Lie With Me (3 page)

She stepped forward and put out her hand. Silver bracelets jangled. She had a small pointy chin and her mouth was lopsided, painted in a pale pink lipstick that didn’t suit her. There was something child-like about her, despite her obvious age. Nothing special, but more attractive at least than any of the other specimens on offer. ‘I’m Alice,’ she said. ‘We’ve met.’

She did look vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. ‘Have we?’

She put her head to one side, her hand still out. ‘Alice Mackenzie?’

Andrew pushed himself off from the piano. ‘Paul – you remember Alice? I’m sure you’ve met before, not least that night in Greece.’ He laughed.

A chasm yawned beneath me. I didn’t like thinking about Greece. I decided to ignore her outstretched hand and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Of course,’ I said.

She didn’t move – her face still crooked towards mine. ‘You’ve been smoking. I can smell it.’

I put my hands up in a gesture of surrender.

She leant even closer, bringing her hands up to the collar of my shirt, touching the fabric, and breathed in deeply, wafting the air near my mouth towards her nose. ‘Don’t apologise. It’s delicious. Right. Back to the kitchen. I’m needed.’

She disappeared again through the door. Andrew watched her go.

‘Alice is amazing.’ Boo had moved closer. ‘A real force of nature.’

‘Oh, really?’ She had seemed quite ordinary to me.

‘Yes. She is quite incredible.’ She raised her voice: ‘Alice was how old, Andrew? When she lost her husband?’

Andrew spun round. He closed his eyes. ‘Um. Ten years now since Harry died, so yes, early thirties. Their kids were still little.’

‘Unlucky,’ I said. ‘Cancer?’

‘Adrenal,’ Boo said. ‘It’s terribly rare. He had stomach pains, which they thought was appendicitis. By that stage it had already spread and he was dead within three months. But she was so strong; she kept it together for the children.’ Her tone was both reverential and self-satisfied, as if by reporting the saintliness of this Alice she was conferring some of it upon herself.

‘Alice is a wonderful mother,’ Andrew said. ‘And an extraordinary lawyer. She’s not a money-grabbing corporate shark like me.’ He paused, allowing room for silent demurral. ‘Alice works for Talbot & Co – you know, the famous legal aid company in Stockwell. She mainly represents asylum seekers.’

‘And battered wives,’ Boo said.

‘She is closely involved in Women Against Sexual Violence, Women for Women’s Rights, Women for Refugee Women . . . the list goes on.’

‘She launched the Finding Jasmine campaign,’ Boo said, as if I knew what the fuck she was talking about.

‘You have met before,’ Andrew said. ‘That night on Pyros – we were all having dinner together down in the harbour when we saw you. Do you remember?’

I dug my hand into the back of a chair and leant back. ‘I probably wasn’t at my best that night,’ I said carefully.

‘You were a bit the worse for wear, old chap. A little out of control.’

I scratched my head, aiming for comedy. ‘Sunstroke.’

Andrew made a clicking noise with his tongue. ‘Retsina.’

I glanced at Boo. ‘Haven’t drunk retsina since. Aversion therapy.’

Two deep dimples dented Boo’s cheeks. I’d dismissed her as too fat and posh for my tastes, but now I looked at her properly I saw she was quite pretty: white-skinned and blue-eyed. The way she was standing was sexy, too: shoulders back to show off her ample cleavage, her short plump legs tapered in their optimistic skinny jeans, her toes turned out, like a ballet dancer.

I smiled at her, avoiding Andrew’s eyes.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he said.

‘Dinner is served!’ Tina was standing at the door, brandishing a wooden spoon. Tendrils of wiry auburn hair had flown loose from the bandana, and her cheeks were flushed.

I was the first to leave the room, and I followed her along a corridor into an enormous white and cream kitchen. An island, containing a sink, where Alice was washing lettuce, divided the space. Stainless steel pans dangled from a metal contraption hung from the ceiling and at the far end huge glass doors led on to the garden. A small section of patio was lit by the glow of the kitchen; the rest disappeared in layers into the darkness.

The others were coming in behind us. A male voice said: ‘It’s the parking I’m worried about.’ The table, shiny mahogany, was elaborately laid. Andrew started lighting candles, using a long elegant contraption, black with ‘Diptyque’ written along the side. Click. Click. Tina, with a scrappy piece of paper in her hand, was telling people where to sit – embarrassed, pretending to find her writing hard to read.

