‘Depends. Does it matter to you, what your family think of me?’
‘A little, I suppose.’
‘Well then it matters to me too,’ he says, with great sincerity.
She stops loading the dishwasher, and looks at him intently. Like public laughter, Sylvie is not a big fan of ostentatious displays of affection, of cuddles and hugs. Sex with Sylvie is like a particularly demanding game of squash, leaving him aching and with a general sense that he has lost. Physical contact is rare and when it does come, tends to spring from nowhere, violently and swiftly. Now, suddenly, she puts her hand to the back of his head and kisses him hard, at the same time taking his other hand and jamming it between her legs. He looks into her eyes, wide and intent, and sets his own face to express desire, rather than discomfort at the dishwasher door chafing his shins. He can hear the family marching into the house, the twins’ boorish voices in the hallway. He tries to pull away, but his lower lip is gripped neatly between Sylvie’s teeth, stretching out comically like a Warner Brothers cartoon. He whimpers and she laughs then lets go of his lip so that it snaps back like a rollerblind.
‘Can’t wait for bed later,’ she breathes, as he checks for blood with the back of his hand.
‘What if your family hear?’
‘I don’t care. I’m a big girl now.’ He wonders if he should do it now, tell her that he loves her.
‘God, Dexter, you can’t just put the saucepans in the dishwasher, you have to rinse them first.’ She goes through to the living room, leaving him to rinse the pans.
Dexter is not easily intimidated by anyone, but there is something about this family, something self-sufficient and self-satisfied, that makes him feel defensive. It’s certainly not a matter of class; his own background is just as privileged, if a lot more liberal and bohemian than the High Tory Copes. What makes him anxious is this obligation to prove himself a winner. The Copes
are early risers, mountain-walkers, lake-swimmers; hale, hearty, superior and he resolves not to let them get to him.
As he enters the living room the Axis powers turn to face him, and there’s a hasty hush as if they have just been discussing him. He smiles confidently, then flops into one of the low floral sofas. The living room has been done up to feel like a country house hotel, right down to the copies of
Country Life, Private Eye
and the
Economist
, fanned out on the coffee table. There’s a momentary silence. A clock ticks, and he is contemplating reaching for a copy of
The Lady
when:
‘I know, let’s play “Are You There, Moriarty?”,’ says Murray, and there’s general approval from the family, even Sylvie.
‘What’s “Are You There, Moriarty?”’ asks Dexter, and the Copes all shake their heads in unison at this interloper’s ignorance.
‘It’s a wonderful, wonderful parlour game!’ says Helen, more animated than she has been all evening. ‘We’ve been playing it for years!’ Sam, meanwhile, is already rolling up a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
into a long stiff rod. ‘Basically, one person is blindfolded, and they have this rolled-up newspaper and they sit kneeling opposite this other person …’
‘…who’s also blindfolded.’ Murray takes over, at the same time digging in the drawers of the antique writing table for a roll of sellotape. ‘The one with the rolled-up newspaper says, “Are you there, Moriarty?”’ He tosses the tape to Sam.
‘And the other person has to sort of contort and duck out of the way and then answer Yes! or Here!’ Sam starts binding the newspaper into a tight baton. ‘And judging from where the voice comes from, he has to try and hit them with the rolled-up newspaper.’
‘You get three attempts, and if you miss all three you have to stay on and get hit by the next player,’ says Sylvie, elated at the prospect of a Victorian parlour game, ‘and if you hit the other person you get to choose your next contestant. That’s how
we
play it anyway.’
‘So—’ says Murray, tapping the palm of his hand with the paper truncheon. ‘Who’s for some Extreme Sports?’
It is decided that Sam will take on Dexter the intruder and that, surprise surprise, Sam will get the baton. The field of battle is the large faded rug in the middle of the room, and Sylvie leads him into position then stands behind him, tying a large white napkin over his eyes, a princess favouring her loyal knight. He gets one last glimpse of Sam kneeling opposite him, smirking from behind his blindfold as he taps the palm of his hand with the baton, and Dexter is suddenly overwhelmed by the need to win this game and show the family what he’s made of. ‘Show them how it’s done,’ whispers Sylvie, her breath hot in his ear, and he remembers the moment in the kitchen, his hand between her legs. Now she takes his elbow and helps him kneel, and the adversaries face each other in silence like gladiators in the arena of the Persian rug.
‘Let the games commence!’ says Lionel, like an emperor.
‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ says Sam with a snigger.
