by Clare Pooley
“Umm. I was on a detox,” Hazard replied. Monica had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She knew exactly the sort of thing. Celebs were pictured doing it all the time in the gossip magazines people left in her café that she pretended not to read. He’d been in some luxury spa, drinking organic smoothies, and being massaged several times a day, so he could drop a few pounds before the party season. She’d bet it was paid for by a trust fund set up by Mummy and Daddy.
“Lucky you, getting so much time off work,” she said, testing out her theory.
“Oh, I’m actually between jobs at the minute,” he said. That was posh-boy code for not needing to work. Hazard, she knew, had never had to worry about getting the right exam results or selling enough cappucinos to cover the rent; he’d just call on a network of godparents and school friends to find him a fashionable occupation that wouldn’t interfere with his social life, holidays, or “detoxes.”
Baz had gone back to the restaurant to help his parents, as they were fully booked for New Year’s Eve. He’d been grinning like the Cheshire cat, having finally had a call from Benji in Scotland. The others didn’t want to leave Julian. Monica was worried that as soon as he was left alone he’d hibernate again. Betty had left and returned with steamed dumplings and spring rolls for them all and, on Julian’s instruction, Riley had brought some champagne up from the cellar to toast in the New Year. He’d emerged looking pale and shaky. She hadn’t had a chance to ask him what was down there.
“Mrs. Wu,” said Julian, his voice still rather croaky.
“Betty!” she shouted.
“I’m sorry I upset you, talking about Baz and Benji.”
“Biming!” she shouted.
“Benji is a really nice boy, you know, and he makes Biming very happy. Isn’t that all that matters?” he said gently. Monica looked at Betty, who was frowning so hard that her eyebrows joined together, like a giant gray millipede. She wondered whether Julian really did have a death wish.
Betty sighed. “Of course, I want him to be happy. I love that boy. He is my only grandchild. I’m sure this Benji is nice man. But he cannot be wife for Biming! He cannot have baby Wus. He cannot cook Chinese food in restaurant.”
“That’s not true, you know. They could adopt. Lots of gay men do these days,” said Julian.
“Adopt baby girl from China?” said Betty, almost thoughtfully.
“And Benji is a brilliant cook,” added Monica. “He does most of the cooking in the café. He’s much better than me.”
“Harrumph,” said Betty, crossing her arms. But Monica thought she detected just a little softening of her stance.
“Biming tells me he shouted at you,” said Betty to Julian. “I tell him I am ashamed. He should show respect to elders.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Wu. He apologized just now, although there really was no need,” Julian replied.
Monica smiled at this. She’d overheard Baz’s apology, which hadn’t been entirely abject. He’d said sorry for calling the cottage a rubbish dump, and that it looked much better since Monica had had a go at it. Which gave her an idea.
“Julian,” Monica said. “Why don’t we start the New Year with another spring clean? I can drop round next week, if you like?”
“Hey, could you do my place while you’re at it, Monica?” said Hazard.
That was it: the final straw.
“Why? Because you’re too bloody lazy to clean it yourself, Hazard? Or because you think that cleaning is women’s work and you’re too masculine for that kind of thing?”
“Chill out, Monica! I was only kidding!” said Hazard, looking rather taken aback. “You need to lighten up sometimes, you know. Have some fun. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.”
Monica glared at him. He glared back. She still loathed him, but at least he stood up to her. As a lawyer, she’d hated it when an adversary settled too quickly.
“Five minutes till midnight!” said Riley. “Everyone got a glass of champagne?”
“I’ve got a peppermint tea,” replied Hazard. “Tea is the new champagne. Everyone’s drinking it.”
“Starting your New Year’s resolutions early, Hazard?” asked Monica, who loved resolutions so much that she spread hers out throughout the year. Why just confine them to January?
“Something like that,” he replied.
Monica thought about asking Hazard if he’d checked the use-by date on the peppermint tea, but didn’t. It was unlikely to kill him, more’s the pity.
