Beautiful Malice

  Drinking wasn’t a part of my plan for the evening; I hadn’t even considered it. But Alice’s eagerness to drink makes me realize how out of touch I really am. Not everyone is as terrified of the world as I am—not everyone has been burned.

  We take our glasses onto the balcony and look out over the city. It’s mostly Alice who talks, but I’m happy just to listen and enjoy her energy, her joie de vivre. And I’m remembering what it’s like to have fun with someone my own age, reacquainting myself with a different version of me—a younger, happier version—the girl who took it for granted that life could be like this, that it should be like this: free and light and full of joy.

  “Hello, world!” Alice leans over the balcony railing and shouts, her voice echoing around us. “Hello, world!”

  She turns back to me and leans against the railing, tilts her head. “When I’m older I’m going to have a place just like this. Only it’s going to be even bigger. Fancier. All my friends will be able to come and stay. And I’m going to have lots of help, too.” She puts her nose in the air and talks in an affected voice. “I’m going to have staff, dahlink. Housekeepers. Personal trainers. Butlers. Maids. I’ll even have someone who comes around every night just to pour champagne.”

  “Of course,” I agree. “Otherwise, you might break a fingernail. Or get sticky.”

  “Quelle horreur!” She opens her eyes wide with fake alarm, and looks down at her hands. “There is such danger inherent in being occupied with the mundane. I aim to rise above it.”

  I laugh. “You’ll need a personal barista, too. To make your coffee in the mornings.”

  “And a chef to cook my food.”

  “Your very own massage therapist.”

  “A hairdresser.”

  “A stylist to choose your clothes.”

  “A gardener.”

  “A chauffeur.”

  “Yeah.” She sits down in the seat next to me and sighs dreamily. “I’ll never have to do anything. I won’t always be complaining about doing housework all day every day like my mother. I won’t do any. I won’t even have to run my own bath.”

  “What if you get sick of it? All those people around you all the time? Maybe you’ll start craving some time alone.”

  “Nah,” she says. “Why would I? Being alone is boring. I hate being alone. Hate it. My life isn’t going to be serious and boring. It’s going to be fun. A party. A massive, never-ending, lifelong party.”

  I think, Alice is just the type of person I need to be with—she lives for the present and, very conveniently, has an amazing lack of curiosity about the past.

  When Alice has finished several glasses of whiskey—I’m still sipping slowly, safely, on my first—she announces that she’s starving and we go inside. She pours herself another drink and offers me one but I hold up my almost full glass and shake my head. Alice frowns.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s all right, I guess.” I smile and take a sip and try not to grimace. I could explain my fear of alcohol, use it as an excuse, but I would only end up sounding like a nagging parent, some kind of freakish puritan.

  Alice stares at me for a moment, as if trying to work something out, but then she puts the bottle down and shrugs.

  “More for me, then,” she says.

  I dish out the curry and take our overflowing bowls to the kitchen table. Alice’s enthusiasm for the food is gratifying.

  “Delicious!” she declares, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re amazing. You could open your own Indian restaurant or something.”

  I laugh, but I’m flattered. My mood has improved dramatically. The feeling of gloom that I had after talking to my mother has completely disappeared.

  “So.” Alice taps her bowl with the back of her fork. “What shall we do after this?”

  “We could play a game. I’ve got Scrabble. And Trivial Pursuit.”

  Alice shakes her head. “Boring. I can’t concentrate on Scrabble for more than a second. Too much like homework. What about Pictionary or charades? Something fun.”

  “But we need more people for those games.”

  Alice is silent for a moment, thoughtful, then she looks at me and smiles. “I know someone who could come over. Entertain us a bit.”

  “Really?” I force myself to smile, but I’m disappointed. I’ve been enjoying myself immensely and don’t think we need any entertaining. The fact that Alice wants to invite someone else over makes me feel boring. “At this time of night?”

  “It’s nine o’clock on Saturday night! The clubs haven’t even opened yet.”

  I shrug. “Who?”

  “Robbie.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Who’s Robbie?”

  “He’s a friend. He works as a waiter in a really posh restaurant. He’s a total scream. You’ll love him.”

