push it open and step inside. Madeleine is dressed – blue Versace skinny jeans and a white cotton Fiorucci top – and sits at her dressing table brushing her hair. She turns and looks at me. Just the briefest part of a second and just the briefest movement of her eyes and I know that she is giving me the once over.
‘Looking very very sharp, Tom. Too cool for school.’
Right now I want to kiss her for that. I want to hold her and I want her to hold me and I want to kiss her. But of course, I don’t. I stand here, gently nodding my agreement, because I do look sharp.
‘Looking good yourself, sis.’
Trust Madeleine to know exactly what I want and to give it to me. I just love her to bits. I think I might have said that before.