Then the skies over Fulham and Chelsea suddenly lit up and the sound of fireworks reverberated off the nearby buildings. Monica turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows of Julian’s studio, which were filled with a riot of color.
It was a brand-new year.
FORTY
Riley
Riley was relieved to see Julian walking toward the Admiral the next Friday. On Monica’s instruction, he’d been round to the cottage every day since New Year’s Eve—ostensibly to sort through more of Julian’s clutter, but also to check that he was getting up, staying warm, and eating. He did seem, if not back to his old self, at least to be on the mend. This evening he looked positively buoyant.
“Riley! Glad you’re here! Guess what?”
“What?” replied Riley.
“Monica’s booked the Eurostar tickets for the art class field trip! I’ve spent all afternoon planning our gallery visits!”
“Awesome!” said Riley, who’d been longing to visit Paris ever since watching Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge as a teenager. He waited for Julian to notice what he’d brought with him.
“Who’s your friend, Riley?” Julian asked, eyeing the wagging tail.
“I’m hoping he’ll be your friend, actually. The builders found him living in the empty house next door. We think he used to belong to the old lady who died recently. They’ve been feeding him on their sandwiches and Gregg’s sausage rolls, but he needs a proper home,” said Riley. The truth was, he thought Julian needed someone to look after even more. That way he’d have a good reason not to give up on life again.
“What is it?” asked Julian.
“It’s a dog,” said Riley.
“No, I mean what breed of dog.”
“God knows. I think there must have been a fair amount of free loving going down. He’s a bit of a mutt. Mainly terrier, I guess,” replied Riley.
“There’s definitely some Jack Russell there somewhere,” said Julian. He and the dog looked at each other, quietly taking in their matching rheumy eyes, gray whiskers, arthritic joints, and world-weariness.
“What’s his name?” asked Julian.
“We don’t know. The builders call him Wojciech.”
“Good grief,” said Julian.
“They’re Polish.”
“I shall call him Keith,” said Julian. “Keith is the perfect name for a dog.”
“Does that mean you’ll take him on?” said Riley.
“I guess so. We can be two miserable old codgers together, hey, Keith?”
“Full disclosure—he can be a bit windy,” said Riley.
“Well, that seals it. Another thing we have in common,” said Julian. “It’ll give me someone to blame when I have guests. Do you think he’d enjoy Paris?” he added, looking down at his new pet. Then, without waiting for an answer, he plowed on, “And is it overly ambitious to try to cover Modern Art and the Renaissance in one day? But how can one choose, Riley? I’ve never been terribly good at narrowing down my options. Mary was always telling me that.”
Riley shrugged. He was slightly out of his comfort zone. “Make sure you leave enough time for us to go up the Eiffel Tower!” he said.
“Dear boy, this is a day of cultural enrichment, not a visit to all the tourist traps. But I suppose if we have to do one of the clichés, it might as well be le Tour Eiffel.”
Riley was distracte
d by a woman walking toward them, pushing a baby stroller, vigorously, as if it were a piece of gym equipment. She was definitely what you’d describe as a “yummy mummy.” Posh, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, no doubt. She was in her midtwenties, perfectly styled hair with the sort of highlights you’d pay a fortune for in London, but the Australian sun gives you for free. She looked like a well-groomed Palomino pony on her way to a dressage competition. Her hand, clutching a water bottle (reusable), was beautifully manicured. Mothers didn’t come like that in Perth. They tended to have tousled hair and wear crumpled sundresses and flip-flops. Riley waited for her to walk past. But she didn’t.
“Hello,” she said. “You have to be Julian, and you must be Riley?”
“Yes,” he said, confused.
“I knew it. And the Aussie accent is a dead giveaway! I’m Alice!” She thrust out a hand, which they shook. “And this is Bunty!” She waved at the pushchair. “Who’s this?” she asked, looking at the dog now sitting on the Admiral, next to Julian.
“Keith,” replied Julian and Riley in perfect synchronicity.
