by Rebecca Reid
Lila had sobbed, which had only made him angrier. He’d stormed out and weeks later she’d seen a night in a hotel in central London on their credit-card bill.
‘Nancy said we should go inside,’ said Lila, trying again. She pointed towards the door, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like Roo wouldn’t know where inside was.
‘I don’t give a fuck what Nancy said.’
‘I’m fine! It’s a party, Rupert, people are drinking, that’s what happens.’
‘No one in that room is drunk, Camilla. Other people know when to stop.’
‘Brett doesn’t. He’s an alcoholic. That’s why he isn’t drinking. Did you know that? Nancy told me.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ Rupert muttered under his breath. Was she supposed to have heard that?
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing,’ he retorted.
‘Yes, you did. Say it again. Say it.’
‘I said he’s not the only one. OK? He’s not the only one who has a drinking problem.’
Stupid Rupert. Always so dramatic. So obsessed. So controlling. He wanted to be in charge of everything she did and that wasn’t healthy or normal. She knew that for a fact, the magazines and websites all said so.
‘I do not have a drinking problem,’ she replied, trying to enunciate every syllable so he couldn’t accuse her of slurring her words. ‘I am trying to have fun. Remember when we used to have fun?’
Even as she said it she questioned whether or not it was true. Had they had fun? They’d done fun things sometimes. Restaurants at the top of various very tall towers. Trips to obscure cities where Rupert would plan every single day from church visits to cocktail bars. But did they have fun? Was there laughing? It was hard to remember.
‘Are you having fun tonight?’ His voice was a bit softer now. He sounded less cross. Was he less cross, or was it because he’d remembered what Therapist Clarice had said at their last session about ‘modulating their tone’ when they talked?
Her head felt tight, like someone had wrapped a belt around it and pulled hard. She burped and felt bile burning the fleshy bit at the back of her throat. No. She was not having fun. Because this wasn’t fun. There was nothing fun about shoving their husbands, who didn’t really like each other, around Georgia’s fancy hand-sanded kitchen table and trying to pretend that they still had stuff to talk about.
‘Are you?’
She shook her head.
‘We can go home, if you like.’
That would be worse. The babysitter would be cross that they’d come home early and Rupert would insist on paying her in full even though he’d started to get this tight look on his face every time he paid for something, like he was worried, or his money might run out. Maybe financially things weren’t going well. She should look at the account. It was hers too, that’s what he had said. But all those numbers seemed frightening, and what could she actually do if there was no money in there? She couldn’t put any in.
‘We can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ll all talk about me if we go.’
‘They’re probably talking about you now.’
‘I know.’
‘They worry about you.’
Lila laughed. ‘Have you met them?’
‘You three are so confusing.’
Lila pulled a cigarette out of the damp packet that lay on the bench next to her and held her hand out for a lighter. He didn’t look pleased.
‘Please?’
‘I hate it when you smoke.’
‘You smoke!’
‘You know it’s different.’
‘It’s not why. You know that. They said that’s not why.’
Rupert didn’t reply. ‘If you don’t like them, why are we here? Why do you spend time with them?’
‘They’re my best friends,’ she replied, affronted.
‘But you don’t like each other.’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Girls are so bloody complicated,’ he sighed, sitting down next to her on the bench. ‘Christ, that’s damp. Aren’t you cold?’
Lila shook her head, staring straight ahead into the kitchen. The lights inside broadcasted the scene around the table. When Charlie and Georgia had bought the house, they had cheerfully knocked through the walls, or at least they’d paid some man with gold teeth to do it. Lila could imagine them, smug and newly married, holding hands as he swung the sledgehammer through walls that were older than America. She’d once suggested that she and Roo should do it at their house, to let more light in – Roo was always saying what great taste Georgia had. He’d told Lila not to be stupid. They couldn’t afford it.
It was an enormous room now. Long and white and astonishingly clean. Every white tile gleamed. How much help did she have, Lila wondered. The smell of their kitchen was so familiar to her that she could conjure it instantly. Fresh flowers. Organic cleaning products. Garlic. Onions. Artificial sweet smells fighting with real, food ones. At the end of the room closest to the windows there was the dining table. The six of them, when they all sat around it, didn’t fill it. There were twelve chairs. Georgia told a story about the saleswoman telling her she needed a smaller table because she was too young to need one that big. She did an impression of the woman, putting on a high-pitched nasal voice, and then smugly explaining how actually they’d had twelve people to supper at least once a month for their entire marriage. Lila had watched her lovingly massage wood polish into the auburn surface of the table time after time. She probably rubbed that table more often than she rubbed Charlie’s cock. Poor Charlie.
