by Judy Waite
'It's Fern, she's pissed.'
'Oh shit.'
'She's thrown up in a lily pond. It's disgusting. She's disgusting. I had to wipe her down with that shawl thing you gave me. I've been looking everywhere for you.'
'Where's Aaron? I asked him to look out for her.'
'Gone off, apparently. Fern keeps slurring on about a girl. He gave her fifty quid so we could get a taxi – because he thinks we're all destitute students, of course. But anyway, I've booked it – it's due any minute.'
'Where is she now?' Alix shoots a panicked glance behind Courtney, suddenly scared that Fern might come lurching up singing rugby songs, or something worse.
'I've managed to drag her out the front. She's sort of propped against the wall of the house, moaning and groaning.'
'Oh God.' Alix closes her eyes. Vomit splashed across the drive. Vomit on the crammed-in cars. Probably even the peacock-blue Ferrari.
Hugh mustn't know that Fern came here with her.
She turns back to spin him a story but a woman in a gold-fringed trouser suit has hold of his arm and he is bending politely towards her, listening.
This is the best she can hope for. No explanations. Just slip away. 'Let's go then.' She heads off with Courtney, weaving hurriedly through the crowded garden. There is just a moment back in the house when she pauses, takes her green pashmina and loops it over the wood-panelled banister.
It's pretty weak, as an excuse for coming back, but it's all that she can think of at the time.
* * *
FERN THINKS she's probably going to die. Nobody could feel as ill as this, and survive. Her head feels pressed in by tightening metal bands. She is hot and cold and cold and hot. Her hands shake. She daren't move because she's scared of being sick again.
She forces her eyes to stay open and stare up at the light shade that hangs from the centre of her bedroom ceiling. The tiny flower patterns on it are too busy. Too hurried. But she makes herself keep staring. Maybe a fixed point will stop the room from rolling again.
She has no idea how she got home. How she got into bed.
She can remember some things though. She can remember Aaron. And the girl in red.
The room around the light shade tilts, then spins slowly.
Fern concentrates on not throwing up.
When the knock comes on the door she rolls sideways away from the sound, the effort of movement sending spiked pains all through her skull.
'Fern?' Mum comes in quietly – at least she understands about being quiet – and sits on the edge of the bed. 'How are you doing?'
Fern stays staring at the opposite wall. More flowers. More hurry. 'I'm too ill to speak,' she manages at last.
She feels Mum's hand on her shoulder.
'Don't.' Fern winces. 'It hurts. Everything hurts.'
'It will do.' Mum takes her hand away but she stays on the bed. 'That's what hangovers are like.'
Fern thinks, dimly, that Mum is sounding calm. Maybe the mad rant will come later. 'It's not a hangover,' she slurs. 'It's a slow and horrible death.'
Mum laughs. 'I know it feels like that at the moment.'
'How would you know?' Fern's tongue has grown too big for her mouth. It's hard to shape words. She wants Mum to go away.
'You think I was never young?'
'You only ever drank fruit punch. Or champagne at weddings.'
'Ah – that's the "now" me. The one with responsibilities.'
Fern shifts round slightly to look at Mum, the effort setting the whole room tilting again. 'I don't believe you.'
Mum is holding a glass, and she raises it slightly as Fern blinks and tries to focus on her. 'You should drink this. Even if you only have tiny sips.'
'I'll be sick.'
'Just try it. Honestly.'
Fern raises herself slowly onto one elbow, taking the glass, sipping the water. It is good in her mouth but the minute it hits her stomach she wants to retch. Handing it back, she collapses downwards again. She closes her eyes and the bed is liquid. Floating. She stares back up at the light shade. 'What time is it?'
'Nearly twelve. I have to go and do the lunches in a minute, but once I've sorted the guests I'll come up with some hot sweet tea. You'll be ready for it then.'
'I'll never be ready for anything, ever again.' Fern feels the bed lighten as Mum gets up.
