“Do you have to?” I hear myself say. “Must you? Can’t you keep that production team waiting a bit longer? I could make you coffee, Julia. I could even make you breakfast. We could make our peace with each other over bacon and eggs. I’d like to do that. I feel we—”
I don’t complete that sentence. Julia had been looking at me in a quiet, thoughtful way; she’d been about to accept, I felt. Now something behind me has caught her eye. An expression of horror and disbelief comes upon her face. She appears to have seen a ghost.
I glance round and discover that Frankie, my amyl-nitrate nymph, has chosen this worst of all possible moments to manifest. I’d forgotten her existence, but now she’s wandered out into the hall, and she’s rubbing her eyes sleepily. She’s barefoot, and the spray-on jeans have been removed. She’s wearing that black lace corselet thing and a pair of lacy briefs. She looks like most men’s erotic teen dream, but not mine. Ill timing. Can mortification be fatal? I feel it could.
Frankie curls her toes and exclaims at the cold tile floor. She stretches luxuriantly and skips toward me girlishly. I turn and give her a look that would annihilate most women at forty yards. Frankie is made of sterner stuff. “I feel great, Dan,” she says. “What I really need now is a shower? After that, let’s fall into bed and screw for England, right?”
Then she sees Julia. They stare at each other. All color has drained from Julia’s face. She says: “Fanny? I don’t believe—Christ in heaven. Fanny, what are you doing here?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious what I’m doing,” Frankie replies smartly. “I just spent the night here. And I didn’t expect to find my mother on the doorstep when I woke up.”
There is a difficult silence. A very long silence. I say: “I think there’s been some mistake.” I say it once. I say it twice.
Some while later, I say a few other wise things, such as “Hang on a minute” and “Just a second” and “Let’s all stay calm.” Such as “Frankie, why don’t you get dressed?” and “Julia, trust me, you’re jumping to conclusions here.” No one’s listening. They probably can’t hear anyway: By that time, they’re too busy yelling and screaming… you know what women are like.
A scene ensues. It’s loud. It’s epic. It’s Sophocles, soap opera, and Wagner. As far as the neighborhood’s concerned, it’s the best, the most sublime thing that’s happened in Highbury Fields since 1308. It stops the early morning dog walkers dead in their tracks. The elderly couple next door emerge in dressing gowns and watch in wonderment. Julia’s chauffeur gets out of the car, approaches, thinks better of it, and retreats. Malc and his merry men appear from some alleyway, take up position, and stare, shouting vile encouragement. Oh look, it’s that pretty woman on the telly, remarks the old biddy next door, over the garden wall, and Frankie—aka Frances, aka Fanny Marlow—loses it.
“Piss off, you nosy old cow!” she yells at the top of her voice, emerging into full view on the steps and eliciting a chorus of cat-calls and foul abuse from Messrs. Malc & Co. “Fuck off, assholes!” she shouts at them. “Swivel on it, motherfuckers!” she yells, making a gesture of such naked aggression and obscenity that it shocks even me.… My, my, the things you learn when you’re a junior PR to a rap group. And white-faced Julia, who has already told Fanny fifteen times to put her clothes on and get out of this house right now, says, “That’s it. I’m calling your father. He can deal with this.”
From her bag, she produces one of those yuppie banker bricks. It’s even bigger than Malc’s brick. She pulls out the antenna and starts punching numbers.
“Oh, that’s great, that’s just fucking great,” Fanny shouts. “You are such a bitch. You are ruining my life, always interfering, where am I staying, who am I seeing, why can’t I just go back to uni and get a fucking stupid useless degree like everyone else? I can’t breathe. I hate you. Why shouldn’t I sleep with Dan? So he’s old enough to be my father? So what? I’m nineteen, for fuck’s sake. What am I supposed to be, a virgin? What’s your problem? I know what your problem is—you want him yourself—you want every man you see, you can’t wait for them all to lie down and worship you. Well, I’ve found the one man who doesn’t worship you. He hates you—he always did. He doesn’t want you, he wants me—and you can tell Daddy that while you’re about it.”
“Could I put in a word here?” I say. “Can I just clarify something?”