‘Here,’ says Dexter, then like a limbo dancer deftly leans backwards.
The first blow hits him just below the eye, making a satisfying slapping sound that echoes round the room. ‘Oooh!’ and ‘Ouch!’ say the Copes, laughing at his pain. ‘That’s
gotta
hurt,’ says Murray maddeningly, and Dexter feels a deep sting of humiliation while he laughs good-naturedly, a hearty, well-done-you laugh. ‘You got me!’ he concedes, rubbing his cheek, but Sam has smelt blood and is already asking—
‘Are you there, Moriarty?’
‘Ye …’
Before he can move, the second blow slaps against his buttock, causing him to flinch and stumble to the side, and again there is laughter from the family, and a low hissing ‘yessssss’ from Sam.
‘Nice one, Sammy,’ says the mother, proud of her boy, and Dexter suddenly has a deep hatred of this stupid fucking game, which seems to be some weird family ritual of humiliation …
‘Two out of two,’ guffaws Murray. ‘Nice one, bro.’
… and don’t say ‘bro’ either you little tit, thinks Dexter, fuming now because if there’s one thing that he hates it’s being laughed at, especially by this lot, who clearly think he’s a loser, all washed-up and not up to the job of being their precious Sylvie’s boyfriend. ‘I think I’ve got the hang of it now,’ he chortles, clinging to a sense of humour while at the same time wanting to pummel Sammy’s face with his fists—
‘Let’s get ready to rumble …’ says Murray, in that voice again.
—or a frying pan, a cast iron frying pan—
‘So here goes – three out of three methinks …’
—a ball-peen hammer, or a mace—
‘Are you there, Moriarty?’ says Sam.
‘Here!’ says Dexter, and like a ninja he twists at his waist, ducking down and to the right.
The third blow is an insolent poke in the shoulder with the blunt end that sends Dexter sprawling backwards into the coffee table. The prod is so impertinent and precise that he’s convinced that Sam must be cheating, and he tears his blindfold off to confront him, finding instead Sylvie leaning over him, laughing, actually laughing regardless of what it does to her face.
‘A hit! A palpable hit!’ shrieks that little shit Murray, and Dexter clambers to his feet, his face a grimace of delight. There’s a little round of patronising applause.
‘YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!’ crows Sam, teeth bared, his ruddy face screwed up, two fists pulled slowly towards his chest in victory.
‘Better luck next time!’ drawls Helen, the wicked Roman empress.
‘You’ll get the hang of it,’ growls Lionel and, enraged, Dexter notices that the twins are holding finger and thumbs to their foreheads in an L shape. L for loser.
‘Well I’m still proud of you,’ pouts Sylvie, ruffling his hair and patting his knee, as he sinks into the sofa next to her. Shouldn’t she be on his side? When it comes to loyalty, he thinks, she’s still one of them.
The tournament continues. Murray beats Sam, then Lionel beats Murray, then Lionel gets beaten by Helen, and it’s all very convivial and jolly, these neat little bops and taps with the rolled-up newspaper, all much jollier than when it was Dexter out there getting clubbed around the face with what felt like a length of scaffolding. From deep in the sofa he watches and scowls and, as part of his revenge, quietly sets about emptying a bottle of Lionel’s very good claret. There was a time when he could do this kind of thing. If he was twenty-three again he would feel confident and charming and self-assured, but he has lost the knack somehow and his mood darkens as the bottle empties.
Then Helen beats Murray and Sam beats Helen and now it’s Sam’s turn to try and strike his sister, and there is at least some pleasure and pride in watching how good Sylvie is at the game, effortlessly avoiding her little brother’s desperate swipes, twisting and ducking at the waist, supple and sporty, his golden girl. He watches, smiling, from deep in the sofa and just when he thinks they’ve all forgotten about him:
‘Come on then. Your go!’ Sylvie is holding out the baton towards him.
‘But you just won!’
‘I know, but you haven’t had a chance to bat yet, poor thing,’ she pouts. ‘Come on. Have a go. Take me on!’
The Copes all love the idea of this – there’s a low, pagan rumble of excitement, bizarrely vaguely sexual, and clearly he has no choice. His honour, the honour of the Mayhews is at stake here. Solemnly Dexter puts down his glass, stands and takes the baton.
‘You’re sure about this?’ he says, kneeling on the carpet an arm’s length away. ‘Because I’m a pretty good tennis player.’
