The Best Kind of Beautiful

by Frances Whiting

  ‘Are you all right?’ Albert asked. ‘You seen unusually . . . happy, Florence,’ and she knew in that moment that he had not seen her.

  ‘Fine,’ she answered. ‘Lovely morning,’ and then pushed her luck by adding, ‘How was your weekend?’

  ‘All right, I did a bit of gardening and I went to a party at the Bishops’ house, Avalon, you know the old Sisters of Mercy convent on the hill? They say the ghost of Sister Patricia still nicks biscuits from the kitchen.’

  So this was how he did it, Florence thought. This was how easily he covered his tracks. She was right. Albert never actually lied to her. Instead, he used details – the convent was haunted, the bride’s dress was frothy, the lake was ornamental, the author’s hat was problematic – as distractions, so that the listener didn’t notice what was missing.

  He was, she conceded, rather good at it.

  Albert was kneeling in front of the Christmas tree, gluing rings of a silver paper chain that had come apart. ‘It’s a bit fiddly,’ he grinned at her. There was something in his kneeling, the paper chain like a dainty silver necklace in his big, flat hands, that Florence found difficult to watch. She felt her eyes blink with the particular sharpness of unexpected tears.

  ‘I know Avalon,’ she answered, ‘but I’ve not been there myself. Mum and Dad used to go, when the Elliots had it. Mum said Rosalind Elliot kept a donkey there until the council made her get rid of it.’ She could do it too. Cover her tracks. Throw in some decoy details.

  ‘Carry on,’ she said brightly, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. Then she walked past Albert towards the Green Team’s office and put her hands to her eyes. It was all, she thought, a bit fiddly.

  12

  ‘Isolde?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Suki?’

  Florence frowned. Isolde’s use of her stage name had continued unabated since the first Hello 2000! rehearsal, and Isolde showed no signs of flagging. They were home from the last rehearsal, lying on opposite couches, Isolde’s legs flung over the end of hers, one arm trailing the floor.

  ‘I need your advice.’

  ‘Really?’ Isolde sprang from her supine position, her eyes on Florence. ‘Really?’ she repeated. ‘No one ever asks me for advice. You’ve never asked me for advice.’

  It was true. Issy lived her life haphazardly, as if she had just wandered into its frame. She seemed wholly unqualified to navigate it for herself, and even less so for others. There was no forward planning with Isolde, but there was a certain crisp decisiveness. Where other people vacillated, Isolde dived in; where Florence saw everything in palettes of colour, Isolde’s gaze was monochromatic. ‘What’s the big deal?’ she’d shrug. Black or white. Yes or no. Stay or go. Throw Albert Flowers a party, or not.

  Christmas activities had taken over both the library’s and the Green Team’s offices. Florence and Albert had not spent many hours in the Mount Bell forest at all, and when they had, it was not together. Most of Florence’s shifts had been alone, while Albert had been paired with a new recruit, a loose-limbed teenager called Gabriel who had made a fuss about wearing the uniform with his name on it. When Albert and Florence did meet, things were exactly as they always had been between them, which was to say their lies continued to fall so lightly from their lips, they barely felt them when they hit.

  Outside of work, Florence had spent hours dissecting conversations she’d had with Albert, parsing sentences for clues into his existence. She would wake from dreamy nights to sit up in bed, slide open the drawer of her bedside table, and jot down the name of someone she remembered Albert telling her about.

  Eighteenth birthday party, Megan Stewart. Party on boat at Mariner’s Harbour, Joseph and Jenny Jackson. Engagement party, the Coxes – son or daughter? Forty-year wedding anniversary, Mr and Mrs Davenport. Wedding, Simon and Siobhan Bishop, and the most recent entry, Book Launch, Cat Morrison.

  When she looked at the list, Florence felt like an intruder, scribbling stranger’s names down who were oblivious to her scrutiny. She felt like she was somehow spying on them. But Albert had mentioned he held Megan Stewart’s hair while she vomited into a pot plant, helped Mrs Davenport keep Mr Davenport relatively sober at their party by pouring him watered-down drinks when he began to wobble – a glaring clue she had missed – and given Cat Morrison her choice in headwear back.

