by Matt Whyman
And reveal just how much debt I’m in? Angelica thought to herself. He’d slay me.
‘Titus has his own concerns,’ she said instead, and directed OIeg to the bathroom in case he had forgotten.
‘Titus should relax about Sasha,’ he said. ‘At the moment he’s just driving her into the arms of this boy.’
Oleg stopped and looked around at his daughter-in-law. Angelica had been referring to the fact that Titus was preoccupied with work. Even so, Oleg had a point. The last time Titus tried to address the situation with his eldest daughter, Sasha had left the table early.
‘Did she tell you that he’s invited her over for supper?’ she said. ‘A vegetarian meal.’
‘So, it’ll give her wind all evening. Is that the worst thing that can happen? Let the girl learn from the experience.’
Grandpa shuffled into the bathroom. As he turned to close the door, he found Angelica looking at him thoughtfully.
‘Titus is just scared that his little girl is growing up.’ She gestured at the window overlooking the park and the city beyond. ‘It’s a big bad world out there.’
‘Sometimes it feels as if I can’t breathe at home,’ complained Sasha later that day. She looked at the ground, which was some way down, and shook her head. ‘My dad is such an asshole. Who put him in charge of all the oxygen, eh?’
Sasha Savage was sitting alongside her two closest friends on the back of a ramp at the skate park. Sasha, Maisy and Faria came out here at lunch breaks just to get away from it all. The canteen was always packed with Years 7 and 8. Even if the girls were starving hungry, the shrieking and the smell of egg, farts and crisps was enough to persuade them to find some space. It meant Faria could light up while Sasha could air her problems.
‘What’s he done now?’ asked Maisy, a pretty, cheery girl whose manner served her well in her Saturday job as a waitress.
Sasha looked across at her. At that hour, the sun was at its brightest. She shielded her eyes with her hand before answering.
‘It’s Jack,’ she said. ‘Dad hates him.’
‘How can anyone hate Jack?’ asked Maisy. ‘He drives his own car and everything.’
‘Anyway, why is your old man so upset?’ This was Faria, whose gaze was locked on the school buildings as she pulled on the cigarette hidden in the palm of her hand.
‘It’s his new default position.’ Sasha checked her bag to see if she had packed her sunglasses. She sighed to herself, but not just because she had forgotten. ‘They haven’t even met.’
‘Typical,’ said Maisy. ‘Bloody dads!’
‘Jack’s cooking for me this weekend. All properly romantic and everything. His parents are out, so it’s a really good chance for us to get to know each other, only Dad has decided that I’d be placing my life in danger by dining alone with him.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Faria. ‘It’s not like Jack’s going to feast on your liver and spleen.’
Sasha returned her attention to the ground, quietly wishing she had some shades to hide behind. Behind them, a couple of lads who’d left school the year before were slamming from one side of the ramp to the other on skateboards. One worked evenings at the Cheepie Chicken takeaway. The other had been rejected by the army. None of the girls paid them any attention whatsoever.
‘So, what are you going to do?’ asked Maisy.
‘I wouldn’t want to let Jack down this soon in your relationship,’ warned Faria, before sucking on the cigarette like an asthmatic with an inhaler in the midst of an attack. ‘There are girls out there who would literally kill for a piece of him,’ she finished, on exhaling. ‘Let’s just say that if you fail to make it to his supper at the weekend I don’t suppose he’ll be dining alone.’ Faria took another hit on her hidden cigarette, seemingly unaware that Sasha was looking at her incredulously.
‘Jack wouldn’t cheat on me,’ she said eventually. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’
7
In her teens, Lulabelle Hart had crossed catwalks from London to Milan. Her height, frame and freckles were perfectly suited for modelling, as was her tumbling red hair that she had learned to flick over her shoulder just as the camera shutter opened. For several years, Lulabelle lived a lifestyle that many would envy. Then the next generation of girls began to attract the attention of designers and magazine editors, and slowly the work took a slide. Now in her mid-twenties, Lulabelle’s last fashion shoot featured clothes most people had since passed on to the charity shop. Still, her agent continued to find her work, and though she no longer graced front covers you could still find her advertising sofas and conservatories in the back pages. Sadly, Lulabelle’s A-list days were long gone. What remained was her attitude.
