Beautiful Malice (10 page)

Eventually Alice gets back and we sit around the kitchen table and enjoy the food. Robbie arrives at about eight when we’re cleaning up, the three of us laughing and cheerful. At first he’s a bit cold toward Alice, and a little disapproving toward Philippa and me. But we give him what’s left of the pizza and continue talking, and eventually he starts to thaw, to allow himself to be drawn into the conversation, to smile, even. And Alice is so gently solicitous, so loving and considerate toward him, that I can see he’s finding it impossible to maintain his anger.

We end up in the living room, the lights dim, the four of us quiet and relaxed with food and fatigue. Alice picks a DVD and goes to the machine to put it on. Before she presses Play she turns to face us.

“I just want to say something first. Before we all fall asleep.” She smiles sheepishly. “First up, I want you all to know”—she looks pointedly at Philippa and then Robbie—“that nothing happened between Ben and me last night. He left right after you all did. And that’s the honest truth.” Robbie tries to suppress a smile, but it’s perfectly clear that Alice’s announcement has made him very happy.

Alice continues. “But most importantly, I was horrible last night, and I want to officially apologize. To all three of you. Philippa, Robbie, but especially to you, Katherine.” She looks down at me, her eyes wide, beseeching. “I had no business saying what I did last night. None at all. And I don’t actually think it’s true for a second. Just because I would have had horrible, evil thoughts like that if I were in your shoes doesn’t mean you ever would. I was, what do they call it, transferring? Yes. I was transferring myself onto you. Which is unfair and ridiculous, and I’m so unbelievably sorry and you will never, ever know how much I hate myself for hurting you. You are always so good to me, Katherine, and I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I’d really love it if you’re willing to give it to me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I say, hoping that the dim light will hide my blush. “Sit down and be quiet.”

“I will,” she says. I hear a tremor in her voice and wonder if she’s about to cry again. “But first I just wanted to say how much I treasure your friendship. You have no idea how important it is to me. How special you are, Katherine. You have no idea.”

17

I
t was much darker inside than out. There was no proper lighting, just strings of lights hanging from the ceiling that barely pierced the thick darkness. It was hard to see, and the tin walls of the enormous shed made the noise echo and vibrate—there was such a wild cacophony of music and laughter and shouting and people that walking inside was disorienting, even a little frightening. Rachel and I stayed close to each other, holding on to each other’s arms.

Carly strode ahead, confident and sure, completely in her element. We followed her toward a big old free-standing tub that was filled with ice and cans of beer and Coke. Carly lifted three cans of beer out and handed one each to Rachel and me.

“Whose is this?” I asked.

Carly shook her head, indicating that she couldn’t hear.

“Can we just help ourselves?” I shouted.

Carly shrugged and looked around. “I don’t see anyone stopping us,” she shouted back, grinning. “Let’s go.”

She stepped straight into the crowd dancing in front of the stage and started stamping her feet, nodding her head, moving in time with the music. She lifted her beer can at us, winked, and took a large swig, then put her other arm up and waved us over.

Rachel looked at me questioningly, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to dance yet. It was quite possible that my boyfriend, Will, would be there, and I wanted to search for him. But I reached over and took Rachel’s beer so that her hands would be free and indicated, with a nod, that she should join the others.

Just as she did when she played the piano, Rachel lost herself when she danced. All her self-consciousness disappeared and she moved smoothly and rhythmically and in perfect unison with the music. She looked at me with such an enormous happy grin on her face that I laughed. I was pleasantly tipsy with all the alcohol, giddy with the crowd and the music, and high on the contagious sense of excitement surrounding me. I was excited with the possibility that I might see Will. And I was sure that he’d be just as pleased to see me as I’d be to see him.

I leaned back against the wall, sipped slowly on my beer—which I didn’t really like—and watched Rachel and Carly. I had just dicided to take a walk around the shed to see if I could find Will when he appeared right in front of me.

He was smiling his wonderful snaggletoothed grin and shaking his head in fake disapproval at my being there. I smiled back, but neither of us said a word, just moved together until we were pressed against each other and I could smell his smell—spice and something chocolaty and the faint tang of sweat—and his lips were against mine and our mouths were open and exploring hungrily.

We kissed and hugged, then separated so that we could look at each other, then we laughed and pushed our bodies together again. We were both so delighted to find each other, both so excited by the atmosphere and our mutual desire, that we couldn’t stop smiling. Even as we kissed I could tell that Will’s lips were curving upward in a grin.

