That’s where he still was, outside of everything, staring in.
“Keep me safe?” Julian said. “And who kept her safe? Middle of the day. Lunchtime. Was she safe? She wasn’t on Klonopin, that’s for sure.”
“I’m very sorry. Please let me help you.”
“You can’t help me find a fucking cab.”
“You’re looking for a fix, but I’m trying to save your life. Our time is up, but come back and see me, yes? In how many days can you come back?”
“One.” Julian stormed out, holding up a single finger as a reply and a goodbye—the middle one.
22
Waterloo
WHAT WAS JULIAN GOING TO DO?
He marched with all the defiance and terror of a soldier at war. He would find another doctor! There was one in Charing Cross! He would go back to National Health, no matter how shameful; he’d return to that smug quack, Fenton on Fenchurch. He would beg Ashton for help. Ashton had ways of getting things done. He’d get Julian a script. Or Julian himself would fly to India, buy the drug, smuggle it out in his—
Julian stopped. It was his Midnight Express moment. Because being in a virtual prison wasn’t enough. He needed to waste away in an actual one.
Once he ran through his pauper passel of options, he slowed down until he was barely ambulatory. It was a long way from Peckham to the happy pub where his friend was waiting.
He hated Weaver, but could the schmuck be right?
What if he got the Klonopin?
What then?
What now.
What now, my love, now that you’ve left me.
Was Julian addicted not to grief but to prescription meds?
He dismissed the thought.
He wasn’t addicted.
He definitely wasn’t addicted.
Is that what all the people inside the ring said?
Except there was no outside. The ring was everything, and everything was the ring.
And inside the ring was the only thing he loved, the only thing that mattered.
Addiction: no job, no friends, no love, no sex, no connection, no anything, but the thing you crave and live for.
In the gloomy March drizzle, Julian resumed his sclerotic pace across Waterloo Bridge.
He stopped walking, looked around. He wasn’t sure where he needed to be. Why was it so late, so dark? Where had the time gone? He looked at his wrist. There was no time to be gleaned from his bare wrist. He took out his phone. It was dead. He forgot to charge it. He did that a lot. Forgot his phone, his watch—the accouterments of his existence. There was no one on the bridge to ask. Did he carry an umbrella? Of course not. Black cabs and red buses swooshed past him through the puddles, their lights reflecting in the rainy air of the bleak and wasteful night.
Did he tell Ashton the Trafalgar, beautiful and blue, or the Blind Beggar on Cheapside, or the White Crow near Soho? Trafalgar off Sloane Square or White Crow on Long Acre off the Strand?
Stretching out his cold hands over the damp concrete parapet, Julian stared out onto the Thames, to Big Ben twinkling dimly in the mist, to the river promenade with the leafless oaks in front of the Savoy, the grand hotel. He wanted to scream.
Was he stuck in the past and unable to move on?
Was he going insane and the quack was right and the only thing he wanted was the last thing he needed? Or had he already gone mad and didn’t know it?
A jogger dressed in black, running past, without breaking stride called out, “Don’t do it, mate. She ain’t worth it.”
Don’t worry, Julian wanted to reply. They put a high rail over Waterloo Bridge to stop you from flinging yourself into the water.
Somewhere in this town was the answer to the riddle inside him. But where, what riddle?
How could Julian answer it if he didn’t even know the question?
23
White Crow
ON LONG ACRE, JULIAN STOOD IN FRONT OF THE WHITE Crow, letting others pass, door swinging open and closed, people disappearing inside. Through the panes of amber stained glass he could see a fragmented image of Ashton, blond and tall, in tailored slacks, trim white shirt, thin black tie, standing, raising a dark pint, telling a joke, laughing at his own hilarity, the Greek chorus crowded at three round tables in front of him, gazing up at him adoringly. Look at all the people Ashton had brought. Riley, two of Julian’s brothers, Gwen, Zakiyyah, a contingent from Nextel. Every time the door opened there was a smell of warm lager, of old bitter, the din of happy people, a slot machine cha-chinging, counting cherries and number sevens.