‘Explain this to me,’ she said, having just swept into the Savage house on the morning of the shoot. She was standing in the front room, where a crew worked hard to set up lights and cameras. The shoot, an advert for a plug-in air freshener, required Lulabelle to play the role of a beautiful but harassed mother who finds escape in the synthetic aroma of a tropical seashore. Lately, Lulabelle had played a lot of beautiful but harassed mothers. Given her dislike of other people’s children touching surfaces and door handles, she found it all too depressing for words. ‘What is that?’
‘What is what?’ asked the production manager, a young woman with a clipboard and earpiece. She turned to see what Lulabelle was looking at. ‘It’s a mirror,’ she said, and stood beside the model to admire the framed vintage glass that hung above the fireplace. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? A work of art.’
Lulabelle leaned forward, narrowing her eyes.
‘But it’s mottled and blotchy.’
‘It’s antique. That’s what happens. The silver backing peels away from the glass over time.’
Puzzled by this, Lulabelle turned to address the production manager directly.
‘What’s the point of a mirror when you can’t see your own reflection?’
Ivan Savage peered through a crack in the door. He watched the model in conversation with the production manager, and wondered who would be first to see the dead vole he had planted in the grate of the fireplace. He had found the creature in the yard that morning, disembowelled and abandoned by next door’s cat, and slipped it in just as his mother finished cleaning. Ivan held his breath, waiting for the first one to shriek, only to exhale in disappointment as several crew members placed a large flood lamp right in front of the fireplace. It was a shame because the cat had done a great job in teasing out the vital organs from the mouse, as well as removing its head.
‘Ivan! Come away from there.’ From the top of the stairs, Angelica Savage was forced to hiss at her son one more time before he closed the door. ‘We’re not here to disturb them!’
‘I’m bored already,’ he complained, and made his way back to the landing. ‘There’s nothing to do.’
‘You say that every time.’ Angelica ruffled his hair as he passed. ‘It’s only for the day.’
As Ivan sauntered by, Sasha emerged from her bedroom. She was wearing jeans and a capped T-shirt, with her hair scraped back in a band. It was clear that she’d made no big effort to dress. That, she hoped, would come later.
‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked, and looked nervously at her mother.
‘In his study. Working.’
‘But it’s a Saturday,’ said Sasha.
‘He has a lot on right now.’
‘I really need to speak to him about this evening.’
Angelica tipped her head, appraising her daughter.
‘This boy, Jack … is he important to you?’
Sasha looked a little unsure.
‘It’s just he’s my first,’ she said, and looked to the floorboards for a moment. ‘I mean my first, you know … boyfriend. I just want to see how it goes for now.’
Angelica met her gaze once more with a smile. Sasha was certainly flowering, but even she could see that her daughter wasn’t set to lose her head with this young man. If anything, she sounded as if she wa
s discovering for herself that romance wasn’t always a fairy tale.
‘Then talk to your father calmly, like a grown-up,’ she told her. ‘I’m sure he can spare you a moment.’
Downstairs, Lulabelle Hart sat on a stool at the breakfast bar. She wasn’t there to eat, despite the offer of a bacon sandwich from the catering manager brought in to feed the cast and crew. Lulabelle didn’t really do food at this hour. Ever since she found herself in competition for modelling jobs, meals had become something she felt the need to control. Just then, the smell of eggs in the pan made her mouth moisten. Starting the day with a glass of warm water and a sprig of mint just didn’t compare. Still, it meant come lunchtime she would earn the right to make the most of what was on offer. Until then, Lulabelle closed her eyes and tipped her head back so the make-up artist could work.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’ the catering manager asked one more time, as he loaded the plates on the breakfast bar.
