The Nature of Cruelty (14 page)

How very bitchy. I mean, maybe she’s just really hungry. Right now Kara reminds me of Regina George in
Mean Girls
. Even though her friends seem to worship the ground she walks on, they’re all spreading rumours about her and talking about her behind her back.

“My girl likes to eat,” says Gary, who’s sitting on the other side of Kara. He puts his big beefy arm around her waist, squeezing her thin hip.

Kara beams at him before giving him a kiss on the cheek.

After this she glances across table to where Robert is sitting, presumably to check if he saw their little exchange of affection. I quickly look away so she doesn’t see me staring at her.

Robert has one arm leaning on the table, his seat turned a fraction to face me, his attention nowhere near Kara.

When I look at him his eyes are at half mast, and I can tell he’s remembering what happened back in the car. I distract myself by grabbing a piece of brown bread from the basket and buttering it with a knife. I feel Sasha kicking my leg beneath the table, and when my eyes reach hers she gives me a questioning look. Since Robert’s staring at me, I can’t exactly explain what happened to her, so she’ll just have to wait until later.

Her phone starts ringing anyway, which distracts her attention from me. Seconds after she answers it, she’s pulling a notepad from her bag and scribbling down details. She says stuff like “Don’t mess me around on this, Cooper,” and “Yeah, well, I’ll have to look into it myself,” and on it goes. This is the way she speaks on the phone when it’s about work.

Somewhere along the way our food gets served, and I dig in right away, completely famished. I note that Kara didn’t just order all that food for show, either. She puts it away like a pro, and I have to wonder if maybe she does have bulimia. Perhaps Robert would know. If she does, then she obviously needs more help than her two friends bitching behind her back about it.

As chatter fills up the table, I turn to him ever so slightly. “Is Kara all right?” I ask quietly, raising a meaningful eyebrow. She’s sitting at the other end of the table, so she can’t hear me.

He swallows down a forkful of lasagna, stating, “No, she’s a fucking nutjob.”

“I’m being serious, Rob. I saw Sandra and Michelle mouthing something about bulimia.”

He puts his fork down. “Oh, you mean the old…” He motions sticking his finger down his throat.

“Yeah,” I answer quickly before he says anything else that will make it obvious what we’re talking about.

“She’s been at that for years. I tried talking to her, but it’s no use. The behaviour is too ingrained now. She doesn’t even see it as abnormal.”

“But it is abnormal. She needs help.”

“Yeah, she does, but that’s not your problem, Lana. It’s not mine, either. Gary can deal with her.”

“I think Gary might be too wrapped up in his own muscles to be dealing with anything,” I say.

Robert makes a small snort of laughter. “You’re right. I bet he spends half the day looking at himself in the mirror bollock naked.”

“Shush, he’ll hear you,” I reply, giggling and putting my hand to Robert’s mouth before rapidly removing it when his eyes grow heated.

“Seriously, though, somebody needs to help her.”

“People have tried. Helping a person only goes so far. They have to want to be helped. Don’t worry about it. It’s not like it’s a constant thing. She’ll do it for a couple of weeks, then she’ll stop, and then she’ll start again. That’s why she never looks too skinny, because she has periods of puking and periods of not puking.”

“That’s really sad. Can’t you see how sad that is?”

“It is sad, but the bitch is doing her best to rub Gary in my face, so I can’t feel any sympathy for her at the moment.”

I nod. I get where he’s coming from, I suppose. Sasha finishes up with her work call.

“What was that about?” Robert asks.

“Ugh, another story about that pop star, the one I wrote about last weekend, Molly Willis. Apparently there’s a rumour going around that she’s preggers.”

“Interesting. Who’s the baby daddy?”

“No one knows yet, but I’m sure it’ll all come out eventually. Oh, and the last time I checked, only African Americans can use the phrase ‘baby daddy’ without sounding like a complete wanker.”

I laugh.

Robert scowls at her before continuing, “Don’t you have to rush back to write the story?”

“Nah, this is my day off. I gave it to another journalist. I can’t be arsed rushing into work just to write about that shit anyway.”

