‘Gull?’ she said. ‘Do you know where we got most of our money?’
Gulliver paused in mid-bite and gazed at her. Cleary, this was not the usual kind of question his mother asked. He swallowed and answered honestly, but warily. ‘From Frank?’
‘What makes you say that?’ said Aishe.
Gulliver shrugged. ‘You own the house, and I don’t remember you ever having a job that would make you enough money to buy it. I always figured Frank must have left you some.’
So he had been thinking about it, Aishe concluded. Or — and this idea irritated her beyond belief — he had been discussing it with Benedict.
‘Did you work that out on your own?’
‘What do you mean?’
She couldn’t bring herself to ask directly. ‘Did you talk about it with somebody?’
Gulliver stared at her. ‘Like who?’ Then he twigged, and shook his head. ‘Nope.’
Aishe pulled a banana out of the lunch bag and began to casually peel it. ‘What do you two talk about then?’
‘You know.’ Gulliver stared out over the lake to the far side, where a hawk was wheeling lazily over the tops of the trees, hoping for some unwary small mammal to show itself. ‘Stuff.’
The day was clear and bright but Aishe felt exactly as if a cartoon storm cloud was hovering just above her head. She felt her temper surge, but knew that it would be unfair to take it out on Gulliver. Instead, she bit down hard on the banana in a way that would have caused any watching male a sharp intake of breath.
‘What kind of stuff?’
Her voice was indistinct through the banana. But Gulliver heard her well enough. Having a mother like Aishe, whose temperament could fluctuate as wildly as a politician’s popularity, Gulliver had spent his life learning to be quietly observant. An ability to spot danger brewing early was the best way to ensure you weren’t around when it boiled over. He’d seen from day one how his mother reacted to Benedict, and because he personally liked his tutor very much, he’d monitored the dynamic between them, wanting to be ready if it blew up into something more serious, more terminal.
Over time, Gulliver had come to detect another note, a subtle bass-line beneath the surface refrain of her antagonism. It had added a keener edge to his observations — something was charging the air between his mother and Benedict, and instinct told him it would be prudent to figure out what it was. So the instant she asked more than one question about Benedict, all his senses went on high alert. But, instinct also told him, it wouldn’t pay to let her know that.
‘Music stuff,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Shit we see on the internet. Things like that.’
‘Does he talk about himself?’
Hoo-boy, thought Gulliver. This was definitely getting interesting.
‘Nope, not really.’ He pulled a water bottle from the bag and took a swig. ‘He tells me a bit about his school sometimes.’
‘Eton, right?’
Gulliver frowned. ‘No, it wasn’t Eton. What’s another one?’
‘Jesus, I’m hardly the expert on English public schools. I don’t know — Harrow?’
‘Nope. Started with W, I think.’
‘Oh well, who cares?’ Aishe stuffed the banana peel roughly back into the bag. ‘It’s not like I give a damn.’
‘It sounded really good,’ said Gulliver. ‘Nothing like schools here.’
‘That’s because the schools here aren’t breeding grounds for perverts and pederasts,’ remarked Aishe tartly.
‘What’s a pederast?’
‘Why don’t you ask Benedict? He obviously knows everything.’
Once again, Gulliver heard the twang of that underlying bass-note. What was it? Did she just feel intimidated by Benedict? Gulliver knew his mother could be defensive about her lack of schooling. Or was it something else? Something quite different?
Gulliver decided to take a big risk. ‘OK, I’ll ask him when he comes to rock school. If he doesn’t know, I’ll ask Izzy. She’s lived in England.’
Aishe paused in the act of removing the lid from her own water bottle. ‘Izzy?’
‘She’s another nanny. For some friend of Harry’s mum, or something like that.’
Jesus, thought Aishe, I could get better quality information by trying to communicate telepathically with that hawk over there! But Gulliver was already looking at her slightly askance, and Aishe knew she was pushing it by asking so many questions. It’s not his fault that he’s fourteen and can’t string a sentence together, Aishe reminded herself.