“How do you know our names?” asked Riley. Was she some kind of stalker?
“I found The Authenticity Project. In the playground,” she replied.
Riley had spent so much time thinking about what damage that stupid book had done in the past that he’d not considered at all what it might have been up to since he’d left it in the children’s play area tucked between his apartment and the café, a small patch of green where he often sat to clear his head.
“Oh, my goodness!” said Julian. “My little book is still doing the rounds! How do you do? Charmed, I’m sure.” Riley rolled his eyes a little. Julian was a sucker for a pretty face.
“OMG! Julian, that jacket is amazing! It has to be Versace. Am I right? 1980s?”
Riley had become so immune to Julian’s dress sense that he’d barely raised an eyebrow at the elaborately patterned silk jacket Julian was sporting under his overcoat, but it was giving Alice paroxysms of excitement.
“Oh, at last!” said Julian. “Another fashionista! I’d begun to give up hope, surrounded by all these frumps. You’re right, of course. The wonderful Gianni. Such a tragic loss to the world. I’ve never quite gotten over it.”
Frumps? Riley bristled. Had no one noticed he was wearing the limited-edition Nikes he’d found on eBay? He watched Julian dabbing at his eyes with a silk handkerchief. He was really hamming it up for his audience. Surely Alice could see through him?
“Please, can you take your coat off for a minute, so I can take a photo?” asked Alice. Was she for real? Julian appeared to be happy to take his coat off on one of the coldest days of the year when he’d just nearly died from hypothermia. He even started posing.
“The cowboy boots?” he said, in response to another of her inane fashion inquiries. “They’re from R.Soles on the King’s Road. Great name, isn’t it? It’s probably closed now, of course. It’ll be a Pret a Manger, or something similarly ghastly.” He looked wistful. “Isn’t this fun? Reminds me of the times I spent with my great friend David Bailey.”
Riley thought Alice might faint. Where, he wondered, were all these “great friends” when Julian was living like a hermit for fifteen years?
“Shall I just leave you two to it?” he asked, realizing as he said it that he was sounding a bit like a jealous child. Alice turned to him.
“Actually, Riley, you were the person I wanted to see, much as I’m loving your friend Julian.” Julian actually simpered. Monica, thought Riley, would never stoop to such obvious flirtation. “I have a proposition for you.” She handed him a piece of paper. “Can you meet me at this address, tomorrow at ten a.m.? Julian, you could come, too! You’ll love it. I promise! My number’s on there in case you have to back out, but I know you won’t! You won’t, will you? Now, I have to get Bunty to Monkey Music. Laters!”
Laters???
“Gosh. Isn’t she just marvelous,” said Julian. “I can’t wait to find out what that’s all about. Can you? We simply must introduce her to Monica, she’ll love her.”
Monica, thought Riley, was worth a hundred Alices. He really didn’t want to keep this mystery appointment, but he could tell that Julian wasn’t going to let it go.
FORTY-ONE
Alice
Alice was superexcited about her appointment with Julian and Riley. Since Bunty’s arrival her days tended to blend into one, all similarly filled with baby-focused activities—baby swim, baby massage, baby yoga, and endless conversations with other mothers about developmental milestones, sleep routines, teething, and weaning. Alice could feel her identity slipping away from her, to the point where she was just an appendage—either Bunty’s mother or Max’s wife. Except online. Online, she was still @aliceinwonderland.
She watched Julian and Riley approaching. Riley had a walk that was more suited to strolling along a beach than a London pavement. He was too exuberant and sunny to be caged up in a city. Or perhaps she just thought that because she’d read his story. It was strange knowing more about someone than you should. Julian, meanwhile, was spectacular. Like a bird of paradise, he could never be caged.
“Julian! You’re even better dressed today than yesterday!” she said.
“You are too, too kind, dear girl,” he replied, and he actually picked up her hand and kissed it. She thought that only happened in movies. “This is the exact silk Nehru jacket worn by Sean Connery in Dr. No. 1962. It goes particularly well with these crocodile brogues, don’t you think?”
