The Ward

by S. L. Grey

  ‘Can’t do what?’

  ‘I can never be her.’ She pulls away from me now.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She was beautiful.’ I say nothing. ‘I… I can’t even look at myself. It’s… it’s like painting a… bloody pig with lipstick. It’s filthy. It’s disgusting. It’s not even making a monster. It’s just a stupid joke.’

  ‘What is?’ I know what she’s talking about, but what am I supposed to say? ‘What do you mean?’

  She looks up at me. ‘Oh, come on, Farrell! Josh. Whatever. Nobody’s ever going to believe I’m a model. I’m bloody ugly.’ She plants her face back into my shirt.

  Christ, this is all I need now. Lisa’s got to go with the fucking plan. There’s no way she can opt out now. If she loses focus, I’m dead.

  I’ve done this countless times before in the studio, preening the egos of unconfident girls. If only Lisa knew that even the swimsuit models have doubts. The biggest doubts. And the deepest habits to block them out.

  ‘You want to know what I see?’ I say, using the speech I’ve used a thousand times before. ‘I see a beautiful, sad woman. A woman who needs to look at herself and see what the world sees.’ I gently detach her arms and try to swivel her round to face the mirror set into the far side of the closet behind her. Lisa’s found the light switch that illuminates it. Katya used to spend hours there, polishing away every blemish, smoothing herself to perfection. ‘Take a look, Lisa. Really look.’

  She resists, I try to push harder, and she fights like a cat being forced into water. I let her go and she jumps up out of my grip with a feral squeal. She stands over me, her long legs planted into the floor, her back resolutely towards the mirror. She’s wearing a green T-shirt of mine and a pair of Katya’s baggy pink satin pyjama shorts. It’s a fucking awful ensemble.

  ‘That’s all I’ve been doing since I got here. I’ve been standing here, looking at myself in the mirror’ – she pulls a bundle of silk from a shelf and throws it at me – ‘tearing your beautiful girlfriend’s beautiful clothes.’

  ‘Hang on—’

  ‘Don’t you get it, Farrell? I’m a Fat. Ugly. Pig. What the… fuck… are you doing with me?’

  I’ve never seen Lisa this worked up, but anger really suits her. It makes her taller, tauter, sexier somehow. I was right all along. There’s something to work with here.

  I stand up. ‘It’s your turn to listen to me, Lisa.’ I grab her shoulders, spin her to face the mirror, then clamp her around the chest with my arm. She’s writhing and thrashing her head around as if I’m trying to force poison down her throat.

  ‘What do you see?’ I demand. ‘What do you see?’

  She realises that I’m not going to release her and stops struggling. In the mirror, I see her open her eyes. She looks at us for a moment, expressionless. Then she closes her eyes again and goes limp and cold. I let her go. Without a word, she turns and leaves the closet. She pulls some tracksuit pants and a sweater out of my chest of drawers, runs into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. I hear the shower spurting.

  Fuck. She’s insane; she’s never going to believe the truth.

  But the fact remains, I can’t have her drifting around in baggies. She’s got to be Katya, until Katya leaves for South America. If she doesn’t get her shit together, I’m finished. We’re supposed to be having dinner with Glenn in two days. If she acts like this, it’s over.

  I stand there for a moment and look at myself in the mirror. I look okay, better than most, I’d say. I’m toned, I keep my skin healthy. I trim my nails and cut my hair. I know my failings too. But I have a realistic picture of myself.

  And no matter how messed up the girls at work are, whatever the reasons, they always come back to work. Lisa has got to come back to work.

  I follow her into the bathroom. She can’t see me through the cubicle glass but I let her know I’m there. ‘Lisa,’ I say.

  Nothing.

  ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Farrell? Please get out.’ Her voice is tense.

  ‘No.’ A moment more, then the water goes off. Her dark-blonde hair trails down heat-pink skin. She plucks the towel from the top of the shower door and wraps herself in it. Finally she steps out of the shower. Her face is rigid as she grabs another towel from the rail, turns her back and winds her hair into it.

  ‘Will you let me get dressed?’ she asks in a horrible, toneless voice.

  I do the only thing I can. I pull her towards me and kiss her on the mouth. I expect her to flinch away, but I’m surprised at how her body relaxes. Her tongue tentatively slips inside my mouth. Then she stops herself, goes rigid, and I draw her closer and move my hands over her back and sides. A brief hesitation, but soon her hands follow as if she’s learning from me.