Covent Garden, loud, drenched with rain. The West End shows had started, and the traffic was heavy and honking in the evening hour. The crowds from the bars and the cafes spilled out into the street, nearby drunken people cruising and cursing, one girl giddily repeating, “You did! You did! You did!” to her equally intoxicated lover who rejoined with “Never! Never! Never! All right, once, but never again!”
Whatever happened, tonight Julian had to pass muster. Because sometimes you live and not much happens to you. And other times your whole world stands teetering upside down on a head of a pin. You know it. The question is, did everybody else know it, too?
Julian could not describe how desperately he did not want to go inside, to pretend to listen, to make small talk, to answer unanswerable questions. He stood trying to spackle himself together, collecting slabs that had fractured and were now dangling off his person. He was doing it for Ashton. He forced himself to be alive for his friend. Taking a deep breath, he opened the White Crow door. Julian wasn’t in a landslide. He was the landslide.
***
“Julian!” Ashton bellowed, striding across the pub to greet him, nearly lifting him off his feet in a bear hug. “Finally! You’re only an hour late. That’s practically on time for you.”
“Put me down.”
Ashton commented on Julian’s lack of tan (“Tan, dude? I’m in London”), his wet uncut hair, his soggy demeanor. “For fuck’s sake. We didn’t travel five thousand miles to see you mope. Buck up.”
“I am bucked up.” He glanced over Ashton’s shoulder. “Gwen and Zakiyyah? Really?”
Ashton shrugged. “Riley insisted. They’re all friends now, thanks to you.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“The more the merrier, Riley said, and I agree. You need cheering up.”
“With Zakiyyah?”
“You’re lucky your mother is not here, too.” Ashton’s arm remained around Julian. “Why are you pissing Graham off? At Christmas, everything seemed all right. Suddenly it’s Defcon 2.”
“He’s such a hysteric,” Julian said.
“He says you came in at noon, left twenty minutes later, and never returned.”
“So? It’s my birthday.”
“Oh, now you care that it’s your birthday,” Ashton said. “He was mad, bro. He ambushed me on the fourth floor in front of my old man, screeching that it was either him or you. Said he couldn’t run the news division with you not working there.”
“What a whiner.”
“I see you’re not saying he was wrong. Well, my dad says to me, you think you can run things better than Graham, hot shot? Be my guest. He told Graham I might be his boss.”
Julian homed in on Ashton’s words. “Is he joking?”
“Dad’s over seventy, Jules.” Ashton grinned. “I should learn the business if I’m going to inherit it, don’t you agree?”
Julian studied Ashton’s cheerful face. His whole life Ashton had been on the outs with his father. After years of near total estrangement, he got in touch with the older Bennett only to help Julian. “Are you joking? Did you tell him you already have a job—in L.A.?”
“You had a job once, too, in L.A.,” Ashton said. “How’d that turn out?” He prodded him forward. “Later for this bullshit. Tonight, we party. Don’t say anything to Sheridan or Roger or Nigel.”
“Like I would.” Julian cast an eye over their group in the corner. “I
see Graham didn’t show up. And why’d you invite Nigel? You know I can’t stand him.”
“Now is not the time to be funny, Jules. Now’s the time to fake being a normal human being. Mouth shut, smile on your face. Nice and big.”
Julian smiled, imitating Ashton. Nice and big. Julian stretched his lips over his clenched teeth, lifted the corners of his mouth, and walked up to his friends, his face contorted. The Klonopin numbness wearing off wasn’t helping. What a terrible way to live—to feel things.
Riley often came with Ashton when he visited Julian, the two of them spending long weekends in London clucking over Julian’s apathy. Gwen looked good. Breaking up with Julian agreed with her. And Zakiyyah . . . well, what could he say. Gwen, okay, they’d known each other a long time and had become friends again, but only Riley would think bringing Zakiyyah to London was a good idea.