“No, you bloody can’t,” Electra yells as Julia begins speaking into the brick. “Just stay out of it, tosser. I’m out of here. I’ve had enough of this.”
She storms off. The sitting room door slams. Two seconds later, Electra emerges fully dressed. With a jangling of bracelets, she pushes past me, blanks Julia, and stalks off down the street. Julia continues to speak into the phone. I can’t hear what she’s saying. I can’t hear the traffic; I can’t hear the shouts and jeers from Malc and crew. I can’t hear anything. I’m in a white distant desert place, thinking, So much for the first day of my new life; this really is the end of my friendship with Nick.
Julia terminates her call. She retracts the antenna, paces the path, then returns to my front steps. She gives me a long, glittering-eyed look. “I can’t believe that you—even you—would stoop to this,” she says in a dangerous voice. “You’ve hurt me in the past. But Fanny? She’s a child. She’s always adored you. How could you do this?”
“Julia, can I just explain? Can I just get one fucking word in edgeways, please?” I begin. “I didn’t know it was Fanny. She told me her name was Frankie. How was I supposed to recognize her? I haven’t seen her for nine years—she was a child when I last saw her. And if she’s a child now, I’m the pope. Will you listen to me for a second?”
“Oh, please. I’ve never heard anything so lame and ridiculous. You’re telling me my daughter pretended to be someone else?”
“Yes, yes! That’s exactly what she did. Because she knew damn well that if I’d realized who she was, I’d have called Nick two seconds later. Julia, listen, I swear to you, she spent the night on my sofa—alone, I’d like to stress. I’d met her once before, at some party—once, Julia. And that was months ago. Then, last night, she just turned up on my doorstep, out of the blue—and proceeded to give what I now see was an Academy Award performance. She spun me a line.…” I pause. I remember all those questions about Finn. “Damn it, she spun me a whole lot of lines. But the important one is—she said her boyfriend had just chucked her out. She said that if I didn’t take her in and let her stay the night, she’d be walking the streets—”
“I’m not listening to this,” Julia snaps. “Come on, Dan, you can do better than that. She didn’t just turn up on your doorstep. Fanny was at home last night for once—and you spoke to her, didn’t you? The minute Nick went upstairs to Tom, the minute he left you alone, you saw your opportunity. You moved in on Fanny. You chatted Fanny up, turned on the well-known charm—and you persuaded her to come here. It’s bloody obvious.”
“What? What? I do not believe I’m hearing this. Julia, listen. I didn’t even know Fanny was there, for God’s sake. Can we just recap? I arrive at your house. Tom’s upstairs with the nanny. Nick makes me supper. We sit down in the kitchen and talk. Just the two of us. Then, about half-past nine, the unseen nanny calls down from the hall and says—”
“What nanny? It was her night off last night. Fanny was looking after Tom.”
“Julia, I didn’t know that. Believe me, I never saw Fanny, I never spoke to Fanny—”
“Oh, come on, Dan. It would have been easy to persuade her to meet you—she’s always had a crush on you, don’t pretend you didn’t know that. And you didn’t waste much time, I’ll give you that. Fanny was leaving the house by the time I got home, I saw her sneaking out when my taxi drew up. She lied to me, of course. She said she was going to some club. I knew better than to argue. And you couldn’t wait to follow her, could you? No wonder you shot out the door so fast. So much for Nick’s help and trust—the second he’s out of the room, you’re making an assignation w
ith his daughter.”
“An assignation? What language are we talking here? Read my lips, Julia: I didn’t speak to Fanny at your house, I didn’t invite her here, and when she turned up out of the blue, I didn’t recognize her, and she knew that. She was upset… well, she seemed upset, and—and I just tried to be kind. For fuck’s sake, I tried to be helpful. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t touch her. I made her coffee and biscuits. End of story. That’s it.”