  I open my eyes for a second and see Lisa gazing into the mirror over my shoulder with a look of surprise in her eyes. She doesn’t look away.

  The towel drops to the floor and she wraps one of her legs around my back and sinks back against the shower stall.

  That’s the spirit, Lisa.

  Chapter 24

  LISA

  An endless line of rush-hour traffic stretches in front of us, and we’re forced to crawl along bumper to bumper. I relax my grip on the present on my lap. My sweaty palms have left blotch marks on the wrapping paper, and it’s beginning to look tatty and crumpled.

  I just want this evening to be over. The dread is making me feel physically sick, and Farrell’s not doing much better. He’s clutching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles shine white, and dark circles bruise the skin around his eyes. Neither of us got much sleep last night. After we’d made love, we both lay staring at the ceiling, lost in our own thoughts, and instead of spooning his body against mine like he did the night before, he turned away from me and curled into himself.

  ‘Now remember,’ he says, as a minibus taxi that’s been haring along the hard shoulder cuts in front of us, ‘the sister, Marina, is the smartest of the lot of them and she’s always been jealous of you – of Katya – so just watch yourself around her. I’ll try to keep the conversation neutral. Katya wasn’t one for small talk anyway.’

  ‘What does she look like? Marina, I mean.’

  ‘God. She’s a dog. Nothing like Kay. Kay got all the looks. And Clive, her husband, is a complete prick.’

  ‘What does Marina do for a living?’

  Farrell shrugs. ‘They’re both in investment banking or some shit. And June’s mother will probably also be there. They all call her Gran-Gran. You don’t have to worry about her. She’s senile. They wheel her out of hospital every now and then on special occasions.’

  For the thousandth time I wish we could have come up with an excuse. But Farrell’s adamant that it would look weird if we didn’t show up.

  My stomach cramps. ‘God, Farrell. I don’t think I can do this.’

  He slaps the steering wheel. ‘How many more times? Call me Josh.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  He glances at me, smiles apologetically, leans over and squeezes my knee. ‘No, I’m sorry, Lisa.’ I smile back at him. I’m always expecting him to slip up and call me Katya. But apart from that one time when he caught me crying he hasn’t, and little by little I’ve started to convince myself that it’s me he sees when he’s touching me late at night, and not her. He’s been patient with me. Caring and gentle. Nothing like the controlling man Noli described when she came to the apartment. She was probably just jealous. Probably wants Farrell for herself.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Farrell says. ‘I told Glenn you’re still feeling weak. Not yourself. We’ll show our faces and get out of there asap. And just think, after this is over, we can…’

  ‘We can what?’

  ‘We’ll be fine. It’s almost over.’

  He hasn’t mentioned his plan of shipping me – Katya – off to a shoot in South America again. I can’t squash the hope that he’ll let me stay. That he wants me to stay.

  I pull down the s
un visor and check my make-up and the dressing over my right cheek. It’s smaller than the one Farrell applied when Katya’s parents came to see me – her – on Monday. ‘Do I look okay?’

  ‘You look fine.’

  Farrell insisted I wear one of Katya’s long, floaty summer dresses and a pair of strappy high heels. The dress is slightly too tight around the chest, which doesn’t help my nervous nausea, but with a long-sleeved cardigan covering my fake-tanned arms it should be good enough.

  Farrell indicates, turns and draws to a stop at an intersection. A guy in a cabriolet next to us ogles me. Colour floods into my cheeks. I still can’t get used to being stared at. Yesterday’s trip to the Highgate Mall was an absolute nightmare. It was the first time I’d been out of the house and I didn’t realise just how much attention my new face would attract. It was like being under a microscope; strangers’ eyes tracking my every move. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. The relentless assessing looks – some pervy and greedy, but most jealous and bitter – sapped my strength and I had to slip into the ladies and lock myself into a stall to stifle a panic attack. I don’t know how I’m ever going to get used to it.

  You made your bed, Lisa. You made your choice.

  I’m getting better at smothering the Dr Meka voice and I push it out of my head. I don’t need that right now.

  ‘You think the present is okay?’ It had taken me ages to find something suitable, before I finally settled on a blue silk Christian Dior scarf that I thought would match June’s eyes.