“Was Sean a great friend of yours too?” asked Riley. A little tetchily, Alice thought.
“No, no. Just a passing acquaintance. I bought it in a charity auction,” Julian replied.
“Please, please, can I take some photos?” she asked. Julian seemed delighted, leaning against a lamppost, looking suave. He even pulled some Ray-Ban Aviators out of his inside jacket pocket and put them on. Keith sat next to him, looking equally dapper in a bow tie.
“Much as I hate to break up the fashion show,” said Riley, who wasn’t getting into the swing of things at all, “can you tell us why we’re here?”
“Well,” she said, “you probably don’t know, but I am an influencer.”
“A what?” said both Julian and Riley, in harmony.
“I have over a hundred thousand followers.” Julian looked around, as if expecting to see a crowd of people tailing after her. “On Instagram,” she clarified. This was going to be hard work. Did she have to start her explanation with the invention of the World Wide Web? “You must do Insta, Riley?”
“Nah. Instagram’s all pointless pictures of skinny people doing yoga poses at sunset, isn’t it?”
“Well, there is some of that, admittedly, but there’s a lot more to it than that,” replied Alice, trying not to be offended. “For example, this house”—she waved at the large, Victorian terraced house in front of them—“was left to a local charity when its owner died. It’s been turned into a free childcare center for the children of local women who are doing rehab for drug and alcohol addiction. Women often refuse to seek help because they worry their children will be taken into care. This house will help them keep custody while they sort themselves out. And the volunteers make sure the children are being properly looked after—fed, clothed, washed, and, crucially, played with. It’s called Mummy’s Little Helper.”
“That’s so cool,” said Riley. “So, do you work here?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Alice. “They’re throwing a few fund-raising events, and I’ve been promoting them on @aliceinwonderland.” Noticing their blank expressions, she added, “My Instagram account. You see, one post from me can lead to thousands of pounds of donations. So it’s not all downward dogs at dawn.” She realized she was sounding a little petulant.
“Why are we here?” asked Riley, for the second time. “D’you need a hand with a bake
sale?”
“Ha! No. We have lots of local mums on hand for that kind of thing. And actually, I don’t need Julian at all—he’s just here to pretty the place up. It’s you I need, Riley. Come in and I’ll show you.” Riley rather enjoyed the sensation of being needed. Julian rather enjoyed the sensation of being pretty. Alice rang the bell and a matronly-looking lady with a bosom like a car bumper opened the door. “Lizzie, this is Riley and Julian,” said Alice.
“Oh yes, come in! I’ve been expecting you. Please ignore the mess. And the noise. And the smell! I was in the middle of a nappy change.” This was rather too much information for Julian, who had gone a little green and avoided shaking her hand. “Oh, sorry,” said Lizzie, “I’m afraid you can’t bring a dog in here.”
“Keith is not a dog,” said Julian. Lizzie gave him a look that could silence a whole room of rowdy toddlers. “He’s my carer,” he continued, undeterred. “Tell you what, I’ll carry him, then he won’t even touch the floor.” Without even waiting for an answer, Julian popped Keith under his arm and walked in. Alice wondered if the fart Keith delivered on his way past Lizzie was deliberately timed. She wouldn’t be surprised. That dog was more malevolent than he looked.
The walls of the hallway were covered with children’s paintings, “Old MacDonald” was playing in the next-door room, and there was a cacophony of singing, banging, and wailing. There was an extraordinary odor of Play-Doh, mixed with poster paint, cleaning products, and the offending nappy.
“Come right through,” said Alice, taking them into the kitchen at the back. “This is why you’re here.” She gestured at the French doors into the garden. The garden was a jungle. The grass was a foot high and the flower beds were so overgrown with giant weeds that it was difficult to see if there were any actual shrubs or flowers there at all. A rambling rose had rambled amok, creating a wall of thorns like the one protecting Sleeping Beauty.