Beautiful Malice: A Novel

by Rebecca James

  “What?” I sound a lot more surprised and offended than I feel.

  “Yep. And I absolutely know what I’m talking about. I’m studying psychology.” She shrugs. “I’m practically a psychologist, so I’m totally qualified to make a diagnosis—Alice is a bitch. In fact, I think she’s probably got mental problems. And you seem not to have figured that out yet.”

  I just stand there, silent, bewildered.

  Philippa watches my face, then bursts out laughing. “Okay. Sorry. That was just a bad joke. I mean, Alice is definitely a bitch, and I am studying psychology, but I was just kidding about being qualified to diagnose it. I mean, anyone could see that she’s not a good person. I was just trying to say it in a funny way. To cheer you up. You look so serious and upset.”

  I turn away and occupy myself looking in the mirror, fixing my hair. I am upset, Philippa is right, but I don’t want her to know how bad I feel, and I certainly don’t want to cry in front of her. I should be angry, offended, on Alice’s behalf, but Alice has behaved so horribly tonight that I can hardly blame Philippa for thinking as she does.

  “I doubt very much that you can have any kind of real understanding of a person after knowing them for just half an hour,” I say unconvincingly. “She’s just having a bad day.”

  “I’ve known her for almost an hour and a half, actually.” She leans into the mirror right next to me, forcing me to meet her eyes. “And I don’t know about you, but I’ve had lots of bad days and I’ve never behaved like that. And I’ll bet you ten million bucks that you haven’t, either.”

  I’m about to argue, to tell Philippa that she’s being ridiculous, that Alice may be eccentric and a little self-centered, but she’s not a terrible person, she isn’t sick. And Robbie and I are not a pair of gullible idiots. But then we hear the creak of the door as it swings open, and suddenly Alice is standing there in front of us.

  “What are you two doing?” she says as she walks into a stall. She leaves the door open as she pulls her skirt up, lowers her underpants, sits on the toilet, and starts to pee noisily. “Our food has started to arrive. And it’s so divine that if you don’t hurry it’ll all be eaten before you even get back to the table.” She stands up and flushes, walks to the basin to wash her hands and looks first at Philippa and then at me in the mirror. “And guess what? We’re all going back to my place after this. To make margaritas. And we’re all gonna have one. Even you, Katherine. It’s all been decided.”

  We return to the table and eat our dinner, which is, as Alice said, delicious. Alice gives all her attention to Philippa and is suddenly intent on asking her all about herself. Philippa is polite and answers Alice’s questions as briefly as possible, but she glances surreptitiously at me every now and again, a bemused look on her face.

  Apart from the obvious coldness with which Philippa treats Ben, the dinner passes smoothly and without further incident, and when we leave the restaurant and start walking up the road toward Alice’s, I’m surprised to find that my anxiety is gone. In fact I’m feeling quite relaxed, am almost enjoying myself. There are a lot of people on the streets, laughing and talking as they walk, and there’s a contagious vibe of excitement. It’s Friday night, and everyone is buzzing with anticipation and enthusiasm; there are happy-looking people everywhere, funky clothes, noise and laughter. So Alice is drunk and has been a bit of a bitch. So what? Worse things have happened. It’s hardly the end of the world.

  We stop at a liquor store on the way and buy tequila for the margaritas. We buy handfuls of lemons from the small grocery store on the corner of Alice’s street. And when we get to Alice’s we are all happily occupied, finding enough cocktail glasses, squeezing lemons, blending the bittersweet mixture. Alice puts on some music and we sing loudly as we move around her hot, crowded kitchen. And we’re all enjoying ourselves, and one another’s company, and for a time I forget about Alice’s earlier behavior, forget my fears that the night was going to end in disaster.

  “Let’s play a game,” Alice says when we’ve each got an enormous icy cocktail in our hand. I don’t intend to drink mine, but I’ll sip on it just to keep Alice happy and dump it out when she’s not looking. I’m going to remain stone-cold sober. Vigilant.

  “Yes,” I agree and I look at Robbie and smile, and it’s a smile that says, See? Everything is going to be fine. We’re all having a great time.

  And Robbie smiles back tentatively, still uncertain.

