His hands still. He looks up at me. ‘Yes, why?’
I puff air out of my lips. ‘I mean, it’s alive. Wouldn’t you feel bad to eat something you’ve killed with your own hands?’
He rubs his jaw with the edge of the fist that is holding the knife. ‘Don’t you eat lobster?’
‘Yes,’ I admit uncomfortably, ‘but I couldn’t eat it if I saw it alive a few minutes before.’
He laughs. ‘We all have to die, Snow. This guy has had a good life at the bottom of the ocean, and I’m giving him a quick death. I wish my death could be so quick.’
‘I just can’t get my head around it.’
He grins. ‘That’s because you’re a hypocrite, Snow. You’ll eat it after someone else kills it for you, arranges it neatly on a Styrofoam tray, pulls a bit of cling film over it, and sticks it on a supermarket shelf.’
‘Afraid so.’
‘Right. Look away now. I’m about to say his last rites.’
I turn my head and hear a crack then a squelching noise before the knife hits the chopping board. I turn back, and the lobster has been neatly halved lengthwise. Some of its legs are still waving. Then they all slowly stop. Something about its still body makes me remember when I wanted revenge so bad I wanted to kill, and not just a lobster, but human beings. When I could have killed with a song in my heart.
‘Shane?’
He looks up at the different tone in my voice. ‘What?’
‘Could you kill a human being?’
His eyes narrow, and he looks dangerous.
‘If he’s hurt you—I mean really, really hurt you, or someone you loved …’
He doesn’t hesitate. His voice rings strong and sure in that kitchen, with the rice boiling and the dead lobster lying on the wooden board. ‘Yes. I’d kill for those I love.’
I nod slowly, and for a few seconds we gaze at each other. His eyes burn with fierce intensity. No more is said, but I suddenly feel safe, safer than I have ever felt with Lenny. My muscles are singing with renewed vigor, and I feel as if I could do anything, be anything.
Eight
SNOW
‘What made you decide to pay me a surprise visit?’ he asks, as he begins the task of scooping up and discarding the yellow-green tomalley from the two halves of the lobster.
‘I’m really sorry; I realize now I should have called. It’s not the done thing in England to turn up unannounced at someone’s door.’
He lifts a lemon from a fruit bowl on the kitchen table, washes it under the tap, and cuts it into wedges. ‘It’s done, but usually by people selling things you don’t want, and suspicious girlfriends trying to catch their boyfriends in compromising situations,’ he says dryly.
‘You can add a new category to your list. Foreign-born women who have just received great news.’
He looks up from the lobster, his eyebrows raised expectantly. ‘You have great news?’
I nod excitedly.
‘Spit it out then.’
‘OK, here it is,’ I say with a happy grin. ‘My greatest dream for as long as I can remember was to become a pre-school teacher. To give back to other children what my nanny gave me. To instill in them a thirst for knowledge. But my mother did not want me to become a teacher. In her opinion, it was a badly paid, thankless job, and, no matter what I did, I could never change those children’s lives one iota. I guess that’s the real reason I ran away to England. I knew if I wanted to chase my dream, I had to leave India … and, since I had a British passport, I came here.
‘But here, in England, all teaching colleges require you to have work experience before they will accept you. Soooo … I applied to do some voluntary work at some local schools, and this morning a letter arrived from one of them to tell me that I’ve been selected.’
‘Am I looking at the happiest teacher-in-training ever?’ he asks, his blue eyes crinkling up.
‘Pre-school teacher-in-training,’ I correct. ‘I only ever wanted to teach small children.’
‘I think you’ll make a brilliant pre-school teacher.’
‘You mean it?’
‘Of course. How could you fail to be when you are so enthusiastic and eager? When you see education as passing down the magic,’ he says, placing a cast-iron griddle pan on the stove and switching it on.
As we carry on talking, he drizzles the two halves with olive oil and seasons them—salt, pepper. I watch his beautiful hands take a pinch of paprika and, hovering over the lobster, he rubs his fingers together. A sumptuous, exotic red mist settles like crimson dust upon the gray flesh of the crustacean. Out of nowhere, a thought snakes into my head. How great it would be to have those big, powerful hands on my body.