  Surely at least some of them would like the chance to show him they had appreciated it?

  What she wanted Isolde to tell her was whether she should ask some of these people – not all of them, just those Albert appeared to have established a connection with; the Davenports, for example, had sent him a postcard from their holiday in Greece – to a small party for Albert. It was either a wonderful idea or a terrible one, and she needed Isolde to tell her which.

  Isolde’s eyes widened and narrowed as she listened, and when Florence had finished, Isolde leaned back on her elbows.

  ‘So, what you are telling me is that Albert has no friends and has created an entire other universe to make up for it, and also has an entirely different persona?’

  Florence nodded – it sounded far stranger when Isolde said it.

  ‘So, he’s basically you,’ Isolde said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re the same person. You both have very few friends to speak of, other identities that you actually have costumes for, and you both skulk around between two different lives.’ Isolde lay back down again on the couch, stretching her arms behind her. ‘And people think I’m the weird one in the family.’

  Florence laughed. ‘So is holding a party for him a wonderful idea or a terrible one?’

  Isolde briefly considered.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said, ‘but you’ll have to be really careful about the wording on the invitation. Don’t say, Please come to a party for Albert Flowers because he has no mates, and a dead brother who everyone liked more than him, you know?’

  Florence knew.

  ‘And maybe don’t mention the stutter thing.’

  Florence nodded. She hadn’t planned on mentioning the lack of friends. Or the stutter. Or the dead brother.

  ‘I’m just not sure who to invite, or how to get in contact with some of them,’ she said.

  ‘Didn’t you say he had a sister?’

  ‘Yes, Adelaide, her book club should be meeting at the library sometime this week.’

  ‘Well there you are,’ Isolde said. ‘Ask her.’

  ‘Really?’ Florence asked.

  ‘Really,’ Isolde answered.

  ‘Why do you think she’ll know?’ Florence asked.

  Isolde sat up again.

  ‘Because sisters know everything, Miss Suki,’ she smiled.

  *

  Adelaide Flowers was sitting on one of the benches outside the library, encased in a pall of grey smoke and glowering at library patrons who were glowering at her as they passed.

  Smoking wasn’t permitted in the library grounds, but Addie Flowers either didn’t know or didn’t care. She was a study in insouciance, puffing away.

  Florence watched her from the window, Monty appearing at her side making audible ‘tsk, tsk’ noises.

  ‘Do you know who that young lady is?’ he asked Florence.

  ‘Albert’s sister,’ she answered.

  ‘Yes, Adelaide Flowers, and if he was here himself, I’d ask him to do it, but as he is not, I’m going to go out there and tell her to butt out.’

  Florence saw that Monty was raring to do so, his nostrils flaring a little at the prospect of enforcing a library rule.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Florence jumped in. ‘I was just leaving, I’ll tell her on the way out.’

  Monty nodded, nostrils deflated.

  ‘If you’re sure, Florence,’ he said, and Florence nodded, not sure at all.

  Florence grabbed her bag and headed to the library’s door, which slid open automatically, letting in a blanket of heat.

  Christmas Day was going to be a scorcher, she thought as she headed towards Adelaid
e Flowers, who looked up from the book that sat in her lap.

  ‘I know, I know, I’m putting it out,’ she said, dropping the cigarette to the ground, and grinding her heel on it.

  ‘Thank you,’ Florence said, ‘the head librarian was going to come out and give you a talking to, but I said I’d do it, and save you the wagging finger – I’m Florence Saint Claire,’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘We have met before, briefly, you thought I was a librarian? I’m not, but I work with the Green Team, and I’m a friend of your brother, Albert’s.’

  Adelaide Flowers gave a small laugh.

  ‘Albert doesn’t have any friends,’ she said, and Florence prickled. What was it with these girls? First Sadie Bishop and now Albert’s own sister, blithely puffing away and dispensing casual personal information like they were handing out peppermints.