“And the disillusionment begins,” Robert announces, seeming pleased.

Sasha gives him a look. “What?”

“I told you you’d be sick of that job before long,” he tells her, finishing off his food.

“Yeah, well, I never planned on writing about bratty pop stars for the rest of my life,” she answers with a weary sigh, rubbing her forehead.

“Why don’t you apply for jobs at other newspapers?” I suggest. “Or maybe a magazine. Oh, you could become a music journalist. You love music.”

She grins at me fondly. “A music journalist, huh? It does have a nice ring to it. Well, I’m going to see how long I can stick it out at the
Mail
anyway so they at least give me a good reference before I jump ship.”

“Good idea,” I agree, even though I know Sasha would never have a problem getting a job. With her dad’s name, she could be hired just about anywhere she wanted. It’s why she’s writing for
The Daily Mail
with only a journalism degree and minimum experience, when other graduates in the same boat would have to slave away as interns for years before getting to where she is now.

We talk some more about possible career routes for Sasha until everybody has finished eating. Alistair gallantly offers to pay the bill, and after some grumbling from the other males present (except for Robert), he wins the battle. I imagine this is another of those little competitions that Sasha mentioned go on between those in her social circle. Paying for everyone’s meal shows wealth. Robert’s ego is too well established to be bothered by such things, and I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.

As we’re walking back to the cars, Robert allows his hand to brush against mine. I glance around quickly, making sure nobody notices.

“Stop it,” I mouth at him.

“What?” he mouths back with a delighted grin, putting his hand to my bottom for a minute.

I brush his hand away.

I also walk faster.

We say our goodbyes to the others when we reach the car park, stuffing all our bags in the boot. I get into the back again, relieved to be out of reach of Robert’s wandering hands. Sasha sits beside me this time, saying the sun shines in her face too much in the front and gives her a headache.

“Hey, Lana, why don’t you come sit up here with me?” Robert asks.

“I’m fine where I am,” I tell him.

“You sure?”

“Very sure.”

He smiles to himself and turns on the radio. Sasha huddles close to me and whispers in my ear. “Did he see you taking your insulin before?”

I nod.

“Shit. I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Nothing. I told him about my diabetes, that’s all.”

Robert turns down the radio now, the car slowing as he drives into traffic. “I can hear you both, you know.”

“I was just telling Sasha how I told you about my diabetes,” I put in quickly.

“So Sasha fucking knew and I didn’t,” he exclaims, giving his sister a look of annoyance.

“Of course I knew. Lana’s my best friend. You’ve never been her friend. Well, not until now, and I’m guessing that’s only because you’re bored and you want someone to amuse yourself with.”

“Piss off, Sash,” Robert bites back.

“What? When have you ever been nice just for the sake of it?”

“I’m always nice.”

“You’re nice when you want something, and if you’re always nice then that’s only because you always want something.”

Great, they’re fighting again. Over me, it seems. I’m like a constant topic of contention for these two, and I really don’t like it. But there’s something in what Sasha says that strikes a chord with me. Is Robert only being nice because he wants something? That something possibly being sex, taking his touchy-feely behaviour into account.

“You’re wrong, Sasha, so just shut up,” Robert snaps at her. It looks like he’s grinding his jaw.

“Not wrong, but whatever,” Sasha replies, leaning back in her seat and throwing her arm over her face to block out the sun.

The rest of the drive is mostly silent, with me listening to music on my earphones. Every once in a while Robert’s eyes will land on me through the mirror, and I’ll do my best to pretend I don’t notice. When we arrive home, Sasha goes to take a shower and I grab some water from the fridge, the hot day making me thirsty.

I’m standing, looking out the window into the garden, when a warm hand slides along the back of my neck.

“You look like you’re in the mood for a long, relaxing bath,” Robert whispers in my ear.

I back away from him. “What are you doing?”

“Touching you, suggesting a bath,” he answers, looking at me like I’m thick.

“Since when did you do stuff like that? Just stop, Rob. It’s weird.”

Despite what happened between us today, I can’t get used to him being tactile. Perhaps it’s my brain telling me I’m wandering down a troublesome path by letting him suck me in. He’s so beautiful and easy to fall into sometimes.