  Alice takes out her cell phone and starts to dial before I get the chance to ask any more questions. I listen to her invite him over—her voice confident and deep and flirtatious—and wonder if she has ever felt shy or uncertain. It’s impossible to imagine.

  “He’ll be here soon.” She stands up and stretches, rubs her belly contentedly. “This was such a terrific idea, Katie. Awesome food, good company, and so much more fun to come.”

  “Katherine,” I say. “I’m not Katie. I’m Katherine.”

  Alice tips her head to the side, looks at me quizzically. “But you look like a Katie. You really do. You weren’t always called Katherine, were you? When you were younger? Such a stuffy name for a little girl. Katie is cute. Fun. It suits you.”

  “No,” I say. “I’m Katherine. Just Katherine.” I try to keep my voice light and friendly but it comes out sounding harsh, an overreaction. I never used to care what people called me—Kat, Katie, Kathy, Kate, I enjoyed them all—but I can’t stand any of the shortened versions of my name anymore. I am Katherine Patterson now, through and through.

  A small frown crosses Alice’s brow, and she stares at me, almost coldly, but in a moment her face clears, she shrugs, then smiles and nods. “Sure. Katherine is more distinguished, anyway. Like that old actress, whatsername, you know, they made a movie … Katharine Hepburn. And a longer name suits your air of mystery better.”

  “Air of mystery?” I protest, glad to have an excuse to laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, but you have.” Alice leans forward. “Everybody at school wonders about you. So pretty and smart. So quiet and private, but not because you’re shy or scared or anything like that. It’s as if you just don’t want to get involved. As if you’ve—oh, I don’t know, got some kind of big dark secret and you don’t want to make friends with anyone in case they find out what it is. You have everyone intrigued and intimidated. Some people even think you’re a snob.”

  “A snob? Really? Well, they’re wrong. I’m not.” I stand up and start clearing the table, avoiding Alice’s eyes. The conversation is starting to make me uncomfortable—it’s getting too close to the truth. I do have a secret. A big dark secret, as Alice put it. And though I’m not a snob, it’s true that I don’t want to participate and that I have avoided making friends, for exactly that reason. Clearly I haven’t been as inconspicuous as I’d hoped.

  But Alice laughs. “Hey, don’t be upset. Come on. I’m only teasing. It’s really cool to be mysterious like that. I like it. You’re aloof. And I’m probably just jealous. I wish I was a bit more mysterious myself.” She puts her hand on her chest and closes her eyes. “A mysterious woman with a tragic past.”

  I’m amazed at how close Alice has come to hitting on the truth. I feel exposed and uncomfortable and have to fight an urge to run away and hide. I need to keep my secret safe. I’m scared that Alice is going to continue with this conversation, interrogate me until she knows everything, but instead she shrugs, looks around the room, and shakes her head.

  “God, this place is awesome. We absolutely have to throw a party.” She takes the plates from my hands. “You coo
ked. I’ll clean up. Sit down. Have another”—she looks at my glass and shakes her head—“milli-sip or two of your drink.”

  Alice fills the sink with hot, soapy water, starts washing, then comes back to the table to chat some more, tell me another story. There is a knock on the door.

  “It’s Robbie!” Alice claps her hands together happily and rushes down the hallway.

  I hear her greet someone, giggle, and exclaim. I hear the deep rumble of his response. And then he is in the kitchen.

  He is tall and blond and very good-looking in an athletic, wholesome way. He grins at me and, unexpectedly, holds out his hand.

  “Katherine. Hi. I’m Robbie.”

  “Hi.”

  His handshake is warm and dry and firm. His smile is spontaneous and open, and for the first time in what feels like a hundred years I feel the mild but unmistakable pull of attraction. I feel myself start to blush. I turn away and pretend to fuss with the dishes, still piled messily beside the sink.

  “I’ll just finish these. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “No. No.” Alice takes me by the shoulders and pulls me away from the sink. “I’ll do them later. Promise. Let’s just have some fun.”

  There is a lot of curry left over, and Alice insists that Robbie try some.