His two youngest brothers were happy to see him, a delegation from the Cruz family, and there was even a group of people from Nextel, no doubt invited by Ashton to prove to their L.A. contingent that look, Julian was doing fine, he made new friends! As if in any incarnation Julian would ever be friends with a dumb drunk like Nigel from sub-editing, who corrected men and insulted women and called both joking. Nigel was a skinny, gawky, rumple-haired, rumple-suited man with nicotine-stained teeth. His jacket smelled of old alcohol. Something about Nigel had rubbed Julian the wrong way since he first met him, back when he barely noticed other people existed. Nigel drank in tandem with his boss Roger, the manager of the sub-editing department, who was already too drunk to get up to shake Julian’s hand. But while Nigel was a mean drunk, Roger was at least a jolly one. Sheridan, who was being all chummy with Nigel, didn’t seem to mind that the man’s flirting sounded like misogyny. As Julian neared, he overheard Nigel saying to her, “Do you know what virgins have for breakfast?” and she said, “No, what?” and he said, “Mm-hmm, just as I thought,” but instead of slapping him, Sheridan hooted!
Julian hugged his brothers, waved at the Nextel people so he wouldn’t have to shake Nigel’s hand, and was encircled by Riley and Gwen who clucked and searched for something positive to say about his appearance. “My God, you’ve lost weight,” said Gwen, trying to hide her shock.
“She’s right, we’ve never seen you so thin,” said Riley. “You used to love food.”
Zakiyyah stood nearby, not approaching. Julian nodded to her, she nodded back; both kept their eyes averted. He didn’t want to see what was on Zakiyyah’s face any more than he wanted to show her what was on his.
“Your hair is getting so long,” said Gwen, touching Julian’s head. “That’s so unlike you.”
“Jules,” Riley said, “next time you shave, stand a little closer to the razor, will you?” She smiled. “See, despite what Ashton thinks, I can be funny, too.”
Julian actually smiled back at the coiffed and shiny Riley. “Look at how well you look,” he said. “Does the London rain even fall on you?”
“Aren’t you a charmer. Come here, come in for your therapeutic lean.” She hugged him fondly, kissed him on both cheeks, appraised him. “Gwen, he’s like this because he hasn’t been listening to any of my advice.”
“No, I have, I have,” Julian said. “I’m eating yellow food. And purple food. And red food.”
“You shouldn’t be eating any yellow food, Jules,” Riley said, “you’ve got no fire to balance against it.” She rubbed Julian’s unevenly shaved face. “You’re pale like a haunting.”
“I’m still looking for the sun.”
“You know where the sun is?” Riley said. “Los Angeles.”
“Time to get some beer into the man, and all will be well,” Ashton said, pulling him away and sparing him a response. “My round.”
“But Gwen is right, Jules,” Riley said seriously, “you have to eat.”
“Why?” Julian said. “You don’t eat.”
At the peninsula bar in the middle of the gold-lit pub, Ashton turned to Julian. “Riley is right,” he said. “You look like shit.”
“Come on, Ash, don’t hold back.” Julian turned away from Ashton’s troubled gaze. They both stared at a nearby table with four young women.
Ashton gulped down a third of his pint while they waited for their drinks. “Do you see them?” he said. “One of them could be yours. Or even all of them. Maybe all at once—would you like that?” He knocked into Julian. “Smile, for fuck’s sake. They’re checking you out.”
“Not me.” Tall, lean, groomed, pressed, well-dressed, good-looking Ashton had always been a girl magnet. Except that one time at the Canon Gardens brunch.
“That’s because I’m friendly and have a smile on,” Ashton said. “Your woe-is-me look will get you nowhere. Even in London, where there’s a paucity of available men.”
“Yeah, like me.”
“Why the hell would you be unavailable? Back on the horse, my brother. What are you waiting for? Isn’t there a group for people like you?”
“What people is that, Ash?” Julian tried to sound less drained.
“You can’t keep falling back on the moves you had when you were twenty, Jules,” Ashton said, returning the women’s inviting smiles. “You’re no longer in your sexual prime.”
“I have to join a group for that?”
“Join something. What are you doing with yourself? I know you’re not working. And as Riley pointed out, you’re definitely not eating. So what are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Nigel says he keeps asking you to go for a drink and you refuse.”