“Weird?” he asks, annoyed.

“Yes, weird.”

“You didn’t seem to think it was weird when I was sticking my tongue down your throat earlier on.”

“That was a moment of insanity.”

“It was a moment of something,” he answers, his gaze examining me as though seeking some minuscule change.

“I’m sorry. I’m being rude. It’s just been a long day, and I’m tired. I’m going to go lie down for a while.”

I turn away, but he grabs my wrist. “Don’t run away from me, Lana.”

“I’m not running away. I told you, I’m tired.”

“Let me lie down with you, then,” he responds.

“I can’t. Sasha’s right upstairs.”

“Fuck Sasha. Why would you give a shit what she thinks anyway?”

“Because she’s my friend, and she’s your sister. I don’t want to do anything that would upset her.”

He pauses for a moment and eyes me. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Of course not. Sasha would think I’m an idiot for being with you. Jesus, even
I
think I’m an idiot for considering it.”

“You’ve had a crush on me since you were twelve,” he states.

“What does that have to do with anything? And I
had
a crush on you, Robert. Past tense. I soon learned the error of my misplaced admiration.” Ha! If only.

He steps closer, backing me up against the wall. “Past tense, really?” he asks, running a hand along my hip. “Pull the other one, Lana. I know when a girl likes me, and you
really
like me.”

Abruptly, he steps away, grins, and walks out of the room.

I heave a sigh of frustration, pick up my beach bag, and make a start on putting my wet stuff in the laundry.

Eight

L
ater that evening I’m lying on my bed surfing the Internet when I get an email alert informing me I’ve been tagged in some photos on Facebook by none other than Robert Phillips. Great. He must have uploaded the shots he took on the beach today. I avoid logging in like the plague, switching off my computer and putting on some relaxing music so that I can do a bit of yoga in my room.

Thirty minutes later I’m all yoga-ed out and my laptop is calling to me like baked goods to a stoner. Giving in, I hop onto the bed and turn the thing on. When I log in, Robert’s pictures pop up immediately. But I ignore those for a moment, because there are some notifications from a couple of days ago telling me he’s liked and commented on a few of my own photos. God only knows what I’ll find here.

Jesus. Christ.

Robert has managed to pick all of the pictures where I’m on my own, nobody else in the shot. Most of them were taken either by Sasha or by my grandmother Penny, who has a thing for filling up photo albums and recording every important event that happens in our family.

The first picture Robert has “liked” is of me at my uncle’s sixtieth birthday party two years ago. I’m sitting at a table in the local country club, wearing a green dress, and there are burst balloons, empty glasses, and used party poppers scattered across the table. It must have been late in the night. I have that sheepish, embarrassed look on my face I always get when being photographed.

In the comments section Robert has written:
You look so young in this one.

The next comment is on a picture of me that Sasha took. We were at a music festival last summer when she came home to visit. It was a brutally hot day, I remember, and in the picture I have a cold bottle of water pressed to my cheek, standing amid a crowd of bodies. The shot is taken up close. Robert’s comment consists of a single word:
Hot.

Does he mean hot as in hot or hot as in temperature? Ugh. I almost laugh, knowing he’s written it just to confuse me. The final comment is on my profile picture, the one of me on the beach at home that my mum took. The one Robert said I looked “pure” in, whatever that means. His comment reads:
Not trying to be creepy, but I’m making this my screensaver.

God, is he serious?

I can’t help it — I write a comment back:
That is creepy. Don’t you dare do that.

Next I go and check out the pictures he posted of the beach. There are a tonne of haphazard shots of the group sunbathing. One in particular makes me laugh; it shows the three girls, but Kara is the only one who realises the shot is being taken. She’s pulled off her sunglasses, and her face is distorted into an unflattering scowl. Robert has managed to capture her in such a way as to make her look ugly. She’s even bent forward in annoyance, making it appear as though she has a tiny pot belly, and most likely the very reason why Robert has put it up. He can be such a dick.

There are already a handful of comments on it from about an hour ago.