With a pair of scissors, he snips off a sprig of parsley from a pot growing on the windowpane, chops it finely, and drops it into an earthenware bowl. He uses the heel of his hand to break up a garlic bulb, and chops four of its cloves. That goes into a blue earthenware bowl with two thick sticks of butter and a sprinkle of chili flakes.
He pours a little olive oil onto the hot pan and places the lobster halves flash side down. The flesh sizzles. Very quickly, he flips them over and pours cognac in two quick strips over the seared flesh. Two long blue flames leap up angrily from the pan.
‘Wow! Impressive,’ I say.
‘You think that’s impressive? Wait till you see what else these hands can do,’ he teases.
My face flames as bright as the lobster shells.
The rice cooker pings at the same time that he takes the lobsters off the fire.
He turns to me. ‘Would you like some?’
My mouth is salivating with all the delicious smells, but I shake my head resolutely. I saw that lobster alive. Hypocrite or not, I couldn’t. I’d be eating the moment of its death.
‘Last chance,’ he offers.
‘Thanks, but no,’ I say firmly.
He opens the rice cooker and spoons the rice onto an enormous, white, square plate. He takes the lobster halves and lays them on the rice. Carefully, he spoons the melted butter mixture over his meal.
He looks up at me. ‘So, you’re just going to watch me eat?’
‘Yes. If you don’t mind.’
‘Hmm … Want a double chocolate chip cookie instead? They’re very good.’
I hesitate. ‘Um.’
‘Her majesty, Lady Margarite Hum Loo baked them.’
I smile. ‘She did?’
‘She’s an awesome baker,’ he says persuasively.
‘In that case, OK.’
He opens a tin and brings it to me. They are in the shapes of animals.
I take a cat. ‘Thank you.’ I bite into it. ‘It’s actually delicious,’ I say, surprised.
‘Bring the whole tin with you,’ he says, and leads the way to his dining table, which has been set for one.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘How about a glass of Pinot Blanc?’
I shake my head, fascinated by the care he has taken to cook his own meal. Only a true gourmet would go to such great pains to prepare a feast for one, but he seems unaware of how unusual his behavior is.
He fishes a bottle of wine from a bucket of ice, and pours himself a glass of wheat-colored liquid. Then he sits down and lifts his knife and fork. I watch him cut out a piece of lobster and, in a sensual act of pure pleasure, slip it into his mouth, and suddenly I’m salivating like Pavlov’s dog. My cookie seems to be a childish indulgence when I watch him savor every mouthful. As if each mouthful was a unique work of art that he has been given the privilege of experiencing.
I watch him eat, and it is a joy to do so. We talk and we laugh. He is easy and funny. There are only two or three bites left on his plate when there is a shrill scream from somewhere in the apartment.
‘Good timing, kids,’ Shane says good-naturedly, and stands up.
‘Shall I wait for you here?’ I ask.
‘No, you don’t want to miss this,’ he says with a laugh.
I follow him to the entrance of a room painted in bright colors with two cot
s and lots of toys.
‘It was not an accident!’ a beautiful, blue-eyed little girl with her hands on her hips screams furiously at a boy who has his arms crossed.
‘What’s going on here?’ Shane asks calmly.
‘He,’ she fumes, throwing a fierce glance toward her cousin before bringing it back again to Shane, ‘banged me on the head with his train while I was sleeping.’
Shane moves into the room. ‘Let me see that head,’ he says.
She touches the top of her head gingerly and cries pitifully, ‘I’ve been treating him happy and he just wants to kill me.’ She takes a shuddering breath, and, opening out one palm beseechingly toward him, demands. ‘Why? Why?’
Shane gets to his haunches in front of her. ‘Of course, he doesn’t want to kill you, sweetie. He’s your cousin.’
‘Yes, he does. Yes, he does,’ she insists, striking the sides of her little body violently. She points at Tommy dramatically. ‘He just wants me to die out here.’
Shane busies himself with gently feeling the top of her head. ‘Now, why on earth would Tommy want to kill you?’
She thinks for a minute. ‘So he can have all my toys,’ she says triumphantly.