“Why would I want to go for a drink with that wanker?” Julian said.
“Oh, come on. You could use a friend.”
“Not fucking Nigel.”
“He’s not so bad.”
“No, not until you get to know him.”
“You’ve never been out with him. You don’t know him!”
“I know him superficially,” Julian said, “and frankly that’s plenty.”
“He’s nicer than he looks.”
“He’d have to be, wouldn’t he.”
“Stop calling him fucking Nigel,” Ashton said. “I’m not breaking up another fight. You’ll never lick him, you’re barely a flyweight these days.”
“You don’t agree that what fucking Nigel lacks in intelligence,” Julian said, “he more than makes up for in stupidity?”
“You’re ridiculous.” They gathered their pints onto a tray.
“I see you didn’t answer my question.”
“You haven’t answered any of mine for almost two years,” Ashton said. “Welcome to the fucking club.”
Back at the tables, Ashton thrust a menu at Julian and told him to take it to Zakiyyah, who was being held hostage by Nigel. As Julian got near, he overheard Nigel trying to coax Zakiyyah into leaving with him, and telling her she should smile more. “Oh, look,” she said, actually smiling when she saw Julian, “the birthday boy himself.”
“How you doing, Jules, having a good time?” Nigel said, less happy with the interruption.
“Well, I just got here,” Julian said. “But yes.”
He and Zakiyyah sat without speaking or opening the menus until Nigel joked himself out of the non-existent conversation and staggered off to the men’s.
“What a guy,” Zakiyyah said with a headshake. “His problem is he’s got delusions of adequacy.”
Julian almost smiled. “Ashton wants us to order.” He handed her a menu. She pretended to look at it.
“How’ve you been, Julian, really?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Why do you never return anyone’s calls or texts or emails if you’re fine?”
“Don’t take it personally,” Julian said. “I don’t even return my mother’s calls.”
“That’s not a good thing,” Zakiyyah said. “That’s not an excuse.”
“About the menu . . .” Zakiyyah was sharper dressed and more made up than she’d been in L.A., as if she was making an extra effort for Ju
lian’s birthday. She still subdued her crazy hair into a respectable twist, but the curls kept flying all over every time she moved her head. She looked like painted art—to other men perhaps. Julian could barely raise his eyes to her.
“When are you moving back home?” she asked. “It’s all anyone’s asking. Don’t tell me you like living here.”
“Yes, very much,” Julian said. “Very much. Absolutely.”
A frown marred Zakiyyah’s face. “You can’t possibly. It hasn’t stopped raining since this morning.”
“It hasn’t stopped raining since 1940,” said Julian, suddenly an expert on wet climates. Ironic, since there were decades in his life growing up in Simi Valley when he couldn’t remember a single day full of rain. Not one. He wasn’t saying it hadn’t happened. He was saying, it wasn’t in his memory, so it might as well have not happened. He sighed. What would people talk about if there was no weather?
Zakiyyah must have had a few pints already to loosen her tongue because she said, “Is London your penance?”
That wiped the fake smile off Julian’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Fair enough, but why are you punishing Ashton, too? It’s not his fault, is it, what happened? Why does he have to do penance? He’s the happiest guy, and you’re bringing him down, making him contemplate crazy things.”
“What crazy things?” Zakiyyah came slightly into focus. She went from blurry to less blurry. Julian glanced over at Ashton, menus open, arm around Riley, joking with Tristan and Gwen.
Zakiyyah didn’t answer, lowering her curly head into the nightly specials. “Ava is upset,” she said. “She says you haven’t called her back in months.”
“Who’s Ava?”
“Stop it. You know perfectly well who Ava is. Mia’s mother.”
Another kick in the gut. When Z called Josephine Mia, it was as if his Josephine had never existed. Something happened, but to another girl, another boy, in someone else’s life. It was brutal. “Her name was Josephine,” Julian muttered.
“It really wasn’t, Julian,” Zakiyyah said. “It really wasn’t.”
The Tiger Catcher Page 17