But Izzy? Who the fuck was Izzy? And what the fuck-shitty-fuck was she doing with Benedict? At her own son’s rock school, no less. Benedict had never invited her to come to Gulliver’s rock school with him.
A small voice in the back of Aishe’s mind said: your plan to be more intimate with him has been a dismal failure — you do know that, don’t you? You had your chance that Sunday and you blew it. Blew it like Hurricane Katrina. And he’s been keeping his distance ever since. Didn’t come round last time Gulliver was out, did he? You know he didn’t, because you waited for him. Waited all afternoon.
Shut up, Aishe ordered the voice. You don’t know that’s the reason he didn’t come around. And besides, I told him more than I’ve ever told anyone before. So stick that in your big fat crevice and smoke it!
You told him nothing, said the voice. And then you told him he wasn’t man enough for you. He bared his soul and you knocked him onto his rear end. Again. He may be young but he doesn’t lack pride. And despite what you’ve always thought, it looks like he’s not so desperate, either.
I hate you, said Aishe. I’m glad you’re dead.
In her head, the voice faded out, chuckling. Aishe felt an urge to go find something to hurt.
But then she looked at Gulliver and the urge instantly evaporated. There he was, her boy. Her young man, really — there was no way round it. She noted the way his back was broadening across the shoulders, the way his torso now tapered down to slim hips instead of a chubby roll above his waistband. She saw how long his legs were — he had grown even in the last couple of months, and would soon need new jeans. His face had lengthened, too, chin and nose now both more prominent. Jonas’ nose, she observed a little reluctantly, but she supposed she could give him that, as everything else about Gulliver was pure Herne. He had her eyes, the unruly dark red hair of his great-uncle, and a look that reminded Aishe of Anselo and, before him, her father. Both men had the same handsome, well-shaped mouth that on Anselo could be a little sulky and on her father forbiddingly stern, but which became mobile and alive when either was amused.
Her father was amused more often than Anselo, thought Aishe. And a lot of the time, the cause was my brother’s seriousness. Poor Anse, she thought. You could never tell when Dad was pulling your leg. He did it because he wanted you to relax and enjoy life more, but he only succeeded in winding you up like a top.
Dad would have loved Gulliver, she thought, and she felt a catch in her throat. Gulliver is exactly the kind of young man he admired: thoughtful, self-contained, easy in his own skin. Dad liked energy, too, but wanted it to be productively directed; he despaired at my oldest brothers’ bone-headed bulldozer approach to life. Though I can guarantee they’ve calmed down now, thought Aishe. Forced to by their ball-busting wives.
The saddest thing, thought Aishe, was that my older brothers were the only ones who had any chance to show Dad what they were made of. Anselo was just twelve when Dad died, and I wasn’t quite eleven. To Dad, we were still kids. He never saw us grow and mature. Never got to share our lives, our loves and losses. He would have loved it, she felt convinced, revelled in it. If there is a God, Aishe decided, he perpetrated an evil injustice when he took our father from us.
Aishe’s thoughts veered suddenly back to Benedict. He’d probably be relieved if his father died, she realised, and was surprised that the idea made her sad. I can’t imagine what it would be like to live starved of affection like that, she thought. But I suppose, she r
easoned, that what you’ve never had, you’ll never miss. Whereas twenty-two years on, my father’s loss still feels like someone plunging a fist into my chest and twisting the life out of my beating heart.
‘Whoa! Check it out.’
Gulliver was shoving her shoulder and pointing down at the lake.
‘That bird got a fish.’ He made a diving motion with his hand. ‘Zoomed down there like a jet fighter and straight into the water — bam! Came up with a fucking fish. Awesome!’
‘You’re swearing,’ Aishe pointed out. ‘I’m the only one allowed to swear in this family.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Gulliver beamed. ‘Awesome! I want to fish that way.’ He punched the air. ‘Like a boss!’
In her smiling, animated son, Aishe glimpsed both the young man he was and the small child he had been, and was gripped by an emotion so strong it forced the breath right out of her. He was the only reason she was doing this, she told herself. She needed to protect him. She needed to protect them both, what they had. That meant all threats must be neutralised. All.