  “Truth or dare.” Alice rubs her hands together excitedly and heads into the living room. “Come on. I love this game. It’s the best way to get to know people.”

  We all follow her and sit cross-legged on the floor around her coffee table. Someone turns the music down.

  “Me first?” Alice pokes her tongue out at Robbie. “And you can ask me. Since you think you know me so well. You might find out something surprising.”

  “Truth or dare?” Robbie says.

  “Truth.”

  “Okay, then.” Robbie takes a sip of his drink and looks thoughtful for a moment. Then he looks at Alice seriously. “Do you ever regret things? Things that you’ve said or done?”

  Alice stares at him for a moment. Then she rolls her eyes. “God, Robbie. This is meant to be fun.” She sighs. “Regret things … um, let me think for a moment.” She shakes her head firmly. “Nope. I don’t. I regret nothing. Regret is for the incompetent and the unconfident. And I am neither of those. Okay, thanks for that boring contribution, Robbie.” She looks around at everyone, smiling. “Who should I pick next?” Then she looks pointedly at Ben. “Young Ben. Help me keep this game on track. Keep it dirty and fun, the way it’s supposed to be. Truth or dare? And answer quickly, before I fall asleep.”

  “Truth.”

  “Good. Just what I hoped you’d say. And I have a question all ready for you.” Alice raises her eyebrows and leans forward. “So, young Ben, where was the most interesting place you’ve ever had sex? And you have to answer, or I get to give you a dare. And it won’t be nice.”

  Ben laughs nervously and looks down at his drink. “Um, well, I guess it was once … well, it was a couple of years ago. When I first came to the States. There was this very wild girl I met. And she wouldn’t take no for an answer. No way. Not this girl. And, my God, her body was awesome, so I wasn’t about to say no myself. And anyway, this one night, we were at a friend’s house and this girl, she drags me into the parents’ bedroom. And, you know, we’re making out on their bed and then the parents come in so we scuttle into the closet, this huge walk-in thing, and, well, it’s nice and dark in there and cozy, and so, you know, we just continue with what we were doing before.” He stops talking and looks at Alice and grins. Alice looks back at him, smiling, encouraging, and all at once it’s very obvious that the girl he’s talking about is Alice. And Robbie is staring at Ben, his face blank, but I notice that his fist is clenched tightly in his lap. And again I feel that sense of panic, an overwhelming desire for everything to just stop. Rewind. Go back to the beginning. The night is going to end horribly after all. Robbie was right.

  But Ben is oblivious, and I wonder if he has even realized that Alice and Robbie are an item. Alice has certainly done a good job of acting as if Robbie means nothing to her.

  “But that’s not it,” Ben continues. “The really kinky bit was when—”

  “Thanks, Ben,” Robbie interrupts, his voice loud and cold and sharp with sarcasm. “Thanks for that. But I think we’ve all heard enough now. And thanks, Alice, for asking such an intelligent question. ’Cause that was so interesting, just so great to listen to. I didn’t realize, but now I do, that seedy sex stories are what makes a game fun. Great. Thanks for that, Ben. I’ll try to be as … well, as crass as you, when my turn comes.”

  Ben blushes a deep red and sucks furiously on his cocktail, and Philippa smothers a horrified, embarrassed laugh in her hand.

  “My turn, my turn,” I say, falsely cheerful. I turn to Philippa expectantly, hoping that she’ll help me try to smooth eve
rything out. “Philippa? Truth or dare?”

  “Truth,” Philippa says obligingly. “I love truths. Don’t you? I think they’re just hilarious. You can find out some brilliant secrets about people. And I really love hearing the questions people ask, too. They often reveal a lot more about the person asking than the person being asked, don’t you think?”

  I smile at Philippa, grateful for her chatter. But it’s hard to come up with something to ask her, and I’m silent for a moment, thinking.

  “Katherine.” Alice laughs. “You haven’t even got a question, have you? Let me go. Come on. One more. I’ll ask you.”

  “But you’ve already had a turn,” Robbie says. “Let Katherine go.”