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ she says, grinning provocatively, shaking out her hands like a gymnast as the blindfold is tied.
‘And I think I might be quite good at this.’
Behind him, Sam ties his blindfold tight as a tourniquet. ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’
The arena falls silent.
‘Okay, are you ready?’ says Dexter.
‘Oh yes.’
He grips the baton with both hands, arms level at his shoulder. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m ready when you …’
Momentarily an image flickers in his mind – a baseball player on his mound – as he slices diagonally with the bat, a tremendous uppercut that swishes audibly through the air and from behind the blindfold the impact feels fantastic as it sends tremors along both arms and into his chest. A moment of awed silence follows and for a moment Dexter is sure that he has done very, very well. And then he hears a crash, and an appalled cry goes up in unison from the whole family.
‘SYLVIE!’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Sweetheart, darling, are you okay?’
Dexter tears off his blindfold to see that Sylvie has somehow been transported to the far side of the room, slumped over in the fireplace like a marionette with all her strings cut. Her eyes are blinking wide and her hand is cupped to her face, but it’s already possible to see the dark rivulet of blood as it trickles down beneath her nose. She is moaning quietly to herself.
‘Oh my God, I am so sorry!’ he exclaims, horrified. Immediately he crosses towards her, but the family has already closed in.
‘Good God, Dexter, what the hell were you thinking?’ barks red-faced Lionel, drawing himself up to his full height.
‘YOU DIDN’T EVEN ASK IF SHE WAS
THERE
MORIARTY!’ shrieks her mother.
‘Didn’t I? Sorry—’
‘No, you just lashed out crazily!’
‘Like a madman—’
‘Sorry. Sorry, I forgot. I was—’
‘
—Drunk!’
says Sam. The accusation hangs in the air. ‘You’re drunk, man. You’re completely pissed!’
They all turn and glare.
‘It really was an accident. I just caught your face at an odd angle.’
Sylvie tugs on Helen’s sleeve. ‘How does it look?’ she asks in a tearful voice as she discreetly removes her cupped hand from her nose. It’s as if she’s holding a fistful of strawberry sorbet.
‘It’s really not too bad,’ gasps Helen, her hand clasped to her mouth in horror and Sylvie’s face crumples further into tears. ‘Let me see, let me see! The bathroom!’ she whimpers, and the family haul her to her feet.
‘It really was just some kind of flukey accident …’ Holding her mother’s arm, Sylvie hurries past him, eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘Do you want me to come with you? Sylvie? Sylv?’ There is no reply and he watches in misery, as her mother escorts her into the hall and up the stairs to the bathroom.
He listens to the footsteps fade.
And now it’s just Dexter and the Cope menfolk. A primal scene, they glare and glare. Instinctively he feels his hand tighten around his weapon, the tightly rolled-up copy of today’s
Daily Telegraph
, and says the only thing that he can think of to say.
‘Ouch!’
‘So – do you think I made a good impression?’
Dexter and Sylvie lie in the guest room’s large soft double bed. Sylvie turns to look at him, her face unmoving, the small fine nose throbbing accusingly. She sniffs but says nothing.
‘Do you want me to say I’m sorry again?’
‘Dexter, it’s
fine.’
‘You forgive me?’
‘I forgive you,’ she snaps.
‘And you think they think I’m alright, they don’t think I’m some sort of violent psychopath or something?’
‘I think they think you’re
fine
. Let’s forget it shall we?’ She turns onto her side, away from him, and turns out her light.
A moment passes. Like a shamed schoolboy, he feels as if he won’t sleep, unless he gets some further reassurance. ‘Sorry for … fucking up,’ he pouts.
‘Again!’
She turns once more, and lays one hand fondly on his cheek.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You were doing fine until you hit me. They really, really liked you.’
‘And what about you?’ he says, still fishing.
She sighs and smiles. ‘I think you’re okay too.’
‘Any chance of a kiss then?’
‘I can’t. I’ll start bleeding. I’ll make up for it tomorrow.’ She turns away again. Satisfied now, he sinks lower and puts his hands behind his head. The bed is immense and soft and smells of freshly washed linen, and the windows open out onto a still summer night. Stripped of quilts and blankets, they lie beneath a single white cotton sheet, and he can see the wonderful line of her legs and narrow hips, the curve of her long smooth back. Tonight’s sexual potential evaporated with the moment of impact and the possibility of concussion, but still he turns to her and places one hand beneath the sheet and onto her thigh. The skin is cool and smooth.