‘How come Benedict gets to watch rock school?’ she said. ‘I thought there wasn’t enough room for parents?’
‘Benedict plays in a band with the guy who runs the school,’ said Gulliver. ‘You know, Eddie?’
‘The guy in his fifties? Wears the pork pie hat?’
‘Yeah. He and Benedict play in some blues combo. I think they have a regular gig in San Anselmo or some place.’ Gulliver squinted up into the sky as another bird crossed over above them, but it was only a blue jay. ‘Benedict helps out at the school sometimes,’ he continued, ‘when they’re short of teachers. That’s how I got in. He pulled a favour with Eddie.’
‘Why did you need a favour to get in?’ Aishe’s hackles rose on behalf of her child. ‘You’re really good.’
Gulliver nodded. ‘Thanks. But so is everyone else. There was a waiting list. Benedict got me bumped up.’
‘Hmph.’ Aishe had to acknowledge that this had been pretty good of Benedict.
‘Does this Izzy person play too?’ she said after a moment.
‘Sings,’ replied Gulliver.
Aishe didn’t have to ask to know that Izzy, whomever damn-her-to-hell she was, sang well.
‘So she’s a nanny, and she’s musical,’ said Aishe. ‘Chorus of Chim, Chim, Cher-ee, anyone?’
‘Yeah, we made that joke already,’ he said. ‘Benedict does a great impression of Dick Van Dyke’s crap Cockney accent.’
‘How do you know it’s crap?’ Aishe demanded. In her head, the word ‘we’ flashed like a faulty neon sign. ‘When have you ever heard a real Cockney? I’m from north London, don’t forget. There’s a difference.’
‘I’ve watched a bunch of Bob Hoskins movies,’ he replied. ‘And a few episodes of Eastenders.’ He gave his mother a sideways look. ‘Do you want to come to rock school?’
Aishe’s pride forbade her from answering honestly. ‘Wouldn’t want to cramp anyone’s musical style.’
‘We could give you a tambourine to shake,’ Gulliver said straight-faced. ‘I mean even you couldn’t fuck that up.’
Aishe wheeled, glowering, only to see that her son was grinning.
‘You mad?’ he said in the high, wheedling tone Aishe recognised as the one he and Benedict used when talking about the Troll meme.
‘If you’re not careful,’ she said, ‘I will turn up in my gold latex mini-dress — the one I used to go clubbing in, in the nineties.’
‘Sure, why not?’ Gulliver shrugged. ‘You’ll just have to be prepared for Eddie to follow you home. Probably on his knees.’
‘That’s a disturbing picture,’ Aishe said. ‘But I think I’m more disturbed that it came out of your head. You’re fourteen.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gulliver. ‘Not a kid any more.’
21
Michelle was on her guard. Aishe had steered the conversation around to Benedict, and Michelle strongly suspected it was but a short hop from there to Benedict and Izzy.
Under normal circumstances, Michelle would relish the opportunity to be completely honest. She was not afraid of a fight, even with Aishe. In fact, the more formidable the opponent, the more eager Michelle usually was to spar. But every day without Chad was sapping a little more from Michelle’s mojo, leaving her lonely, listless and disgruntled. Though it seemed as if Chad had been away for an eternity, he’d actually been gone less than two weeks — not even half the allotted time. Michelle hated to think what state she’d be in by the end. At this point, she lacked both the energy to pick a fight and the inclination to put Aishe offside. Now that Darrell had excommunicated her, Connie and Aishe were her only friends. Benedict had been true to his word, and while he didn’t seem to mind listening to Michelle moan about Chad, Chad’s mother and Darrell, he politely but firmly refused to discuss Aishe. Michelle could accept that — the boy was a genuine gentleman. What she found more frustrating was the fact he had also mentioned nothing about Izzy. Michelle knew he’d met her — he had been perfectly willing to show a newbie around the city and its environs — but she had no clue whether they’d hit it off, or whether they’d seen each other again.