She wonders if Dad knows about the state she's in. She wonders if he's ever been like it too. And as this thought swims through her, she wonders if Mum has only ever loved Dad. Does she feel about him, the way she feels about Aaron? Or is there a secret Aaron in her past? Are Aarons and hangovers and general stupidity all part of growing up? Her bedroom door clicks shut, and Mum is gone.
Her eyes ache from still staring at the light shade. There is a pale trail of spider's web caught up in the silky fringe, and she switches her focus to that. She hasn't cleaned her room for ages. Not properly. Not the way she used to. Mum used to rant on about that too, but in the end she seemed to give up.
Bits of last night – fragmented moments – move in and out of her memory. Drifting music. A gliding waiter. Strange glass lilies on the pond. The pond – oh God. She remembers kneeling beside it, her stomach heaving.
She squeezes her eyes shut at the thought, and realises that she must have fallen asleep – or passed out again, because suddenly Mum is there with the hot sweet tea. And this time, Fern finds she is right. She can manage to move, just about. And when she sits up and shakily takes the mug, the sharp sweet heat is beautiful. 'It's like drinking the first cup of tea in the whole world ever,' she says.
'I've brought paracetamol, too.' Mum is pressing out tablets from a foil pack. 'I thought you'd probably just bring it back up before. And I've made some soup – very thin – a chicken consommé. You'll find that goes down well, with a bit of dry toast.'
Fern thinks about the consommé and the dry toast. Is she hungry? She isn't sure. 'I still don't get why you're being so nice,' she says at last.
'I told you . . . I've been there myself. Not often. And never deliberately. But I do know what it's like. It's not something I'm proud of though.'
Fern realises the hurrying wallpaper has slowed. Almost stopped. The lilac elephant watches her with his glass-bead eyes. Her green crocodile seems to be smiling. It's so safe here. The room is like a friend and she is tucked away inside it.
She turns to look at Mum. 'I love you.'
Mum's face seems to move. A pained twist to it. She pushes her hand up and through her hair, holds it there, her eyes full of shadows. 'I've been worried,' she breathes out, her shoulders sagging forward and her hands dropping down into her lap. 'All this time spent with Alix. It's changed you. You've been like a stranger. I've – me and Dad both – we've missed you – I've tried not to interfere because it just seemed to make you worse . . . ' She stops, as if the words have somehow stiffened in her mouth. 'I love you, too,' she says softly. 'Both of us do. Very much.'
Fern sits still, her head bowed, not knowing how to answer.
Mum stands, pats Fern's shoulder, and then squeezes it gently. 'I'll go and get that soup started.'
Fern feels the warmth of the squeeze, and the strength of it. She listens as Mum's footsteps fade back downstairs, then sips the last dregs of the first tea in the whole world ever. She didn't know Mum had noticed things about her. She didn't know she'd been caring that much.
She feels stunned by all the things that she's been doing.
Mum said she's felt like a stranger, and it feels like that to her too. She's been a stranger to herself. But she's got to get out of it – Mum might know about hangovers, but her heart would break if she knew what else she'd been doing. There's no way Mum would have been there herself.
She leans and puts the empty mug on the floor, then sinks slowly down into the bed, pulling the duvet over her head.
She's feeling sick again, but it's not the hangover.
She's sick of herself. With herself.
Sorry, Mum. Sorry, Dad. S
orry sorry sorry.
* * *
Alix drives round three times before she dredges up the courage to pull into his drive.
In her head she has played out all the scenes of things that might go wrong. Played them again and again, as if the repetition will somehow guard her against the reality.
She has pictured the butler she didn't give her pashmina to, handing it back. 'Very good, madam.' Her shawl returned, Hugh might never even know she came, and her flimsy excuse for coming here will be gone. Or – there is worse. Little Miss Lovely will answer the knock, skim her a look, and then shut the door again. And then – in some ways the worst scene of all – Hugh is the one who answers. He greets her politely, but with no interest. He finds the shawl that he hadn't registered was hers, hands it back with a distant smile, and turns away.