  “We’re not playing properly, anyway. Really, it should be Ben’s turn. So it doesn’t matter, does it?” Alice says. And it’s clear now that she’s drunk. She’s speaking slowly, carefully, trying hard to enunciate each word, but the slur in her voice is obvious. “And since when did you become such an annoying stickler for the rules, Robbie? Since when did you become such a boring killjoy?”

  “Killjoy?” Robbie laughs. “There’s not much joy to be killed here, Alice.”

  Alice ignores him and looks at me.

  “Truth or dare?” she asks.

  And I hesitate while I decide. I have so many secrets, so many things I don’t want to reveal, but this is only a game, only a bit of fun. And I know that Alice’s dare won’t be something easy or straightforward. “Truth,” I say finally. “I can imagine one of your dares, and I don’t want to run down Main Street tonight naked.”

  “Truth,” Alice repeats, slowly, drawing out the vowel sound as if she’s savoring the word. “Are you sure? Are you sure you can be completely honest?”

  “I think so. Try me.”

  “Okay.” And then she looks at me curiously. “So. Were you glad, deep down? Were you glad to be rid of her? Your perfect sister? Were you secretly glad when she was murdered?”

  And it’s suddenly as if everything is coming to me in slow motion, through a hazy fog. I hear Robbie sigh with irritation and tell Alice to stop being a fool. I sense Philippa looking at me, wondering what is going on, if Alice can possibly be serious. I feel Philippa’s hand on my arm, the concern in her touch.

  But I can look only at Alice’s eyes. They are cold, appraising, and her pupils are so large that all I can see is black. Hard and unyielding. Deep. Ruthless. Black.

  15

  When I wake, it’s still dark. Sarah has left her own bed and crept into mine while I’ve slept, and her warm little body is pressed close against me. Her head is on my pillow, and I’m lying right near the edge of the mattress, so that the entire other side, more than half the bed, is empty.

  I slide out of bed slowly, so as not to wake her, and grab my heavy woolen sweater from the chair where I tossed it the night before. It is cold, and I head straight to the living area and turn the gas heater on. It fills the small room with a comforting golden glow and warms it immediately. I make a pot of tea and take it to the corner of the sofa, my legs tucked beneath me.

  I started waking early like this when Sarah was a newborn, and I’ve been unable to sleep late since. Sometimes I spend this time cleaning or getting ready for the day while Sarah is asleep, making her lunch, preparing her clothes, but usually I sit and sip tea, enjoy this time for myself. I don’t think about anything in particular; I’ve become very good at not thinking. I avoid making futile plans for an uncertain future, and even more than that, I want to avoid remembering the past. So I go into an almost meditative state, my brain empty, my thoughts focused only on the taste of my tea, or on the regular in and out of my breath. And often, when Sarah wakes around seven and comes out of the bedroom, crumpled and warm and scented of sleep, I’m surprised that two or more hours have passed so quickly.

  But this morning I drink my tea and sit for less than an hour. I’m excited about the day ahead and can’t wait for Sarah to see the snow, can’t wait to hear her excited squeals of delight when she rides a toboggan, makes her first snowman. I want her awake and enjoying the anticipation with me, so at six I get up and make Sarah’s favorite breakfast, French toast with sliced banana and maple syrup, and a large mug of hot chocolate. I place our plates and mugs on the table and go into the bedroom to wake her up.

  “Are we going to the snow now, Mommy?” Sarah asks the moment she opens her eyes. She sits up, immediately bright and alert. “Is it time to go?”

  “Not yet.” I sit on the bed and hug her. “But I’ve made French toast, a big, enormous pile of it, and hot chocolate. I hope you’re very hungry.”

  “Yummy yummy.” She pushes the blankets from her legs, stands up, and runs from the room, leaving me there, smiling, alone.

  I follow her into the dining room and find her already kneeling on her chair, eating with gusto.

  “Are you having some, Mommy?” she asks, her mouth full. “There’s enough for you.”

  “I should think so.” I sit opposite and take a piece of French toast from the tray and put it on my plate. “Actually, I think there might be enough for ten.”

  “I don’t think so.” Sarah shakes her head and looks serious. “I’m very hungry. I need ten today. French toast is my most favoritest.”

  And she does manage to eat an extraordinary amount—and gulp down her hot chocolate between mouthfuls. And as soon as she’s finished, she scrambles down from her chair.

