‘In so many ways we were the worst, worst combination of people. I mean, Jesus, remember the times we used to have? Christ we were crazy! But in other ways we were, God, we were fucking awesome, weren’t we?’
Lucy makes herself smile and nod agreement, but she can’t quite bring herself to say yes.
‘Maybe we should have tried harder,’ he says, topping up his glass already and then topping up Lucy’s even though she’s barely had two sips.
‘Sometimes life just happens,’ she says meaninglessly.
‘That’s true, Lucy,’ he agrees as though she has just said something very profound. He takes a large gulp of wine and says, ‘Tell me all about my boy. Is he clever? Is he sporty?’
Is he kind? she asks silently. Is he good? Does he take good care of his little sister? Does he keep me grounded? Does he smell nice? Can he sing? Can he draw the most beautiful portraits of people? Does he deserve better than me and this shitty life I’ve given him?
‘He’s pretty clever,’ she replies. ‘Average at maths and science, excellent at languages, art, English. And no, not sporty. Not at all.’
She looks at him steadily, searching his gaze for a shadow of disappointment. But he looks pragmatic. ‘You can’t win at everything,’ he says. ‘And boy is he good-looking. Any sign of an interest in girls yet?’
‘He’s only twelve,’ Lucy says, somewhat brusquely.
‘That’s old enough,’ he says. ‘God, you don’t think he might be gay, do you?’
She wants to throw her wine in Michael’s face and leave. Instead she says, ‘Who knows? No signs of it. But as I say, he’s not really interested in that sort of thing yet. Anyway,’ she changes the subject, ‘I should probably get back to the panzanella. Give it time to steep before we eat.’
She gets to her feet. He gets to his and says, ‘And I should get the barbecue going.’ She heads towards the kitchen but before she can walk away, he catches her hands in his and turns her to face him. She can see his eyes are swimming, that he’s already losing focus and it’s only half past one. He puts his hands on to her hips and pulls them towards him. Then he pushes her hair away from her ear, leans tight in towards her and whispers, ‘I should never have let you go.’
His lips graze hers, briefly, and then he pats her on her bottom and watches her as she walks into the kitchen.
26
CHELSEA, 1990
Shortly after my mother told me that David was making us give all our money to charity and that he was going to be living with us forever, I saw him kissing Birdie.
It was sickening to me at the time, on so many levels.
Firstly, as you know, I found Birdie physically repellent. The thought of her hard little lips against David’s big generous mouth, his hands on her bony hips, her gross tongue chasing his around inside the dank cave made from their mouths. Ouf.
Secondly, I was something of a traditionalist and found the sight of adultery shocking to my core.
And thirdly: well, the third awful thing didn’t strike me immediately. It couldn’t have really, because the implications of what I’d unwittingly seen were not entirely obvious. But I certainly felt something like dread pass through me at the sight of David and Birdie coming together, an innate sense that they might bring things out of each other that were better left buried away.
It happened on a Saturday morning. Sally was away taking photos on a film set somewhere. Justin had gone to set up a stall at a market to sell his herbal remedies. My mother and father were sitting in the garden in their dressing gowns reading the papers and drinking tea out of mugs. I’d slept until eight thirty, late for me. I’ve always been an early riser; I rarely slept later than nine even during my teenage years. I’d barely rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I emerged from my room when I saw them, clinging to each other in the doorway of David’s room. She wore a muslin nightdress. He wore a black cotton robe with a belted waist. Her leg was jammed between his knees. Their groins were forced together. He had a hand to her pale, moley throat. She had a hand on his left buttock.