Shane shakes his head. ‘He’s a boy. He doesn’t want your dolls and cookery set.’
She appears to lose interest in Tommy’s motive. ‘Is there an egg on my head?’ she asks anxiously, instead.
‘Maybe a very small one,’ Shane agrees.
‘I’m never sleeping with him again. Don’t make me, Uncle Shane,’ she pleads.
I have to turn my head to hide my smile. How Shane is keeping a straight face is beyond me.
‘Why did you bang her with your train while she was sleeping, Tommy?’ Shane asks the little boy, who has so far said nothing.
He scrunches his shoulders up to his ears. ‘It was an accident. I wanted to kiss her, but the train fell from my hand, and … and … banged her head.’
Shane turns to Liliana. ‘See? It was an accident. He just wanted to kiss you.’
‘I don’t believe him. He’s a’—she frowns to think of the right expression—‘juvenile delinquent.’
Shane’s lips twitch. ‘Do you know what? I kind of believe him. You’re very, very kissable.’ And he kisses her on her cheek, twice, loudly. ‘Don’t you sometimes look at your new baby sister and want to kiss her too?’
She looks at Tommy from the sides of her eyes. ‘Yes, Laura’s cute,’ she admits.
‘Can you forgive him?’ Shane asks.
She stares mutinously at Shane. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘All right then. Think about it while you have lunch.’ He turns his gaze to his nephew. ‘Tommy, what do you say when you accidentally hurt someone?’
‘Sorry,’ he pipes up immediately.
‘Good boy. Now, why don’t we all go into the kitchen and have some lunch?’
Tommy, relieved that he is not going to be punished, nods eagerly.
‘Who’s that?’ Liliana asks, noticing me for the first time.
‘That’s Snow. Say hello.’
‘Hello, Snow,’ she says, wiping her tears, her rage forgotten.
‘Hi, what’s your name?’ I ask with a smile, simply because I want to hear her tell me her new name.
‘Margarite Hum Loo,’ she replies solemnly.
‘That’s a pretty name. What does it mean?’ I ask equally solemnly.
‘It doesn’t mean anything. I just like it because it reminds me of a seahorse, or a mermaid, I’m not sure which yet.’
I smile at the purity of her innocence. It’s been a long time since I was in the presence of children. It is like bathing my soul in clear, pure spring water. It makes this morning’s news even sweeter.
I turn to Tommy. ‘Hello, Tommy.’
‘Hello,’ Tommy says shyly.
‘He’s a cry-baby. He cries all the time,’ Liliana denounces scornfully.
‘Excuse me,’ Shane interrupts, ‘but you used to cry when you were his age too.’
‘I only cried for milk; he cries for everything.’
Both Shane and I crack up.
‘Are you Uncle Shane’s girlfriend?’ Liliana demands suddenly.
I look at Shane, but he just looks at me innocently.
I clear my throat. ‘I’m Uncle Shane’s friend,’ I say primly.
‘Don’t you want to be Uncle Shane’s girlfriend?’ she asks curiously.
I feel myself flush and Shane grins evilly. ‘Answer the child then.’
‘Well,’ I say.
‘I know what. You can marry him if you want and then you can kiss like mummies and daddies.’
Shane bursts out laughing, and even I have to smile.
The next hour is the best fun I’ve had in years. Shane and I prepare thick homemade fish fingers that Liliana’s mother has sent, shelled peas, and mashed potatoes. The kids are a barrel of laughs, but my first impression of Tommy as a helplessly little baby is quickly dispelled. He turns out to be the naughtiest little imp.
After lunch, Shane puts on the Whip/Nae Nae record and Liliana, who knows all the moves, starts dancing. Disgusted with the noise and activity, the cat retreats into the kitchen.
‘Again,’ Liliana cries when the track ends.
God knows how, but on the third run the bossy boots manages to make both Shane and I join in. I have been out of circulation for so long, I don’t know any of the steps, but Shane, like Liliana, knows them all. He looks real good doing it too.
We all stop when the phone rings.
‘Can I answer it, Uncle Shane?’ Liliana asks.
‘Go on. It’s probably your daddy anyway.’