Lila’s parents had known Charlie’s parents when they were young. They’d all lived in Hong Kong at the same time, when living in Hong Kong meant money and champagne and success. They were friends. There were photos in an album somewhere. Charlie’s mother and father with Lila’s parents, laughing together in double-breasted suits and taffeta dresses. Charlie’s mother had come up to her at Charlie and Georgia’s wedding, while the bride and groom were having their fifteen thousandth picture taken. Charlie’s mother had asked her how she was, and then said, without a hint of embarrassment, ‘It should have been you, you know.’ Lila had laughed and got away from Charlie’s mother as quickly as she could. But looking into the kitchen, at how everything gleamed with cleanliness, she wondered if maybe Charlie’s mother had been right.
THEN
Lila
Lila threw her school bag down on her bed and then collapsed next to it, lying on her back with her feet up on the wall. How was it only Wednesday? Two more hideous days of school, and then an entire weekend trapped here with sweet fuck-all to do. Last weekend she and Nancy and Georgia had spent three hours in the gym, then ruined it all by bingeing on snacks bought at the tuck shop because they were so bored. How did the boarders who were stuck here all the time cope with it?
Across the room, sitting on the bed Lila had always planned to have when she shared this room with Nancy and Georgia, was Jenny McGuckin, chewing on the wire from her headphones and staring up at the ceiling. Jenny sat up and pulled one earbud out of her ear. The tinny music spilled into the room.
‘There’s a note for you,’ she said, not meeting Lila’s eye.
‘What?’
Jenny had barely spoken a word to her since they’d been forced into sharing a room. She pointed a stubby finger at a note on Lila’s desk. The writing was turquoise and curved.
Lila – the cleaners have complained that it’s impossible to hoover the floor because your clothes are everywhere, and it’s not much fun for your room-mates either. I know you’re busy, but please take half an hour this week to clean up. Miss Brandon
Lila rolled her eyes. ‘She is such a colossal bitch.’
Jenny said nothing. Nancy would have launched into a whole discussion about what Miss Brandon’s worst quality was, but Jenny just sat there with her bug eyes empty, saying nothing.
‘How can the cleaners complain about cleaning? That’
s their job,’ she said, grabbing at piles of clothes from the floor and shoving them into her wardrobe. Again, Jenny said nothing.
‘Did you complain?’ Lila turned to look at Jenny. ‘This note says that you’ve got a problem with how I have my stuff. Is that true?’
Jenny shook her head.
‘It must have been Heidi then.’ Jenny didn’t reply, and picked up her other earbud as if she was about to put it back in.
‘Where is Heidi anyway?’ asked Lila. ‘We all have to be back here by ten.’
‘Therapy,’ said Jenny impassively. ‘She comes in late because of it.’
‘Therapy?’ asked Lila.
Jenny nodded. ‘In town.’
Since when was Heidi in therapy? What the fuck did she have to be that upset about? Why did she get some special dispensation to go into town and talk about her stupid life to someone and get back late? In what world was that fair?
‘Why is she in therapy?’ she asked Jenny.
Jenny shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You must know something. You’re her friend.’
Jenny’s face was unchanged.
‘You’re telling me you’ve been sharing a room with her for however many years and you don’t know what’s going on with her? It’s fine, you can tell me. I live with you guys now. I should know.’
‘She’s never said anything,’ said Jenny, who had picked up her book and seemed increasingly less interested in talking about this.
‘What does she say when you ask?’ demanded Lila. If Heidi was in therapy it might be because she was telling tales about Lila, talking about how they used to be friends, about how Lila had ditched her. Lila had a right to know. Lila went to sit on the end of Jenny’s bed, leaning in towards her. She caught a faint whiff of body spray and body odour. Lila realized Jenny hadn’t changed out of her games kit since they’d had hockey that afternoon.
‘I don’t ask,’ said Jenny. ‘If you’re so bothered about it then why don’t you talk to her. That’s why you’re in this dorm, right?’
‘I’m sorry?’ Lila blinked at Jenny. ‘What?’
‘Forget it,’ said Jenny, picking up her book.
‘What about why I’m in this dorm?’
Jenny sighed, putting the book back down. ‘I don’t want to get into this, I really don’t want anything to do with you and your friends, OK?’
‘It’s no big deal,’ Lila reassured her. ‘I just don’t understand what you mean.’ That wasn’t entirely true. Lila had a sneaking suspicion that she did know what it meant, that she knew exactly what Heidi had done, but she needed to hear it from Jenny to be sure.
‘Heidi told me that she told her therapist she wanted to share a room with you.’
‘What? Why?’ Lila tried to repress Nancy’s words, which were filling her head, the words about how Heidi fancied her, how she wanted to be more than friends.
‘She said you were her friend. That you’d be there for her if things got bad again.’
‘Bad?’ asked Lila, trying to process it. ‘Again?’
Jenny looked surprised. ‘She tried to overdose in the holidays?’
Lila caught herself before the surprise could show on her face. ‘Yeah, I know about that,’ she said. ‘I thought you meant things had got worse since then.’
Jenny looked confused. ‘Look, this is between you and her. But I don’t think she went to Miss Brandon about your stuff being on the floor. So don’t have a go at her, OK?’
‘OK,’ said Lila, retreating to her side of the room. She shoved a wodge of clothing under her bed, finding one of her Ugg boots in the process. She’d been looking for it for days.