Connie couldn’t help. She said that Becca had absolutely no interest in what her nanny did in her spare time; indeed, she found the whole concept that she might have a life of her own faintly repulsive. Connie had not had a chance to talk to Izzy herself, and Michelle could hardly ask Benedict because then it would be obvious he’d been set up.
The whole situation was most unsatisfying. The only upside, thought Michelle, was that if Aishe started to grill her, she could truthfully plead ignorance. Shame. Messing with people’s heads is so much more fun.
‘Apparently,’ Aishe was saying, ‘he plays in some blues band. They have a weekly gig in a bar up in San Anselmo. Want to go?’
Michelle silently noted the use of the word ‘apparently’. Did that mean Aishe and Benedict were not so close these days? Had the plan to break them up succeeded already? If so, how doubly frustrating — the major added bonus of this kind of scheme was a good dose of Schadenfreude. You couldn’t enjoy that if all the action went on behind the scenes.
‘I’m not much of a blues fan,’ said Michelle, ‘but a night out could be good. We never did get to have that drink, did we?’
‘No …’
Aishe was staring off into the middle distance. Michelle was dying to know what was on her mind.
‘I’ve got another friend who might like to come,’ said Michelle. ‘Would you object to a threesome?’
Aishe focused again, ‘Seriously?’
‘No,’ said Michelle. ‘She’s a she.’
‘Doesn’t necessarily alter the idea,’ said Aishe. She screwed up her face. ‘She’s not one of your mothers’ group, is she?’
‘Worse,’ said Michelle. ‘One of Chad’s colleagues’ wives.’
‘The shrivelled harpies from the drunken dinner? I thought they were shunning you as a social leper?’
‘All but one.’ said Michelle cheerfully. ‘I’m not sure she’s a blues fan, either. However, she has already demonstrated the potential to surprise. When were you thinking of going?’ Then she slumped in her chair. ‘Why do I bother to ask? As long as Gulliver can babysit, I’m free any time you choose.’
‘So what did you do for girls?’
Benedict threw Gulliver a startled glance. The boy seemed to be fully occupied with the maths programme on the computer. ‘When?’ he asked, cautiously.
Gulliver clicked the mouse. ‘When you were at school.’
‘There were no girls at my school. It was all boys.’
‘That’s what I mean. What did you do? Did you have to wait until you left?’
‘Right.’ Benedict nodded. ‘I have now grasped the gist. Although I warn you that I’ll be far too embarrassed to talk about this in any detail.’
‘Chicken.’
‘Too right!’ said Benedict.
‘If there weren’t any girls at your sc
hool, how did you meet them?’
‘The usual ways you meet people,’ said Benedict. ‘Several of my classmates had sisters, and they had their groups of friends. And there was a neighbouring girls’ school. Plenty of opportunities, really.’
‘So you had lots of girlfriends then?’
‘I took Emma Mowbray to the sixth-form dance,’ said Benedict, ‘and that is all I intend to tell you. Concentrate on your calculus.’
‘Mum says that English public schools breed pederasts,’ said Gulliver. ‘I looked up what that meant. Is it true?’
‘Your mother’s vocabulary is a damn sight more extensive than her sense of propriety,’ said Benedict. ‘No, of course it’s not true. I think women like your mother are more responsible for driving men to clandestine buggery than any English public school.’ He recovered himself. ‘Sorry. That was very bad form.’
Gulliver seemed not to have noticed. He gave the mouse another click and briefly pumped his fist in victory. ‘Yes! A hundred per cent. Like a boss!
Then he said, ‘Do you want to sleep with my mother?’
The question rendered Benedict speechless. His lips moved, but no words emerged.
Gulliver persisted. ‘Or are you after Izzy?’
The pink spots flamed in Benedict’s cheeks. ‘I am not discussing this with you,’ he managed to protest. ‘It’s completely inappropriate.’
‘She’s my mother,’ Gulliver pointed out. ‘I probably do have a right to know.’
The Not So Perfect Life of Mo Lawrence Page 18