“I see. So you’re saying my daughter is a liar and a fantasist, are you? Put the blame on her. What a coward you are, Dan. For Christ’s sake—I’ve known you since I was eleven years old. You’ve been a skirt chaser all your life—you screwed every stupid obliging girl from Wykenfield to Ipswich; there wasn’t one who wasn’t panting after you. Why do you think Finn broke with you? She knew what you were like, and she couldn’t bear it. Who could? You’ll never change, you’re going to be a cut-price Casanova for the rest of your sad life. Women talk, you know. I don’t want to think how many hearts you’ve broken and lives you’ve wrecked with your vanity and your eternal quest for a quick, cheap fuck. You make me sick. I loathe and despise men like you. And don’t imagine for one second that I don’t know why you did this. It’s only too damn obvious: This is my daughter you’re talking about. How dare you stand there and tell me these contemptible lies? I heard what she said to you.” Julia approaches closer. She’s now on the next step.
These grotesque and hurtful untruths are more than I can tolerate. “Right, I’ve had enough,” I say. “Let’s be clear, shall we? For once in my life, this isn’t my fault. Fanny is… well, she’s troubled, to put it mildly—”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s troubled, Julia. Mixed up. Confused—”
“Are you suggesting my daughter’s unbalanced?”
Resisting the urge to point out that Fanny is a demented hellcat, the most toxic teen-type it’s ever been my misfortune to meet, I say: “Look, Julia—she has problems, that’s obvious enough. People do, at that age. You ought to know that. This has nothing to do with me, I’ve got caught up in some strife I don’t begin to understand, because your daughter inveigled her way in here and lied through her teeth. So, yes, I think we can say she’s just a bit mixed up and rebellious, and, let’s call a spade a spade, untruthful and manipulative. This has everything to do with your relationship with Fanny and nothing to do with me, and you might have thought about that before dragging Nick into this—”
“Are you saying this isn’t my husband’s concern? Nick’s best friend is fucking our daughter, and I’m not supposed to involve him?”
“For Christ’s sake, Julia, I haven’t damn well touched her. I don’t want Nick hurt. I value his friendship more than you’ll ever understand—”
“You despicable liar. You don’t know what friendship is—” “—
so I’m not too anxious to explain to him that his daughter is a promiscuous lying little bitch, who turned up here hell-bent on sex. That she’s exactly but exactly like her damn mother, in other words—”
Mistake. Julia gives me the thousand-yard stare. Before I can do or say anything more, she raises her telephone arm and hits me hard, full in the face, with the brick.
[ twenty-two ]
What’s God On?
Not long after this episode, I rise from my semirecumbent posture. I pick myself up, dust myself down, and start all over again. Before you can say “Pack of lies” or “Come clean” or “Verily this is bullshit,” I’m on my way out of my house, en route to Wykenfield.
All right, I’m writing the truth here, and that isn’t what happened. What happened was a gap. I don’t know how long that gap lasted: ten minutes, fifteen, perhaps? When it was over and I came round, I discovered that only one of my eyes was working, that I was in an advanced state of hypothermia, and that my clean shirt was spattered with blood. With care, I sat up. I observed the wet world. I observed that I was still in my open doorway. Julia and her limousine had vanished. Malc and his merry men had vanished. Across the road was a police car, and standing with their backs to me, scratching their heads, were two police officers. One was a twelve-year-old boy, and the other, the fairy-frail Woman Police Constable, was either a person of restricted growth or a primary school pixie. I knew at once what had happened. Predictably, someone had called the cops—around here, that’s a reflex. Predictably, these cops had been given, or had gone to, the wrong address. Now, the law was baffled. It climbed back into its kiddie car, cruised up and down the street, and then drove off. Should have called for help and didn’t—story of my life, I guess.
If I had been the old me, that tall, strapping Dan of my youth, this would never have happened. But running very hard in circles for two decades has told on me—and, as Julia had observed, I’m a shadow of my former self. Julia, meanwhile, is strong, she almost certainly works out; she’s always been superfit. That phone brick packed a punch. I was still processing the accusations she’d made; that “cut-price Casanova” remark, a vicious untruth, had me reeling. The blow caught me off balance; I wasn’t expecting it, and down I went like a ninepin. In the process, something caused ancillary damage to the skull: maybe the large iron doorknob or the hard tile floor, perhaps. The malignancy of inanimate objects, not to mention murderous, irrational, and vengeful women, is fucking unreal. Hell hath few Furies like a woman scorned, I tell myself.