I stood by my allotted seat, my back to the kitchen, facing three large paintings which covered the wall. They were hideous: semi-abstract seascapes in bright clashing colours – turquoise and orange, a liberal use of white. Not my thing at all. I prefer a nude.

‘They’re mine,’ Tina said, over my shoulder. ‘So don’t be rude.’

‘I wasn’t going to be. They are so . . . vibrant. I love how you’ve caught the light.’

‘They’re Greece actually. Pyros where . . . where you’ve been. The view from Circe’s House. We go every year – thanks to Alice.’

We both looked round. Alice, who was still fiddling about at the sink, looked up at her name and smiled at us vaguely.

Tina turned back. ‘It’s coming to an end, though, sadly.’

‘What is?’ Andrew had taken his seat at the head of the table.

‘Pyros.’

‘Terrible shame.’ He raised his voice. ‘Poor Alice. End of an era, isn’t it?’

‘What, Greece?’ she said, bringing a steaming bowl of tagine to the table. ‘Yes. My lease has come to an end and the fucking freeholder wrote to me in January to say he’s selling the land to developers. The tossers who built the Delfinos resort. Still, at least we have a stay of execution in the house if not the land – you’re coming to Circe’s this summer, Tina and Andrew, aren’t you? One last hoorah.’

‘Of course.’ Andrew got up again to make space for Tina to squeeze past his chair. ‘The kids would kill us if we didn’t. We’d literally be dead.’

‘Literally?’ I said.

‘Good.’ Alice sat down opposite him at the far end. She made a small dramatic gesture with her napkin, flapping it on to her lap. ‘Eat up, everyone.’

I looked at her for a moment, and then at Andrew, and at Tina, who was sitting somewhere in the middle of the table. Anyone would think Alice was the hostess here. Was it, in fact,
her
signature Moroccan lamb, not Tina’s at all? I helped myself to a spoonful and then realised I should probably have served my neighbours – Susie, on one side, Izzy on the other. ‘Sorry,’ I said, offering it. ‘I’ve got no manners. You can tell I went to boarding school – the panic at mealtimes, every boy for himself.’

‘Boarding school? Which one?’ the balder of the two men asked.

I told him where I had spent my formative years, and I could see he was surprised. The school has an academic reputation and I dropped a hint about my scholarship, too, mentioning I had been in the scholars’ house. Tina picked up on this. ‘Clever old you,’ she said. ‘Not just a pretty face.’

‘Oh, did you know Sebastian Potter?’ Izzy said. ‘He must be about your age.’

‘No,’ I said too quickly, and then: ‘I recognise the name. I think he might have been a couple of years above me.’

‘Oh, OK,’ she said. ‘Big school.’ She shrugged, her top slipping forward over the bones in her neck, the feathers in one of her earrings tangling in her hair. (Of course I knew Sebastian Potter. He was one of the bastards who made my life a misery.)

I turned my attention to the food. It was delicious, actually – the sauce tasted of orange flower water and saffron; the meat was wonderfully tender. Whether it was Tina who made it, or Alice, frankly for this alone it was worth the trip. Andrew had poured the wine, too, from a glass decanter – presumably the 2009 Châteauneuf as promised. It slipped down smoothly: no complaints there.

Around me the conversation wound on drably, past Tina’s wool shop, Ripping Yarns, to plans for the velodrome, to the school where people at the table appeared to have children. A new head of sixth form had just been appointed but the old head was missed; one of the science teachers wasn’t up to scratch; Boo’s daughter hadn’t got on to the Duke of Edinburgh scheme. It was over-subscribed and names had, of all things, been pulled from a hat. So unfair. Boo’s husband, who was away for work, was going to go straight in the moment he was back.

‘Do you have kids?’ Susie asked me.

‘No.’

‘This must be so dull for you then.’

‘Not at all,’ I said.

‘We should watch what we say,’ Alice added. ‘He’s probably making mental notes for his next novel.’

It was another predictable comment. I’d lost count of the number of times people had said it. Alice was still wearing the apron, dotted now with gravy as well as flour. She’d applied a fresh layer of that hideous lipstick; it was smudged on the edge of her glass.

I felt a sudden desperate need for a cigarette. My legs jangled. I made my excuses, pushed my chair back, and walked over to the expanse of glass, where I fumbled until I found a mechanism that would slide it open. I slipped through a crack, quietly sealing the door again behind me.

The garden was in shadow – a long, wide lawn, edged with shrubs. At the end, skeleton trees against the sky and an expanse of dark nothing: a playing field. A brown smell of earth and damp.