And as he pushed against me I could feel that he had an erection—and knowing that I did this to him so quickly, that he just had to see and touch me and his body would react like this, was exhilarating. I felt a responding flutter and I knew that I wanted to go all the way with him. To make love. Not tonight, but soon. Very soon. And I pressed my hips against him in answer. A promise.

And because I was now with Will, the beer started to taste good, and I was suddenly very glad for the darkness—it was comforting and romantic. It made me feel cocooned, as if, despite the crowd, we were alone together.

18

T
he night after Alice’s apology I’m watching television, curled up on the sofa in my pajamas, flipping through channels with the remote control, when there’s a knock on the door.

I immediately think it might be Alice and wonder if I should hide, turn off the television, climb under the covers, and pretend I’m not home. It’s not that I’m still angry with her, but it’s late and I’m tired and even the thought of her never-ending energy is exhausting. But I don’t hide. I sigh, flick off the television, and go to the door.

It’s not Alice, it’s Robbie, and he’s obviously come straight from work because he’s still wearing his uniform. He looks as tired as I feel. He grins and holds up a tub of chocolate ice cream, a box of hot chocolate mix, and a packet of Oreos.

“I come bearing gifts,” he says. “Chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate.”

I laugh and hold the door open, stepping back so that he can enter.

“I wanted to talk.” Robbie hesitates in the doorway. “I hope you don’t mind. We just didn’t get any time alone yesterday. And there’s so much to talk about. I mean, I really wanted to talk to you about your sister and all of that. And about Alice, of course.” He shakes his head and speaks in a rush. “But I know you’re probably beat, so if you’re too tired to talk, I thought I could just make you a hot chocolate and tuck you in, and leave you in peace and come back another time.” He looks at my pajamas. “You were just about to go to bed, weren’t you? Sorry. I’ll just—”

“Robbie,” I interrupt. “Stop. Come in. I’m not that tired. I haven’t suddenly turned into a fragile old woman. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you, too.” I take the tub of ice cream from his hands, turn and head down the hallway. “And I want some of this. Right now.”

We go to the kitchen, scoop out two generous bowls of ice cream, and take them to the living room.

The ice cream is delicious—richly chocolate with a swirl of even richer chocolate fudge through it. I smear some on my lips deliberately and smile clownishly.

“This is yummo,” I say.

Robbie laughs. “Very funny.” But the smile leaves his face too quickly and he looks down at his bowl, pushing the spoon around without eating anything.

I lick my lips clean, dry them on the back of my hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I didn’t come here to talk about me. Honestly. What about you? Are
you
okay?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I’m fine.”

“You never told me about your sister. You’ve always been so brave about it. And I’m always telling you all my problems. You must … I mean …” And he looks at me, hurt and angry all of a sudden, and slaps his hand on his leg. “Why
didn’t
you tell me?”

I put my bowl on the coffee table, crouch close in front of him, and put my hands on his knees. “I’m sorry, Robbie. I know I’ve hurt your feelings by not telling you. I know it must seem that I haven’t trusted you enough or something, but it wasn’t that. I promise.”

Robbie looks down at me, silent, waiting.

“When Rachel died there was a lot—no, there was a
huge
amount—of media attention. I was stalked by the press. Mom and Dad were, too. And it was awful. And they said some really horrible, horrible stuff about our family and about me, stuff they just made up or that they just twisted so much.” Just remembering that time makes me cry, and I wipe my eyes and sniff, try to stop the flood of tears.

Robbie sits beside me on the floor and puts his arm around me. “You don’t have to tell me.” He sounds shocked, and I know that I’ve made him feel bad, that he will blame himself for my tears. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t know. God, Katherine, I’m a complete idiot. I just don’t know how to keep my big fat foot out of my stupid mouth.”

This is such an absurdly inaccurate description of Robbie’s character that it makes me laugh. I wipe my eyes. “You haven’t made me cry. I cry whenever I remember that time. And I remember it a lot. I just want to explain why I didn’t tell you.”

“It’s okay, it’s fine, you really don’t have to.”

I push his arm from my shoulders, slide away, and sit so that I’m facing him. “But I want to, and I’m going to. So just be quiet and listen. Please.”

He nods.

“My name isn’t really Patterson,” I say. “It’s Boydell.”