Some while later, I stand up. In no particular order, I then make a few further discoveries. I discover that I don’t have any painkillers, because they all went down the sink with the vodka. I discover that the left side of my face is the color of a Fauvist sunset and is swelling up like a yeasty, glossy brioche. There’s a gash that’s missed my left eye by half an inch, and that eye can’t open because it’s too puffed up. I discover that while I’ve been lying in my open doorway experiencing that gap, Nick has called and the answering machine’s picked up because I forgot to switch it off. He has left a message. It informs me that he has two emergency patients and will be at the hospital until midday. At which point he will come straight here. He will then require an immediate explanation for my conduct.
One further thing, the final blow: During that gap, I’ve had visitors. There’s not a great deal of damage these visitors could do—they can’t have had much time, and there’s nothing to nick anyway—but I’m a Londoner now, and I know that only gets them irritated. Sure enough, when I finally drag myself into my sitting room, I find that they’ve slashed and disemboweled the white Milanese sofa, sprayed the word wankah on my walls, pissed in the fireplace, and torn Finn’s book token to shreds. A confetti trail leads to the mantelpiece; my ivory sphere has gone.…
I inspect its absence; inspect it for a long, long time. I stand in the wreckage of my room, in the wreckage of my life. In each case, I know who’s to blame, who’s responsible for this.
Later, when I’m calmer, resolution comes. I leave the house, carrying two letters and a small bag of clothes. I’ll need some clothes in Wykenfield, several sweaters at a time, probably, because the Nunn family’s ancient tip of an estate cottage has no heating. I jog blindly down the road and, as hoped, encounter huge Malc and Malc’s five huge monks. They’re back on the usual corner, and—I don’t intend to waste time—I stop. Sod the street cred, sod the argot. I’d like to beat Malc to a pulp, but since that’s out of the question—work to do, can’t afford to die just yet—I’ll have to employ guile instead.
I wish Malc good morning. “Respect, man,” he replies. At this witticism and right on cue, the five sycophants grin horribly and move in. Malc then launches on a vile description of Fanny and Julia. Why do I have this perverse need to make light of things, why did I ever pretend Malc was laughable? He’s not. Close up, Malc is sixteen stone of serious urban threat. Eyeing me with crazed hatred and contempt, both of which I reciprocate in full, he suggests that Fanny, Julia, all women, and possibly my facial injuries could do with a seeing-to. I’m watching Malc’s boiling eyes: full-blown psychosis, I
’d guess; advanced paranoia and chronic life rage. My diagnosis is crack. The hoodies are doing that looming thing they do; they’re starting to crowd me. I interrupt.
“Malc,” I say, “some anus has just played me a low cur’s trick. While I was lying nigh unto death in my vestibule, this mongrel cutpurse climbed over my recumbent form, entered my abode, sprayed pigment on my walls, and used my chimneypiece to demonstrate the territorial imperative. What’s more, he nicked a carved white plastic ball thing—about the size of a tennis ball, right? My poor old mum bequeathed me this worthless ball shortly before she died a lingering and tragic death. When this thick-witted clown, this numbskull, this Oedipal son of a harlot strumpet, tries to flog that ball, you know what he’ll get for it? About fifty pee. And fifty pee ain’t going to buy him too many wraps. So what I want you to do, Malc me old mucker, is this: Should you run into this scumbag, tell him he can flog it back to me, twenty quid, cash in hand, no questions asked, you know what I’m sayin’, man, and I can’t say fairer than that.”
I zip through this very fast. I’m feeling brave and fucking angry, but I’m not totally stupid. The remarks take a while to get processed, but the sound economic argument, as hoped, wins out. Miraculo: One of the hoodies has just found something remarkably like a ball of that description under this very privet hedge. The hoodie hands it over. I shove it in the bag, hand over the twenty, and prepare to scoot. I suspect Malc’s enmity for me, always atavistically deep, is getting deeper. There is a perplexed scowl on his face. This will take some time, but each bead on the rusty mental abacus is slowly clicking into place. Should Malc realize that I’ve dissed him, I’ll be in serious trouble. I don’t care. Where I’m going, I’ll be way beyond the reach of Malc and his ilk.
The Sisters Mortland Page 27