‘I’m fine,’ said Lulabelle, as a foundation brush whisked over her face. ‘Don’t torment me.’
Her response was so abrupt it left an awkward silence in the kitchen. It meant when footsteps creaked overhead, everybody heard.
‘Someone’s on the prowl,’ said the make-up artist.
‘Who lives here?’ asked Lulabelle. ‘That mirror is just wrong.’
‘Well, they like to cook,’ observed the catering manager. ‘Kitchens don’t come much classier than this.’
Lulabelle eyed the display of knives. They clung to a magnetic strip above a butcher’s block, and ranged in shape and size.
‘It’s just showing off,’ she said, as if to correct him. ‘I mean, how many blades do you need?’
‘Judging by the grooves in the block,’ said the catering manager, who had crossed the floor for a closer inspection. ‘I’d say they make full use of them all.’
This was a first for Titus Savage. Normally, the ground floor of the house would be hired out during the working week. It meant he could steer clear all day, forget about the intrusion, and then return from the office to find his wife happy and everything as it should be.
Now he found himself under the same roof as a film crew. Just thinking about them poking about down there made his temples throb. What’s more, he had work to do. A lot of it. If the takeover was going to happen, he needed to go through reams of documents to be sure everything was covered. Normally at weekends, Titus liked to close the door and spend time with his family. Instead, he faced a day of hell.
‘Dad, can I talk to you?’
Sasha had been sure to knock at the study door first. Even though it was wide open, she wanted to do everything right this time.
‘Honey, can it wait?’ asked Titus, without looking around from his desk.
‘Please? It won’t take a moment.’
Titus glanced over his shoulder, sighed to himself and then swivelled around in his chair.
‘So long as it doesn’t end in slamming doors,’ he said. ‘I’m too old for strops.’
Sasha smiled, embarrassed, and headed across to the window. It looked out over the back garden. From this viewpoint it was striking just how much better the plants and flowers thrived compared to neighbouring plots. Mindful of her grandfather’s advice, Sasha took a deep breath and hoped for the best.
‘I’m thinking it might be good if you met Jack after all,’ she said. ‘Just so you can see what he’s like.’
‘There’s no need,’ replied Titus, sounding disappointed. ‘I already have a good idea.’
Sasha reminded herself to stay calm.
‘When Ivan first blabbed that I was going out with him,’ she said, ‘you suggested that I invite him round.’
‘That was before,’ said Titus gruffly.
‘Before you found out he was a vegetarian?’ She glanced at her father, found him staring at his desk but nodding at the same time. Sasha had been ready for this response, however.
‘What if he was black?’ she asked cautiously, facing the window once more. ‘Asian or Chinese? Would you still refuse to let him in the house?’
‘Of course not. Honey …’
‘It’s still prejudice, Dad,’ she continued, finding her voice now. ‘You’re judging someone before you’ve got to know them.’
An awkward silence opened out between them. Titus had always considered himself to be a fair man. This accusation, from his own daughter, hurt him deeply.
‘Is that all you came to say?’ he asked.
‘I was also hoping we could talk about this evening,’ she began, facing him briefly one more time. ‘It would mean such a lot to me if you let me go.’
The way she phrased this brought a catch to his throat. Letting go at some point was all part of raising children. Not just for a couple of hours, but when they came to leave forever.
‘It’s difficult,’ he began, and rose from his chair. ‘We have traditions in this family. It’s what makes us strong. To bring a fruit-picker into the fold would risk destroying everything.’
‘I don’t want to marry Jack,’ she said, and turned to face him with both arms spread. ‘It’s just supper.’
Titus drew breath, only to respond with what sounded to Sasha like a long sigh of resignation. Just then, Titus realised that he needed to back off. If he didn’t, he really could risk losing her.
‘I want you back by ten o’clock,’ he told her warily. ‘Keep your mobile with you. If you’re worried at any time then call me, understood?’