  ‘Actually, that’s not true,’ Florence countered. ‘He’s got me.’

  Adelaide took Florence’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Pull up a pew,’ she said.

  Florence sat down. At first, she trod carefully, sketching out the bare details of what she knew of Albert’s life and why she thought it might be fun – Don’t say lark, she told herself – to ask people to raise a glass to Albert, but Adelaide Flowers surprised her.

  She listened to Florence carefully, and then filled in the gaps herself.

  Addie Flowers thought of her family in two time periods: when Hamish was there, and when he wasn’t. When Hamish was there, she told Florence, the Flowers had been happy in the way most families were happy, which was happy enough. It was not what it became in the retelling, a suburban version of Jackie Kennedy’s recreation of Camelot. To hear Georgina Flowers tell it, when Hamish was there, the Flowers home was suffused in its own golden light. When Hamish wasn’t there, it was as if someone had gone through the house and turned off all the lights, then left again. It wasn’t easy to live with parents who were always looking over their shoulders at the before, while she and Albert were trying to make their way into the after.

  ‘It was harder on Albert,’ Adelaide said. ‘I loved Hamish so much, we all did, but he and Albert were close in a different way. The two of them were always squirrelled away in Albert’s room. It’s weird, but I never felt left out, I knew I could go in there any time I wanted to, but I left them to it. I knew, even when I was really little, that Albert needed Hamish more than I did. Albert had a way of standing out, and Hamish had a way of helping him to fit in.

  ‘Me,’ Adelaide Flowers looked down at her floral wrap dress and smoothed it across her lap, ‘I can make myself fit in anywhere, it’s a particular skill of mine. But Albert never could. Every time he got in some sort of scrap, Hamish just stepped in and fixed it,’ she said, snapping her fingers. ‘Which was wonderful, but it meant Albert never had any practice at fixing things for himself.’

  The last patrons had left the library, nodding or waving at Florence as they passed, Erica Little wobbling by on her bicycle with Joan Didion riding shotgun, and Monty coming out to say good evening and sniff the air for any errant traces of tobacco.

  Florence liked this time at the library; the parents walking to the cars with their children, the mother or father holding bags of books, the children cartwheeling ahead. She liked to see the older patrons walk slowly to their cars, Mrs Trenton always one of the last to leave, taking slow, measured steps with her walker. Florence liked to tease Albert that Abigail Trenton stayed late hoping for a glimpse of him, and another ‘alley-oop’ in his big strong arms.

  Adelaide Flowers, seeing the coast was clear, lit up another cigarette.

  ‘It was so easy to be eclipsed by Hamish. He’d walk into a room and it was like the sun had passed over your moon.’ Adelaide sighed, blowing out a steady stream of smoke. ‘And when Hamish died, it was a total blackout. We were all just stumbling around in the dark, looking for the matches.’ Adelaide laughed, a brittle crackle from her throat. ‘That’s when I first started smoking, Mum started joining any committee that would have her, Dad started going to real estate conferences, and Albert started stammering more and preferring plants to people.’

  Florence froze. She and Albert really were the same person.

  ‘The thing is,’ Adelaide said, reaching down into her handbag to retrieve a small notebook, then digging around again for a pen, ‘I love both my brothers. I loved Hamish but I love Albert too, he might not know that, but I do. God will probably smite me down for saying this, but I might even love him more. Everyone worshipped Hamish because he was perfect, but I probably preferred Albert because he wasn’t.’

  Florence smiled, as Adelaide continued.

  ‘I love my family, Florence, I do, but I find I work better when I keep them at a distance.’

  Adelaide Flowers was full of surprises, Florence thought. Albert had told her that his younger sister ‘opts in and out’ of his family but hadn’t told her why Adelaide was often in absentia. Looking at Adelaide, puffing away, Florence thought that, having lost one brother she had loved fiercely, Adelaide was not taking any chances by getting too close to the other.