  “Is that okay?” He looks at me apologetically as she serves him up an enormous bowlful.

  “It’s fine. Honest,” I say, and I mean it. I made far too much. Enough for six.

  Alice asks Robbie if he’d like to “partake of an alcoholic beverage” but he shakes his head, says something about soccer practice, and pours himself a glass of water instead. He watches Alice pour herself another drink.

  “Whiskey?” he says. “That’s a bit hard-core, isn’t it?”

  “Yep.” She winks suggestively. “Hard-core. Just like me.”

  The three of us go back outside onto the balcony, and Robbie starts eating enthusiastically. I feel a little shy with him at first, but he is so friendly and so nice about my cooking, and his conversation is so amusing, that it doesn’t take long for me to warm to him. Robbie is twenty and he works at some upmarket restaurant as a waiter, and in no time at all I’m laughing freely at his stories about all the obnoxious customers he has to deal with.

  When it gets too cold, we move inside and sit around on the floor in the living room. All the whiskey Alice has drunk is starting to show. Her cheeks are flushed. Her voice is slurred, and she is speaking a little too loudly, interrupting Robbie to finish his stories for him. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, just smiles indulgently when she interrupts and lets her talk.

  He loves her, I decide. The way he looks at her, the way he was available on such short notice so late on a Saturday night. He’s completely in love with her.

  Alice gets up and goes to the shelves to poke through Vivien’s CD collection.

  “My God!” she says. “I should have brought my iPod. This is all so old. So nineteen-eighties!” But she eventually chooses a Prince album and slides the disc into the player.

  “My mom loves this song,” Alice tells us. “She dances to it all the time. You should see her dance, Katherine. She’s unbelievable. She looks like some kind of movie star. She just looks so amazingly beautiful when she dances.” And she turns the volume up and starts swinging her hips seductively from side to side.

  Alice is smiling, her eyes closed, and I can’t help but wonder at this unexpected admission of admiration and affection for her mother. The few times I’ve heard Alice talk about her parents, she has been dismissive, scornful, almost as if she hated them.

  Robbie and I both stay seated and watch Alice dance. She’s a good dancer, smooth and sexy, and Robbie stares up at her, smiling. He looks completely smitten and I think how nice it would be to be loved like that, how exciting to have someone interested in me romantically. And for the first time since Rachel died, since Will, I allow myself to imagine that one day I might have someone like Robbie to love. Someone handsome and smart and kind. Someone who will love me, too—despite who I am and what I’ve done.

  6

  When the first song finishes, another comes on, one with a faster beat, and Robbie jumps up, stretches his hand out toward me, and pulls me up. And so we dance, the three of us. We dance close, our bodies touching, our hips and thighs bumping, our arms around one another. Robbie puts his arms around Alice. He kisses her and I watch them, their bodies pressed tight together. They are both so beautiful, they fit together so perfectly. Alice notices me watching and smiles, then whispers into Robbie’s ear. Robbie lets Alice go and wraps his arms around me, hugs me tight, and then he leans back, puts his hands on my cheeks, bends down, and presses his lips against mine. It’s a chaste kiss, almost brotherly, but it’s thrilling. Alice smiles, nudges me, giggles. And suddenly the three of us are hugging and laughing and I am deliriously happy. I feel liked. I feel attractive. I feel young again.

  And when the small voice starts up in my head—the voice that tells me I don’t deserve happiness, that I shouldn’t take what Rachel can’t have—I refuse to listen. I decide, at least for tonight, to ignore the side of myself that disapproves of everything that I want. I’m giddy and carefree. I am Katie Boydell again. Just for one night. Young and happy and impetuous. Katie. Fun and adventurous. Katie. Just for this one evening, Katherine is gone and I can be me.

  So we giggle and dance and hug to song after song until our faces are shiny with sweat and we become thirsty and need to go to the kitchen for water. When we’ve finished dancing, we pull the cushions from the sofa and set up a makeshift bed of pillows and blankets and collapse on the floor. We don’t stop talking until after three a.m.—and our sleep is the sleep of the exhausted, heavy and deep and still, the three of us close, legs tangled, faces buried in the pillows.