She rushes to the phone, picks it up, and says, ‘Hello, Margarite Hum Loo speaking.’
‘Daddeeeeee,’ she squeals. She listens for a while, then asks, ‘What time are you coming? OK. Hi, Mummy. Yes, I was very, very good. Tommy wasn’t, though. He banged my head really hard. On purpose. I was very brave. There was a very big egg on my head, but it’s gone down now.’
I turn toward Shane with widened eyes at the lies she was telling.
‘Don’t worry, everybody knows what a terrible shit-stirrer she is,’ he whispers with a wink.
Her mother must have asked about lunch because she says, ‘Yes. Fish fingers, mashed potatoes, and peas.’ She swivels her eyes toward me. ‘No, but Uncle Shane’s girlfriend is here. Yeah. Yeah. I don’t know.’ She takes a big breath. ‘Mummy, did you buy anything nice for me? Yay! OK, see you soon. I love you, Mummy. Bye, bye.’ She puts the phone down and skips over to us.
‘Mummy and Daddy are coming.’
‘I guess I’d better go,’ I say.
‘You don’t have to,’ Shane says immediately.
‘No, I should go. It’s getting late.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ I say with a smile.
‘I’ll call you a cab.’
‘Thanks, Shane.’
In less than five minutes, the cab calls up that he is waiting downstairs.
‘I really enjoyed my time here,’ I say.
‘Hold on. We’ll all come down with you.’
So, all of us pile into the lift and go down. As Shane shuts the door of the taxi, I see a silver Bentley drive into the forecourt. I turn back to watch it, and I see a tall man with very similar coloring to Shane, and a beautiful woman with a slightly Oriental feel to her features get out of the car. The woman is holding a baby in her arms and Liliana is jumping up and down with excitement. As soon as Shane lets go of her little hand, she races to her father and throws herself at him. He catches her, lifts her high into the air, and whirls around while she squeals with delight.
Then the taxi turns into the road and I can no longer see them.
Nine
SNOW
It is nearly 7.00 p.m. and the light that fills my apartment is livid and deep, half storm-purple and half the fiery orange eyes of a hawk. I’ve been wandering aimlessly within these walls
ever since I returned from Shane’s house. Hearing myself breathe. Jumping at the sound of the water in the pipes.
Feeling something. Dread and excitement.
A hot, damp wind pushes in through the window and I stop and gaze at my surroundings as if seeing it all for the first time. Everything is still and silent and bland. There are no cherished paintings, family photographs, or lovingly collected little objects of beauty. The walls are magnolia, the furniture is plain and brown, and it is all as clinically clean as an ICU unit in a hospital.
Which is strange considering that this place has been my salvation, my solace, and my sanctuary. My hiding place from the world outside. The world that is always waiting to hurt me. I listen to the silence, and it feels heavy and oppressive.
I turn my thoughts to little Liliana, the shit-stirrer.
‘Margarite Hum Loo,’ I whisper, and just saying her made-up name aloud in the stillness makes me chuckle.
I try to imagine her in her own home with her parents. It is clear that they adore her. The image that comes to my mind seems warm, bright, full of laughter, and infused with the smell of Liliana and her mother baking a new batch of cookies.
I think of Shane. Of course, he will not be at home now. He will probably be in Eden. I try to picture him walking around, talking, laughing, and I feel sad that I am not part of his life. I realize I miss his mischievous sense of humor, his handsome face, his wolfish grin, and his warm, sparkling eyes.
But I stop myself short. I cannot be part of his life. No matter what it looked like this afternoon, he is a playboy through and through. I saw that a mile off. No one that good-looking can be trusted. This is just a flirtation for him. Soon he will be gone. Looking for greener pastures.
My thoughts inevitably return to my mother. She would be so disapproving if she ever met Shane. Not that she ever will, of course. She always wanted her children to marry into money.
‘What can you do with good looks?’ she used to say. ‘You can’t eat them. They won’t pay the bills. All they are is endless trouble. Finding phone numbers in their pockets, going through their credit card bills, and worrying every time they’re a little late home.’
So my sister, Catherine, married into money.
Beautiful Beast (Gypsy Heroes) Page 5