‘Understood,’ she said, beaming at her father. ‘But you don’t have to worry. He’s a vegetarian, not a sex offender. There’s a difference.’
Before he could reply, Sasha skipped over, planted a kiss on his cheek, and then left him alone in the study. Titus watched her disappear. He gazed at the open door for a moment.
‘There may well be a difference,’ he muttered to himself, ‘but both are inexcusable.’
8
On an empty stomach, Lulabelle Hart could be somewhat fractious. Given her dietary habits, it was a mood that often lasted for much of the day. That morning, fuelled by a second glass of warm water (and a grape she had plucked from the fruit bowl in a moment of temptation) her performance was professional but underscored by a very short temper indeed.
‘Yes, we can try the lighting in a different way,’ she replied to the shoot’s director, a diplomatic and gifted helmsman who was simply trying to get the best from his cast. ‘Although I had expected to be working with a crew who could get that right first time.’
To be fair to Lulabelle, she could pose as well as she could swagger and strut. She just pushed the boundaries when it came to being civil. Approaching lunchtime, the poor props guy had been forced to empty the air freshener and fill it with a sample from Lulabelle’s perfume atomiser, before she ‘blew chunks into the camera lens’.
‘OK, let’s break for lunch,’ announced the director, sensing that he might need to turn down the emotional temperature. ‘Thirty minutes, everybody!’
While the cast and crew worked on the shoot in the front room, the catering manager had been busy in the kitchen. When everyone filed through, they found a buffet on the table with dishes appealing to every taste. Lulabelle wasn’t the first in line. The transport guys got in before her, but she was close behind. Without word, she began to fill her paper plate until there was no room for anything else. She went for the lime shrimp tacos, the fettuccine with chicken and sun-dried tomatoes, a slice of courgette and goat’s cheese tart, a wedge from the pistachio and pork pie, several scoops of beetroot and couscous salad, two bread rolls, four individually wrapped, reduced-fat butter pats and three super-chocolate cupcakes. Nobody liked to comment, of course. Everyone was hungry after such an early start. Still, it didn’t go unnoticed when Lulabelle took herself to a chair overlooking the garden that her lunch was less of a snack and more of a banquet. It took her the full half-hour to clear the plate. This was partly down to the fact that she spent much of it on a call to her agent.
‘The catwalk work,’ she was heard to say, still chewing on a Thai fried rice ball. ‘It’s why I signed with you … yes, I realise my career has matured, but there has to be more on offer than … well, this.’
As a result of the exchange, most of the crew returned to work fully expecting Lulabelle to be difficult, abrupt and even outright rude. Instead, she performed three further set-ups without complaint. She was also witty and even motivational with the child actress when the afternoon lull set in. On the last take, following a nod from the marketing lady sitting quietly in the corner, the director began a round of applause directed at Lulabelle.
‘You were brilliant,’ he told her. ‘The product will fly.’
With only some close ups of the air freshener left to shoot, Lulabelle asked politely if she could now leave the set. The make-up artist offered to cleanse her face, but by all accounts she was in too much of a hurry. She seemed happy, they said, if a little troubled, like someone who was questioning whether they had left the iron on before setting out for work that day.
Having thanked every crew member, Lulabelle collected her coat and left the front room. She closed the door behind her, but instead of leaving the house she headed straight for the toilet at the far end of the hallway. As she reached for the handle, the sound of the bolt withdrawing on the inside caused her to take a step back. Then the door opened outwards and the lighting man appeared. He seemed surprised to find anyone waiting, and hurried away without making eye contact. Unconcerned, Lulabelle took his place in the toilet, only to come right out again with her face pinched in an expression of utter disgust. Good grief, what had he been eating? There was no way she could bear to go in there for at least ten minutes. The way she felt just then, that was ten minutes too long. Which was what persuaded her to take to the stairs and find another bathroom.
Ivan Savage did not enjoy killing time. He liked to keep busy. That morning, having spent an hour battling zombies in his bedroom, the boy grew tired of videogames and turned his mind to other matters.