Switching off the ignition, she checks her face in the mirror, and gets out. Her mind runs a new scene where Hugh and Little Miss Lovely are watching her from a security camera video. They are cuddled together in the silk-sheeted bed, and laughing. She makes herself keep walking towards the door, only because the idea of not finishing this fantasy is worse than the idea of living with it and wondering what might have been.
The day is bitingly hot – the hottest so far this year. The air hangs sweet with the scents of blossom. Birds call lazily from the trees that edge the front lawn. A yellow butterfly flits past, fluttering like a tiny kite up into the burning blue.
The Ferrari is there. Her stomach rolls, churning over and over. There is a knocker on the door – heavy brass. A lion's head. Her hand hesitates over it for a moment, then she chooses the bell. It buzzes importantly, an interruption in the unhurried day. Nobody comes. She waits, shifts anxiously. Brushes an imaginary hair from her denim jacket. She has gone for casual. Careless. Just passing by. Maybe she should knock after all? She lifts her hand.
'Hello?'
She jerks round, her hand still raised. He has surprised her again, appearing this time from round the side of the house. He is wearing a black shirt, open down the front, and jeans. She thinks, for the second time, that he looks attractive. He must be growing on her. His face and shoulders are freckled with a dusting of flaked white paint, and he is sweating.
'You look busy.'
He holds up a fan-shaped metal tool. 'Scraping the window frames. The paint is dreadful. Centuries old.'
She nods, as if she is an expert on dreadful century-old paint.
'I . . . I left my shawl.'
He smiles at her, his mouth curving upwards with an easy slowness. 'You melted into the night like Cinderella. I've been searching for the shoe.'
'I'm sorry. Something . . . happened. My brother . . . '
'No need.' He reaches one hand out to her, then notices the dust that has peppered his fingers, and drops it away again. 'Can you stop? For coffee? I can tidy myself up.'
'No need,' she smiles at him. 'No need for you to tidy up, I mean. And yes, please. I'd love a coffee.'
She follows him round the side of the house and in through the conservatory. 'Sit here.' He is watching her again, and she can feel the intensity of the look firing into her. 'I'll bring it through.'
She settles on a floral-cushioned chair, taking in everything she missed on Saturday night. There are plants along the window ledge. A vine curving up one wall. A small pine table with a paper – the Guardian – lies open at the travel page. Everything has an easy grace. An elegance. As if the whole place is comfortable with itself.
Hugh comes through with the coffee, all frothy and steaming in a fine china mug. She can see that he is newly washed and freshened up. 'This has got caramel sauce with it,' he says. 'You'll love it. I hope.'
She watches him walk to the windowsill, picking off dead flower heads. 'I'd have thought you'd have had housekeepers. Gardeners. People to paint your windows for you.'
'Not me,' he answers without looking round. 'I like to be part of things. Properly involved. But aside from all that, I'm trying to get this place shaped up to sell.'
'Sell?' The conservatory walls seem to sway, as if the ground has tilted. Somewhere beneath the layers of butlers, Little Miss Lovelies, and his just sending her away, she had played out scenes of being here. Visiting. Staying over.
'I'm taking Zara round Europe for the summer. It seems crazy to have this place sitting here crumbling away. Places need people. I'll sell it on and get something else when I come back. If I come back.'
'Zara?' Alix nods calmly, sipping the caramel sauce coffee without tasting it. The world inside her is crashing. 'Is that the girl you were with on Saturday night?' Her voice is hoarse, dust in her throat.
He turns to look at her, his head slightly tilted, as if he is thinking something through. Then he laughs, a real lion's roar of sound. 'You mean Daisy? No, no. She's a sweet girl but – no. Nothing going on with her. I met her at a boat show in Brighton – I think she was there with her father – and she must have got my email address from him, and plagued me for some invites. That happens sometimes. I'm not even sure where she went.' He laughs again. 'No doubt some young stud lured her away.'
His voice softens. 'I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you but – stand up a minute. Come over here.'
She stands, obedient, and walks across to him.
'Look out there, down by the river.'
Alix can't work out what he's showing her. From a gap in the bushes she can see the river winding along past the dipped edge of his garden. It sparkles up sapphire blue. A white yacht is moored a little way out from the shore, and two swans glide by, one behind the other. His idyllic world. Everything fantastic. She still doesn't like the sound of this Zara woman.