Robbie’s eyes widen with recognition. He’s heard of us, of course; he remembers the Boydell sisters.

“See? You know. At least you know what the papers said.”

“I remember the name.” He shakes his head. “I can’t remember much else, oh, except that your sister was some kind of musical genius. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, she was.”

“Shit, Katherine.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”

“I know.”

“That was your sister? My God. What happened to her was so fucked-up. Those psycho bastards that did it. It was unbelievable.”

“Yes. And the media made us famous afterward. Famous in a really bad way. A destructive, invasive way that made us all … that made us even unhappier … as if it wasn’t already unbearable enough,” I say. “And there were psychologists and all sorts of people who knew nothing making comments about us, about our family life. It was revolting. We just felt completely … invaded. Violated.”

“Like what? What did they say?”

“All this really mean stuff. A lot of articles said that Mom and Dad were pushy and ambitious for Rachel. And of course they were, to an extent. But Rachel was a true genius, a prodigy. I mean, there’s no way anybody gets to be that good without being ambitious, without working their heart out. And the papers were so happy to lap it up and take advantage of it while she was alive. I mean, there used to be all these articles titled ‘Our Local Prodigy’ and stuff. They loved it all. But then after she was murdered, everything changed. It was like they turned on us, became our enemies. We went from being the family everyone was proud of to being this pushy, horrible, selfish family that everyone loved to hate. I mean, they didn’t exactly lie, but they made everything sound so bad. Like they’d say Rachel had to do three or four hours of piano a day, and she did, of course she did. But they made it sound as if Mom and Dad forced her into it. They just made it sound so
ugly
. And it was all wrong. Rachel really loved the piano, she wanted to work at it, she wanted to be the best in the world, she said that all the time. Mom and Dad
were
ambitious for Rachel, that was true, but they loved her more than anything. They were good to her. They were good to both of us. We were a happy family,” I say, my voice shaky now. I sigh and put my head in my hands, try to stop myself from trembling. “We were happy.”

“Of course you were.”

“So,” I say, taking a deep breath. “That’s why I changed my name and became Katherine Patterson instead of Katie Boydell. And that’s why I moved here. I didn’t tell you, I didn’t really tell anyone except Alice, because I just didn’t want to
be
Katie Boydell anymore. I just didn’t want to be that girl. I didn’t want you to know about me before you actually
knew
me. If that makes any sense at all?”

Robbie nods, puts his hand on mine, and squeezes.

“But I wanted to tell you, Robbie. Really I did. Lots of times. Especially when you were telling me all about your mother, and you were being so truthful about how much it hurt you, and I really, really wanted to let you know that I understood just how you felt.”

“I thought you seemed particularly clued in to it all. As if you’d thought it all through or something.” He smiles, teasing. “I just thought you were super-intelligent, super-sensitive Katherine, but really it was just a case of been there, done that. A case of been there, done that even bigger and harder than anyone else.”

We finish our ice cream, which has melted to puddles in our bowls, and I tell Robbie about the night Rachel was murdered. And just as I did when I told Alice, I sob and sob in angry frustration. Robbie listens carefully and shakes his head in horrified disbelief. He brings me more ice cream and holds my hand and asks me a thousand gentle questions. He cries with me and we dry each other’s tears, laugh at our shared misery and snotty noses and red-rimmed eyes.

At midnight I tell Robbie that I’m exhausted and need to sleep. But when he offers to leave, I ask him to please stay. To sleep beside me. Not for sex but as a friend. Because I don’t want to be alone, because I need comfort and closeness. And he says yes, that he’d love to, that he’s glad I asked.

I give Robbie one of my spare toothbrushes, and we brush our teeth side by side in the bathroom, taking turns to spit into the sink. Somehow, the fact that we’ve cried together and revealed so much of our inner selves has brought us closer. We lie side by side on our backs beneath the blankets. It’s dark in my bedroom, and I listen to the sound of Robbie’s breathing and enjoy the soothing warmth of his body beside mine.

“I wouldn’t normally sleep with another girl’s boyfriend,” I say. “Even though we’re not actually doing anything, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? But somehow, for some reason, all of those normal rules don’t seem to apply to Alice.”