  Adelaide passed Florence the notebook. ‘Write down your number,’ she instructed. ‘I can help you with Albert’s party. He keeps his Mobile Mixologist books at Mum and Dad’s because there’s an office there, so I can get you all his contact numbers. I can probably help you with the asking as well.’

  Florence took the book and pen. ‘So you think the party is a good idea?’ she asked, writing down her number.

  ‘Who knows?’ Adelaide shrugged. ‘Could be a disaster. You’re keeping it casual, right?’

  Florence nodded.

  ‘Just a few Christmas drinks?’

  Florence nodded again.

  ‘Well, we’d better get cracking. When are you thinking of holding it?’

  ‘I thought Christmas Eve, early in the evening, just for a couple of hours.’

  Adelaide nodded. ‘That could work.’

  Florence retrieved her list from her own bag.

  ‘I wrote down the names of a few people who might want to come,’ she said, passing it to Addie who flicked her eyes over it.

  ‘I know a couple of these,’ she said. ‘I’m friends with Siobhan Peters, and the Coxes are friends of my parents. I know Meg Stewart as well, and I can check Albert doesn’t have an event on that night.’ Adelaide stood up. ‘I’m glad you’re doing this, Florence, I really am. Even if it just ends up being you, me, Albert and a sad bottle of chardonnay.’

  ‘Thank you, Adelaide,’ Florence said. ‘I really appreciate you giving this your time.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got all the time in the world, Florence. I’m between everything at the moment.’

  *

  Amanda Saint Claire was lying on a chaise longue, her eyes masked by two circles of cucumber and her face covered in a thick peach-coloured crème.

  She looked like a magazine advertisement caught between the pages from another era, when women like her still existed. Florence looked to her mother’s feet. Was she wearing slippers with tufts of faux fur on them? She was, the fur tickling at Amanda’s rosy pink toenails. The sash of her kimono hung loosely around her waist, the red and green flowers sprinkled in its satin folds. Watching her mother, Florence clearly heard her father say, ‘The Gorgeous Amanda,’ and she turned her head quickly to look for him. Lucas had not been making so many guest appearances in her life lately. She hadn’t heard his gravelly chuckle for a while, or seen his felt hat bobbing up and down anywhere. But he was here now, just long enough for Florence to see her father drinking in her mother. But Amanda, eyes closed behind their cucumber patches, was oblivious to his gaze. Just as well, Florence thought; there had been too much yearning in it.

  Amanda put her hands to her eyes, plucking the cucumbers from the lids and placing them in a small china dish on the table beside her. ‘That feels better,’ she said. ‘Now, what did you want to talk about, darling?’

  Florence had gone to Kinsey directly from the library
to ask her mother what she thought about Albert’s party. She had let herself in and called out to Amanda, who had answered, ‘I’m in here darling, wallowing behind garden vegetables.’ Florence smiled, no wonder Lucas yearned.

  Isolde and Adelaide both seemed to think the party for Albert was a good idea, but something tugged at Florence, a niggle that made her think that it wasn’t. She had never given a party and most of the ones she had gone to had been the ‘after’ kind for opening nights when she was younger. She and Puck and Isolde usually ended up asleep on a couch somewhere, with coats flung over them. But Amanda and Lucas had given plenty at Kinsey over the years, Florence usually upstairs in her room with her headphones on, reading Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret and trying to ignore the reverberating bass line in the walls.

  Now she was throwing what she had always considered the worst kind of party, a surprise one – all that whispering and leaping out from behind couches. But beneath the niggle that told Florence this was a bad idea was a smaller but stronger one that told her something else. It told her to throw Albert Flowers this party. He might feel ambushed, but he might also feel welcome. It was all in the execution, she thought, which was where the woman on the chaise longue came in.

  Amanda listened to Florence, occasionally popping a caramel from one of her pockets into her mouth. When Florence had finished – ‘Thank God this is a slow-setting mask, darling, it’s a very long story, isn’t it?’ – Amanda stood up and redid the sash around her waist. ‘Tea?’ she said.