The house, lit up behind me, was exposed – the candles on the table, the glint of cutlery: every detail visible to anyone who might be lurking down there. A shout of laughter, a scrape of chair. Boo’s voice shrieking, ‘No!’

I moved out of sight. An ironwork bench lurked on the grass, hidden from the kitchen by shrubs. I perched on the edge of it, trying not to get my trousers damp. A climbing frame and a trampoline with tall black sides, hulked like convict ships on the Kent marshes. The moon came out, dappling the grass, and disappeared again. An aeroplane crossed overhead – an angry snarl on the wind.

I lit my fag easily enough this time. It was cold. I should have gone to get my coat. I wondered how quickly I could go home. The evening had been fine – I’d managed – but, now I had eaten, there was nothing here for me. No women. No work. No whiff of a house-sit. I inhaled deeply, drawing the nicotine into my blood.

A sudden loud burst of conversation, a shot of warmth – immediately sliced off. I turned. Alice was standing on the terrace. I kept still in case she decided to go back in, but she took a couple of steps across the lawn and saw me.

‘Hi,’ she said.

She made a quick gesture to rearrange a bit of her hair at the back – that thing women do, with such a touching air of secrecy, half-tweak, half-smooth, as if they believe there is only one position in which their hair is acceptable. I find it oddly moving.

She took a step closer. ‘I thought I might bum a cigarette off you – if that’s OK?’

I felt the usual flicker. Why don’t non-smokers buy their own? Or
not
smoke? ‘Of course,’ I said gallantly, reaching into my jacket pocket.

She perched next to me, elbows on her knees, and I handed her a cigarette. I made a wry reference to the femininity of my brand – ultra ultra low-tar Silk Cut – and she laughed, though I was only trying to distract her from my lighter. It was the long, thin stick Andrew had left on the table. I slipped it back into my pocket and continued to fondle it. It was matt black, soft to the touch.

She inhaled deeply. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘I don’t
actually
smoke. Your typical social smoker. But it’s getting harder and harder to maintain the habit these days.’ She set off on a riff – how e-cigarettes were ruining all her fun, how the opportunities for ‘the mild stoned fugginess’ she enjoyed were drying up.

I said: ‘I suppose you can’t ask someone sucking on an electric vaporiser to “give us a vape”? Not unless you want a mouth full of caramel-flavoured spittle.’

‘Exactly.’ She laughed. Her eyes, almond-shaped, were a cat-like green under arched eyebrows.

‘How did you first meet Andrew?’ she asked. ‘I forgot to ask.’

‘I was at Trinity with him.’

‘Ah. Cambridge. Of course.’ She smiled. ‘Did you know him well then?’

‘Not particularly.’ I sat back on the bench – damp or no damp – and tilted my head to the sky. ‘I knew his sister a bit.’

‘Florrie. Yes of course.’

‘You know her?’

‘We were best friends at school. I met Andrew through her. I used to visit her in Cambridge. In fact, I’m not sure you and I didn’t meet there, too.’ She smiled. ‘I have a lot to thank her for. Andrew and I are
great mates
.’

Great mates. She gave a high artificial laugh. She was one of those women who gush and flirt, but it’s all fake. They hold back everything that matters. You never find out what’s really there.
If
anything’s really there. Terrible in bed, too.

She studied her cigarette closely, then looked up, and said coyly: ‘You don’t remember meeting me before, do you? In Cambridge, or in Greece?’

‘You do look familiar.’ I dropped my cigarette and screwed it into the grass with my heel. I decided to cut to the chase. ‘But listen, Alice. I’m really sorry. All evening I’ve been a bit embarrassed about this. I don’t know why Andrew invited me. That Greek thing, I was a mess then. It was what – eight years ago?’

‘Ten.’

‘It’s not a period in my life I’m proud of. We’d been on one of those booze cruises. I lost my friends; the boat left the port without me. And then I bumped into Andrew and luckily he helped me out. But I’ll be straight with you – the details are, to this day, rather hazy.’

‘Do you want me to tell you what I remember?’

‘If you must.’

She laughed. ‘You burst into the taverna where we were having dinner. You were wearing a purple T-shirt that said “Zeus Nightclub” on it. You were shouting and being rude. You started singing.’

‘Was I?’ I winced. I was encouraged by the fact she seemed to find it funny. ‘Zeus, yes. I remember that T-shirt. And . . . singing . . . singing was never my strong point.’

‘Andrew sorted you a taxi. Poured you into it: I think that’s how he put it.’