“That’s because Alice doesn’t follow any of those so-called normal rules herself. She doesn’t respect any boundaries, so why should anyone else when it comes to her? It’s the Alice phenomenon: hang around her for long enough, and you start behaving badly, too. I mean, come on.” He laughs. “What about the other night with Ben and Philippa? And what Alice said to you about your sister, and the way she was flirting with Ben? She hardly treats anyone else with respect, does she? We’re entitled to a bit of bad behavior, too, aren’t we?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Anyway,” I say, “I’m not sure that we are behaving badly. By being here together tonight, that is. If we’re not hurting anyone, then it probably doesn’t matter.” I shake my head in the dark. “No. It can’t matter. Because we’re friends and we’re looking after each other and we’re not hurting Alice. Even if she knew, she probably wouldn’t really care.”

“Alice would care, all right. But not for any of the normal reasons. Not because she loves me so much that she can’t bear the thought of me being close to someone else. She’d care because she’s not involved. She’d care because she’s not the puppet master in this situation.”

I don’t respond because I don’t like the implication that Alice has as much control over me as she does over Robbie. I can understand Robbie feeling that she controls him—after all, he’s in love and he puts up with a lot of crap from her. He allows himself to be available to Alice whenever she wants him. But I’m just Alice’s friend and my perception isn’t distorted by lust, I’m not madly in love with her. But I don’t want to point this out tonight. I don’t want to say anything to add to Robbie’s misery.

“Anyway,” he continues, “you used the word
boyfriend
. You actually said that I was Alice’s ‘boyfriend.’” He laughs, and it’s a dry, bitter, unhappy sound. “But I’m not really, am I? I’m just someone she uses when the mood takes her. I’m just a loyal puppy that she can use and abuse whenever and however she wants.”

“If that’s how you feel, Robbie—”

“Yes,” he interrupts. “Of course that’s how I feel.” He sounds angry and miserable. “That’s how it
is
. And I tell myself over and over that she’s bad, that I have to stop seeing her. But then I hear her voice or see her face and I …” His voice cracks and he’s quiet for a moment, struggling to bring his emotions under control. “You know what?” he whispers shakily. “You know the thing that’s really sick about all this?”

“What?”

“My dad has been seeing someone. A woman he met at a party one night. Shit,” he says suddenly, “you wouldn’t believe it, but her name is Rachel.”

“What’s so sick about that? It’s a common name. I’ve met lots of Rachels since my sister died.”

“No, that’s not the weird bit. I just remembered that out of the blue. But see, my dad’s been happy since he met her.
Really
happy. Happy the way he was before my mother got sick.”

“But that’s so great, Robbie. Have you met her? Is she nice?”

“No. I haven’t met her. I don’t
want
to meet her. I don’t want to know about her.”

“Oh.” And I’m quiet for a minute. “Do you feel he’s betraying your mother or something?”

“Nope. Not at all. My mother’s dead. She’d want Dad to be happy.”

“So?” I’m puzzled. “Why aren’t you happy for him, then? What’s the problem?”

“I’m jealous.” His voice is full of self-loathing. “That’s what’s so sick. I’m so pathetic that I’m jealous of my own father. I know I should be happy for him; he’d definitely be happy for me. But all I can think is how come he gets to be in love and have this fantastic relationship while I’m having my heart torn to shreds by Alice? How come he gets to be so happy? He’s an old man. I’m the one meant to be having the great love life. Not him. It’s humiliating. I can’t even bear looking at him and the ridiculous lovesick look he has on his face.”

“Oh, Robbie.” I’m glad he can’t see the smile on my face.

“See? I’m an evil bastard. I’m bad. I deserve all the crap I get from Alice.”

And I can’t help it—I burst out laughing. Robbie is quiet and his silence, the feeling that I shouldn’t be laughing, only makes me laugh harder. I try to stop, try to cover the sounds of my mirth but then it doesn’t matter because suddenly Robbie is laughing, too. We laugh so hard that the bed shakes and we kick the blankets off and roll around. We laugh until our stomachs hurt and it’s hard to breathe and we are almost choking. When we stop, my face is wet with tears.

“Anyway,” I whisper carefully, trying hard not to laugh again, “if you’re not bad, you can’t be good.”

“What? You have to be bad to be good? That’s stupid. It doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“No.” I giggle quietly. “It doesn’t, does it? What I meant was that if you see the bad in yourself, and dislike it, and try not to feel it, then that’s good. Nobody’s really good through and through. At least I don’t think so. Trying to be good, or at least trying not to be bad, is probably as close as we can get.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he says.