  ‘I’m sure it’s perfect,’ Farrell says. We cruise into a wide, sloping road, leaving the clogged traffic behind. We pass a townhouse estate flanked by towering columns, a massive building that resembles the Parthenon and, next to a bright-orange hacienda house, the shell of a half-built townhouse, weeds forcing their fingers into the crumbling brickwork.

  Farrell draws up to a colossal pair of copper gates embedded in a massive wall topped by a nine-strand electric fence. A security guard with angry eyes emerges from his wooden booth and finally acknowledges us. The gates slide open, revealing a curving driveway leading up to an enormous Tuscan-style mansion surrounded by a manicured, emeraldgreen lawn. As we glide towards the house I catch the wink of blue from a swimming pool partially hidden behind the silhouettes of statues and towering palm trees. I picture Katya lounging by that pool; I imagine her perfect body sliding through that water.

  I’m totally out of my depth, and I fight to hold back the tears. How would it look if I arrived with mascara dribbling down my cheeks?

  Farrell parks behind a silver Jaguar and pats my knee. ‘Deep breath, Lisa. You can do this. You know you can.’

  ‘But what if…?’

  ‘Come on. Let’s get it over with. Don’t worry. Glenn will be half pissed by now anyway.’

  The museum-size front door slams opens and Glenn appears on the front step, clutching a half-full glass of whisky. He’s wearing a loose white shirt, the open neck showing off several gold chains, and he has a thatch of grey chest hair.

  ‘Kitty-Kat!’ he calls.

  Farrell steadies me as I totter up the steps on the too-high heels. Ignoring him completely, Glenn pulls me forward and wraps his arms around me. He stinks of whisky. I don’t like the way he squeezes my side. It’s too intimate and it’s all I can do not to squirm out of his grasp.

  ‘How’s my best girl?’ he breathes into my ear.

  Meaty arm still wrapped around my waist, he leads me inside. Oh my God. It’s an act of will to keep my mouth from dropping open. We’re in a double-volume hallway, the floor a gleaming expanse of white marble shot through with veins of shocking pink, the walls painted to look like crumbling plaster. A chandelier the size of a small car hangs from the ceiling, and a statue of Venus peeks from behind a plant pot spewing silk orchids. An enormous oil painting of a white stag gazing over fields of bright-green countryside dominates one entire wall.

  It’s beautiful.

  Glenn finally loosens his grip around my waist and steps back to assess me. ‘You’re looking better, Kitty-Kat. Knew you’d bounce back. It’s in the genes, my girl.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I whisper. I really really don’t want to say the word ‘Dad’. My father may not win any prizes for Dad of the Year, but it still feels like a betrayal.

  Glenn narrows his piggy eyes. ‘Why you still talking like that? You still sick?’

  Farrell nods. ‘I told you she wasn’t a hundred per cent, Glenn. She’s still got a touch of laryngitis.’

  ‘You taken her to a doctor?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, what sort of fucking quack is he?’ He points a ringed finger in Farrell’s face and his heavy gold bracelet jangles. ‘You’d better take her to June’s doctor, he’ll sort it out. I pay the fucker enough. June!’ he roars.

  There’s the skittering of heels on tiles, and June bustles through, looking flushed and exhausted. She’s wearing an apron over a sensible dress. ‘Oh, hello, Katya. Hello, Josh.’

  I make a move to approach her, but she keeps her distance.

  ‘What’s the name of your doctor?’ Glenn says to her.

  Before June can answer, a small black shape suddenly hurtles out of a doorway and rushes towards me, barking hysterically. I take a step back, almost twisting my ankle in the high heels.

  ‘Selebi!’ Glenn yells, grabbing the dog’s collar and yanking it back so hard that it yelps. ‘What the fuck’s got into you?’

  The dog wriggles and wheezes, its flat button eyes fixed on me.

  ‘Happy birthday, June,’ Farrell says, doing his best to divert attention from the dog.

  ‘Yes. Happy birthday,’ I echo.

  ‘Thank you—’

  ‘Lock your fucking dog up, June, for Christ sake,’ Glenn snaps.

  June immediately starts pulling the dog away. It whines and scrapes its claws over the marble, leaving a dribble of pee as it goes.