He puts his arm round her. She can smell him, freshly washed but still all male. She could definitely get to like him. He stands quietly for a moment, as if he is breathing her in. 'Zara is my yacht. All eighty-five feet of her. Her name means "Princess" and she's like a miniature palace inside.'
She puts her coffee down on the sill and lets him hold her properly. Zara's a boat. A bloody boat!
'I know so little about you,' he murmurs. 'But it doesn't seem to matter. It feels like I know nothing, and everything. Does that make sense?'
She nods, not sure how to answer. She doesn't want to break the moment, but there are things she wants him to get a proper picture of. 'I live on my own. My mum lives in Italy.' She hopes she isn't gabbling. She hopes she's saying what he might want to hear.
'Italy? Lucky mum. I plan to cruise round Italy for a while. And your dad?'
She shrugs. 'Who knows.' The cut-off is deliberate. To make him think – and feel.
He pulls her tighter. 'So young. So young to live alone. It makes me . . . '
'Makes you what?'
From deeper in the house, the phone rings. Above them a bird scuffles down onto the glass roof, then swoops away again.
They stay very still.
'. . .want to look after you,' he says at last.
'I'm not a child.' She pulls back slightly, defensive. Does he think she's too young? Maybe she's pitched it wrong. That wasn't what she was going for at all.
He tightens his grip, not letting her go. 'I don't mean that,' he says. 'But there's something about you. An innocence. Unsullied. I'd want to always keep you safe.'
She smiles. She doesn't press against him. She will let him make all the moves. But she's got a bit of time to work on him. Innocent. Unsullied. She can shape herself to be the way he wants her to be.
* * *
His bedsit is full of colour. Rugs and cushions. Pots and bowls and candles. Paintings on the wall.
'Is this your work?' Courtney stands in the centre of the L-shaped room, her fingers clasping and unclasping nervously. She plays for time, makes herself take in the strange, almost surreal, scenes of boats and beaches and figures standing watching the sea.
'It's a series I worked on at the end of last summer. D'you like it?' Elroy asks the question as if her opinion matters – as if she is likely to
have an informed view. She thinks the detail is amazing but she doesn't understand it, and she struggles for something intelligent to say. 'You've painted everyone from behind. So you can't see their faces.'
He laughs. 'With the way I earn my keep, I get sick of faces.'
She flicks a tight smile back at him. She watched him work yesterday – it was a hot afternoon and the promenade was buzzing with tourists. She sat with him while he worked on his soft-pastel portraits, and explained to her what he was doing. 'I kind of measure things in my head,' he said. 'For instance, I need to be spot on with the space between the eyes. The length of the nose. The distance from the ear lobe to the jaw.'
Courtney was surprised. She hadn't realised how much maths might be part of art. She'd always thought artists started scribbling, and it just happened. A sort of magic. He laughed when she told him this. 'I wish,' he said.
Later he took her for dinner in the cobbled lanes, spending everything he'd earned.
'I made these, too – these pots and bowls. I did them at college but I had to drop out because I couldn't keep up with the fees.'
'I've got a . . . a friend who makes pottery things.' Courtney is surprised to find she has used the word 'friend' to describe Fern, but she realises, in the same moment, that she would much rather introduce Elroy to her, than to Alix. She hopes he'll never have to meet Alix. She hopes none of that life ever brushes anywhere near him.
'What sort of pottery things?'
Courtney shrugs. She hasn't a clue really – apart from a few things she remembers from school. 'Mermaids, I think. You'd probably hate them.'
'I'd never knock anything anyone else is working on – I know how tough it is when people try to rubbish what I do.'
Courtney nods. He is so full of the right thoughts. Because of him, she is already a better person. They fall silent, and in the silence she can feel her heart beating, a frantic panicked pulse she has been trying to ignore. She wanted to come – she had to come – but now she wishes she hadn't.
He stands in front of her, looking as nervous as she feels. 'You're not OK, are you?'