Heidi had taken an overdose. Lila desperately wanted to pump Jenny for information, to find out what she’d taken and how many – to assess how seriously she’d tried, whether it was an attention-seeking stunt or whether she’d really tried to die. But that would mean admitting that she didn’t know about Heidi, that Heidi hadn’t called her. Why hadn’t she called?
They didn’t speak often, it was true. And Heidi knew the rules. When they were at school they didn’t speak, they didn’t interact. Lila would deny all knowledge of their occasional phone calls at weekends, of the fact that they met up sometimes in the holidays when their mothers wanted to have lunch together. And in return for Heidi’s silence, Lila kept Georgia and Nancy off her back.
And yet this had happened, and Heidi had said nothing. Instead she’d just ruined Lila’s plan to share a room with her best friends. If Nancy ever found out – Lila stopped herself. Nancy could never find out.
As if she could hear Lila’s thoughts, Jenny spoke across the void of carpet that lay between them. ‘Lila?’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t tell your friends about Heidi, OK?’
‘I won’t,’ said Lila. ‘Promise.’
NOW
Georgia
What was Roo thinking, taking Lila outside? As if that much wine could be dissolved by some cold air. But of course it wasn’t about sobering her up. It was about shutting her up. Classic Roo, always treading on the end of their sentences and replying ‘Well, actually …’ to anything they said. Once they’d cleared the plates away – Lila’s food left untouched – she knew what he’d do. He would clap his arm around Charlie and persuade him to go outside for a cigar. They’d make noises about ‘leaving the girls to it’ and stand out in the garden for most of the rest of the night, leaving her to clear up. Charlie would stink of that wet hay cigar smell all night.
Even in spite of Brett’s idea to cover the meat with the sauce before it reached the table, it had still been dry. Why had she decided to do pork? It was the easiest meat to overcook, the hardest to get right, and no one even wanted it. She and Charlie had been to a dinner party weeks ago where a friend of theirs had served this exact dish and it had been effortlessly perfect. She’d carved it easily and the herby stuffing had sat in a neat ring in the middle of the joint. Georgia’s version had not worked. Dragging the knife through the flesh had been an enormous effort, and the stuffing had leaked, burning a sticky black crust on to the bottom of the pan. It sat soaking in her porcelain double sink, ready for the cleaner to deal with tomorrow morning. Charlie always liked them to have Larissa, who had cleaned for them for years, to come in the morning after a party. That way when he emerged from his shower around midday, he could make a bacon sandwich in a gleaming kitchen. Larissa charged them double to come at the weekend, and Georgia didn’t blame her.
Pudding, at least, had worked properly. It was a huge wide ring of meringue topped with whipped cream and passion fruit. She pulled her phone out and snapped a picture, she’d post it in the morning.
‘Can I help, darling?’ asked Charlie. He’d left Nancy and Brett sitting at the table, laughing at something one of them had said. She’d been cooking all day without his help and he’d waited until now, seconds before they were about to eat dessert, to offer assistance. Why did people always do that?
‘You can waiter for me, when those two come inside.’
‘Might be a while,’ said Charlie.
‘What?’
‘Outside. I reckon it’ll be a while.’
‘Why?’
Charlie looked embarrassed. ‘No reason. But maybe we should start without them.’
Something was up. Charlie looked like a little boy who had been caught with contraband in his first term at prep school.
‘We can’t do that. What’s up?’
Charlie stepped closer to her and threw a glance across the room to Nancy and Brett. They were still tied in conversation. She hoped Nancy would look up, see them obviously exchanging secrets and press her later to find out what had been said.
‘I don’t think I’m supposed to say anything.’
Georgia had learned years ago that the worst way to make someone tell you a secret was to push for it. If she showed Charlie how much she wanted to know, he would start to think what he had was valuable. If she treated it lightly,
like she didn’t care much, he wouldn’t think it was anything to spill. She took the packet of strawberries out of the fridge and picked up a knife.
‘Oh?’
‘I mean, he didn’t exactly say that I shouldn’t.’
‘Right.’ Charlie was close to spilling. His tight forehead was so sweet. She allowed herself a second’s vision. A little boy with Charlie’s thatch of strawberry blond hair and serious face, scuffing his toe on the floor as he worked up the courage to tell her something. The picture brought her a warm happy feeling, a second rush of love towards Charlie that evening.
‘I saw Roo at the Harbour Club last week. When I went for physio.’
Georgia knew immediately what was coming next. But she mustn’t crowd it. The more she asked, the less detail she would get from him. Her therapist had a habit of leaving silence between them, which was supposed to push the patient to talk more. It didn’t work in Georgia’s case. She didn’t like to be manipulated. But it was a sensible trick.
‘He wasn’t alone,’ Charlie whispered to the floor, following Georgia close behind as she moved around the counter, plating up portions of pavlova.
‘He wasn’t?’
‘He was with someone.’
‘A friend?’