  ‘Let’s get you a drink, my girl,’ Glenn says, draping an arm over my shoulder.

  The lounge is even more opulent than the hallway. It’s packed with huge puffy white leather couches, a glass-and-gold coffee table, and countless ivory statues, mostly of naked nymphs holding jugs of water aloft.

  ‘What do you want, Kitty-Kat?’ Glenn says. ‘Some bubbly for my girl?’

  I nod. I’ll have to be careful not to drink too much. I’m not used to alcohol and I need to keep myself in check. Farrell catches my eye and smiles at me. He’s looking way more relaxed. I’m still worried about June’s frosty reception but for all I know she’s always like that. The knot in my stomach loosens slightly. Maybe it will be okay after all.

  Careful not to overbalance on the heels, I approach the mantelpiece. It’s covered with framed photographs of Katya, ranging in age from a fresh-faced and naturally beautiful teen to a series of recent bikini pics. There’s a single photograph of a small dark woman with Glenn’s piggy eyes, wearing a mortar board and triumphantly holding a degree certificate, who I assume must be the sister, Marina. Half hidden behind a blown-up shot of Katya posing on a ski slope, there’s a glossy seventies wedding photograph. A younger, thinner Glenn, wearing sideburns and a purple tux, grins into the shot, his arm wrapped around a slender dark-haired woman. I barely recognise June. She was beautiful once, and happy.

  ‘Josh. Help yourself to whisky,’ Glenn says tersely, popping a champagne cork.

  Glenn hands me a glass of champagne and I smile the Katya smile I’ve been practising. He clinks his glass against mine. ‘Here’s to you, Kitty-Kat,’ he says.

  June enters the lounge, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Can I get you a drink, June?’ Farrell says.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Glenn says, draining his own glass and refilling it.

  The Katya smile still glued to my face, I hand her the parcel. ‘I hope you like it.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you.’

  ‘Well, open it, Juney,’ Glenn says.

  She unwraps it carefully, folding the pap
er as if she’s planning to use it again. She runs the scarf through her fingers and glances at me in confusion.

  ‘I thought it would suit your colouring,’ I whisper. Dammit. Why hasn’t she said anything? Did I make a mistake? What if she never wears scarves?

  Then she finally fixes a smile onto her face. ‘How thoughtful. It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

  ‘And how’s Gran-Gran?’ Farrell asks June.

  ‘See for yourself,’ Glenn grumbles, waving his whisky glass at the corner of the room. I’ve been so preoccupied I haven’t noticed the elderly woman hidden behind a white leather recliner. June scuttles over to her and wheels her towards us. She’s curled in her wheelchair, her hands clawed in her lap, her head drooping to the side like a dying flower. Farrell nods meaningfully at me, and I step towards her.

  ‘Look who’s here, Mother,’ June says, adjusting the blanket and smoothing the sparse strands of the old woman’s hair.

  A chime rings out.

  ‘That’ll be Marina. Get the door, Josh,’ Glenn says. Farrell hesitates, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of leaving me alone. ‘Go on, man,’ Glenn snaps.

  Farrell shoots me a supportive glance, then hurries out.

  ‘Hello… Gran-Gran,’ I whisper, bending down to kiss a papery cheek. She smells of lavender and baby powder. She doesn’t react and I’m about to step back when she suddenly grips my wrist. She looks up at me, watery eyes fixed on my face. ‘Who are you?’ she croaks.

  Glenn sighs loudly. ‘It’s Katya, Gran-Gran,’ he says. ‘Your granddaughter.’

  ‘I’m not your gran, you cunt,’ she says in a clear, lucid voice, and then the life seems to blink out of her eyes again.

  June winces, but Glenn merely snorts and takes another slug of whisky. ‘Dementia’s getting worse,’ he says. ‘If that happens to me, shoot me in the fucking head.’ He roars with laughter.

  ‘Can we have that in writing?’ a gruff woman’s voice says behind me.

  I turn around. I recognise the dumpy, short-haired woman immediately from the photograph on the mantelpiece. She’s pregnant – probably six or seven months – and her belly protrudes in a plain white blouse from under her navy suit jacket. She’s followed by a small, round man who reminds me of a mole. He’s dressed in a dark suit, his short black hair is slicked to his scalp and he peers myopically through rimless glasses.