  “I’m going to get ready now,” she says. “I think we’ve got a very big day ahead of us.”

  I laugh at the way she has appropriated one of my phrases, her attempt to be grown up. “We do. A very big day. But we’ve still got lots of time.”

  “I want to be ready,” she says. “I want to be ready before the sun.”

  16

  And I hear it again. The knocking, gentle but insistent. Whoever it is has been knocking for more than ten minutes and I’m tired of trying to ignore it, sick of pretending that I’m not here.

  I go to the door but don’t open it.

  “Go away,” I say. “It’s the middle of the night. Go away.”

  “Katherine. It’s me, Robbie.” And his voice is so familiar and comforting, and so filled with kindness, that I almost start crying again. “And Philippa’s here, too. Please let us come in.”

  “Is Alice with you?”

  “No.”

  I sigh and release the dead bolt. I turn and walk away down the hall without greeting them, leaving them to push the door open themselves. I know they mean well, that they are worried about me, but I’m exhausted with the events of the evening and with crying. I want to be left alone. Not to sleep—sleep won’t come—but to be miserable in private.

  I head to the living room and sit on the sofa, where I’ve been curled up for the past hour. Philippa and Robbie follow me and sit on the sofa opposite.

  “Alice told us,” Robbie says gently. “About your sister.”

  I nod. If I talk I’ll start crying again, so I remain stubbornly silent.

  “Would you prefer it if I left?” Philippa glances at Robbie and then at me. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I just wanted to be sure that Robbie found you. But I don’t want to intrude.”

  I look at Philippa and shrug—she looks dreadful. Her skin is pale and she has deep shadows beneath her eyes, as if the evening has left her shell-shocked.

  She sighs. “I’ll stay, then, if you don’t mind. I’m too tired right now to actually go anywhere else.”

  It makes no difference to me if she stays or goes, but I’m suddenly very glad that Vivien is away for the weekend, that she’s not here to witness all this.

  “Should I make tea?” Philippa says, looking pleased to have thought of something useful to do.

  “I’d like some.” Robbie smiles at her gratefully. “Katherine?”

  “Sure,” I say. “But I—”

  “She likes it made properly,” Robbie explains to Philippa. “The pot and tea leaves are on the shelf above t
he kettle.”

  “Are you okay?” Robbie asks once Philippa has left the room.

  I nod and attempt a smile. “What a shitty night that was. I should have listened to you. I should have gone home early, like you said.” I lean forward and whisper, “Philippa thinks Alice is a complete and utter bitch. She thinks she’s got mental problems. Did she tell you that?”

  Robbie shrugs. “She really was a total bitch, wasn’t she? Maybe she does have something wrong with her. Who knows? But what difference does it make, anyway? That kind of thing can’t actually be fixed. Maybe Alice is just a rotten person.”

  He leans back and sighs, looks down at his knees and picks at a loose thread from his jeans. He looks tired, defeated, and very, very sad.

  “What about you, Robbie? Are you okay?” I ask him. “You don’t look very good.”

  “No. I’m not.” His eyes, which are already red, fill with tears, and he shakes his head irritably, as if to be rid of them. “It was just a crappy night all around, wasn’t it?” He laughs bitterly.

  “Yes.” There’s nothing else to say. Philippa returns, and we sip our tea, quietly, without talking, each of us caught up in our own private thoughts, our own fatigue and misery.

  By the time we’ve finished our tea it’s four a.m., and I persuade Robbie and Philippa that they should stay and get some sleep. I get Robbie a blanket and pillow so that he can sleep on the sofa, and ask Philippa if she minds sharing my bed. The night has been so draining and Philippa and I are both so exhausted that we are able to lie side by side, beneath the same blanket, with no awkwardness. In fact, I feel comforted by her presence. And before I close my eyes, Philippa smiles at me and takes my hand and squeezes.

  “Sleep well,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I think I will.”

  When I wake, the sun is shining brightly and Philippa is no longer beside me. But I can hear the soft hum of voices, hers and Robbie’s, coming from next door, and I’m glad that they’re both still here, that I won’t have to face the day alone. I close my eyes again.