  When I wake, Alice is curled up next to me. She is on her side in the fetal position, her hands clenched in front of her face. She looks like a sleeping angel getting ready to fight, a strangely innocent-looking boxer. She is breathing quickly and shallowly, and I can hear a little high-pitched squeak from her nose as the air rushes in and out. Her eyelashes flutter, and I can see her eyeballs roll beneath her lids. REM sleep. Dreams.

  I extricate myself slowly and as quietly as I can. I’m still dressed in my skirt and T-shirt. I go straight to the bathroom and take my clothes off and step into the shower.

  When I’m finished, I get dressed and go to the kitchen.

  Robbie is at the sink, washing dishes. He has almost finished the pile left over from the night before—the mess Alice promised to clean up.

  “Hey,” I protest. “Thanks. But you shouldn’t be doing that.”

  “Good morning.” He looks up and grins, and despite his messed-up hair and bloodshot eyes, he still looks incredible. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind doing dishes. Actually. I kinda like it. I remember being a kid and watching Mom do it. I always thought it looked like fun. All that splashing. All the bubbles.” He lifts a bubble on the palm of his hand, blows it off so that it falls back into the sink. “How are you feeling? Tired? We only had about four hours’ sleep.”

  “Yeah, I know. I am a bit wrecked. How about you?”

  “Excellent. All ready for a day of soccer practice and a long night waiting on assholes at the restaurant.”

  “You poor thing. You should go back to bed. Get some more sleep.”

  “Nah.” He shrugs. “I’m used to it. You want some tea? I put the kettle on.”

  “I’d love some. But I’ll make it. I’m very fussy about my tea.”

  “Oh?”

  “I only drink the proper stuff, you know, the whole tea-leaf-and-teapot thing. People think I’m crazy. My pickiness annoys everyone. It’s always better if I just make it myself.”

  “That’s cool. I like the good stuff best, too. My mother hated tea bags. She used to only drink the real deal, too.”

  “Used to?”

  “Before she died.” He looks down at his hands, which a
re immersed in the water. “Just over a year ago.”

  “Oh, Robbie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No,” he says. “Of course you didn’t.”

  I could leave it at that, change the subject and talk about something happier, something less intense, but I remember the way people used to do that when Rachel died. I remember how bizarre and hurtful it felt to have the subject of her death brushed off and discarded as if it had no more importance than a conversation about the weather. So I don’t change the subject.

  “You must really miss her.”

  “Yeah.” He looks up, and his eyes are wet with tears. “Yeah, I do.”

  “And your father? How’s he doing?”

  “He’s okay, I think. But it’s really hard to know for sure, isn’t it? I mean, I can’t just come right out and ask, can I?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because what if he’s not okay? What then? What can I do about it?”

  I know better than to offer up meaningless platitudes, to tell the lie that words can heal. Because I know that they don’t, they can’t. Words are just words. They’re powerless against the force of real pain, real suffering.

  “Nothing,” I agree. “You can’t do anything. Not really.”

  “Exactly. And if you tell each other the truth, how sad you feel, then you’re only going to feel worse, because then you have to worry about the suffering of the other poor guy, as well as deal with your own crap.”

  “Yeah.” I shrug. “It’s probably better if you just deal with your misery your own way. And eventually, hopefully, it becomes less intense. Less at the front of your mind every day.”

  Robbie nods his agreement. And then we’re silent for a minute. I wait, giving Robbie the choice of continuing the conversation or changing the subject. His next words come out quickly, in a breathless rush. “I was about to move out when she got really sick, but I stayed because I wanted to help and because I wanted to be with her, you know, spend as much time with her as possible before she … because we knew by then that she was definitely going to die, it was just a matter of when. But that was two years ago. And I’m still there. I’m twenty years old and I still live at home because I feel too sorry for my old man to move out. But the really stupid thing is, I don’t even know if he actually wants me there. He probably wishes I’d just move the hell out so he could be alone, so he could wallow in peace. He probably thinks I want his company. It’s just … well … it’s just all screwed up, basically.”