The Half Life of Stars (2 page)

Daniel hadn’t wanted to leave. He hadn’t wanted to climb into the car so soon after the accident and battle his way out into the murderous traffic. He hadn’t realised how angry he’d become or how eager he’d been to start in on that particular argument. It wasn’t the time or the place. He should have left well alone. He hadn’t realised how bad his father was feeling. How could he possibly have known?

In the lengthening shadows of the disaster, Daniel’s feet were starting to bleed. His tight winter boots dug hard into his toes and grated raw skin from his heels. Why had he rejected his sneakers that morning? Why had he picked out these wretched boots? He couldn’t run in them properly, the soles were rigid and as heavy as bread boards. It felt like his ankles were weighted down with lead, like the shock waves that sprang from his pounding of the road were trying their hardest to snap his bones.

How far had he come? A mile? A mile and a half? He was too exhausted to tell. He had used up his body’s propellant too soon and appeared to be slowing with every step. His tough sprinter’s frame was deflating, unused to such fierce acceleration over distance. Cramp began to fizz in the meat of his legs and he wondered how much longer he could stave it off. As long as it took. He’d fight it off as long as it took.

The road was utterly clogged now, sticky with caravans and trailers like his father’s blood was sticky with fat. Traffic spread across the freeway like a vast jammy clot, inching forward on its hands and knees. There was definitely an ambulance out here somewhere, they had overtaken one not so long ago. If only he
could battle his way through this maze then sprint back to find his father’s car.

Daniel redoubled his efforts and wrenched some extra speed from his legs. He passed a gas station–closed–then a billboard the size of a cinema screen that offered the way to Miami Beach. The road beyond the billboard was clear. Cars hummed forward like oil through a pipeline, streaming southwards towards the sun, towards his home. This was the road that they ought to have been on, but his father had become disorientated after leaving Jetty Park and had somehow managed to miss the vital sign. He wasn’t sure how it had happened but they appeared to have double-backed on themselves and within minutes they’d found themselves trapped; caught up in the swarm of tourists and rubber-necks who were battling their way out towards the Space Centre: no way forward, no way back; no valve or artery nearly strong enough to release this sudden intense surge of pressure.

People were staring at Daniel, peering through their wind-screens at the wild, crazy boy, running down the freeway like a startled cat. The lunatic with the sweats and the tough pumping arms, the kid without a jacket or a coat. What a sound he made as he passed them. The clackety-clack-clack of heavy boots on ice-cold tarmac as he tore in and out of the traffic. The violent suck of his tongue and his throat as he ripped each gasp of oxygen from the air. In the stillness some imagined they heard a steam train passing by, or an echo of the space shuttle itself. Some climbed out of their vehicles and chased after him for a while, worried he knew something that they didn’t.

From time to time his route became impassable. He’d reach a brick wall in the mass of sightseers and vehicles and have to construct a new way through. Here and there drivers had inched out onto the hard shoulder in an attempt to get ahead, but all had become stranded within just a few yards. Daniel leapt their bonnets like they were track hurdles, his knees rising quick and level to his hips. Sometimes his boots would hit the shell of their cars, sometimes he’d fly straight over the top. If he found his way blocked by a trailer or a truck he’d scramble up over the
roof. He didn’t stop to speak to anyone. He didn’t look behind him once. He never hesitated, stuttered or paused along the way to gauge where his heavy feet might land. He ran as if he were being hunted. And in a sense, he truly was.

After another mile or more he came upon it, an ambulance with red and white paintwork, a redundant siren pinned to its roof. Through the window Daniel could see that the paramedics were eating lunch, resigned to the fact that they were stuck. One man birthed thick pink sausages straight from a can, another shared out chicken legs from a Tupperware box. They listened to their radio as they discussed the fatal crash and shook their greasy faces at one another.

‘You have to help me,’ Daniel said, when he got to them, his face knotted tight against his fate. ‘My father. He’s not well. Please, you have to help me, up ahead.’

They took an age to get going, moved agonisingly slowly when they finally did; weighed down by bags and heavy equipment, and low-slung bellies filled with hot-dog buns and meat. It took them thirty minutes to jog those three short miles back to the car. Daniel had reached them in less than fourteen.

As he retraced his route through the traffic, blood began to pool in Daniel’s socks. Leather seams ground into raw heel bone, and a ligament that he’d damaged from a single misplaced jump began to pull apart beneath his kneecap. When the pain became too much, he paused and tore off his malicious boots, tossing them out onto the embankment and running the rest of the way in his stocking feet. Still he urged the medics forward–willing them to hurry, begging them not to rest, tugging them over the hoods and bonnets of the stranded cars. They panted and suffered and hugged their sides in pain but no one could say that they slacked.

The moment his father’s tan-coloured car came in sight, Daniel began to fall down. His legs gave way beneath him, dissolving into the ground like strands of newly dampened gelatine, and he felt his heart break in his throat. People began to gather round. Bored of sitting in their cars and playing I-spy with their kids
they came rushing out to see what all the fuss was. They had thought Daniel’s father was sleeping. The traffic wasn’t moving, probably wouldn’t be for hours, and they had thought this man was getting a little rest.

‘Is he dead?’ asked someone, carrying a camera in his hand. ‘I thought he was sleeping. You think he’s dead?’

They seemed unable to help him. They seemed unwilling even to try. No one thumped on his father’s chest with the heel of their fists; no one offered him an electric shock or thrust a shot of adrenalin into his pale arm. No one leaned over and blew air into his thin blue lips or waved a jar of foul smelling salts under his nose. After some minutes an onlooker reached for a frayed winter blanket that lay crumpled and neglected on the back seat of the car, and lowered it disconsolately over the dead man’s face.

‘How’d he get those marks on his cheek?’

‘Fell forward onto the steering wheel, I guess.’

‘Do you know, son?’ said one of the paramedics, scraping Daniel off the ground. ‘You got any idea how he came by these marks?’

Daniel couldn’t begin to say. He didn’t speak again for the next five days. It took every shred of concentration he had left in his body to erase those desperate minutes from the recording of his life, and make the answer to their question disappear.

The night my older brother Daniel decides to disappear, I’m right in the middle of something. This is typical of him. As long as I can remember he has always had to be the centre of attention, and on this occasion he’s truly surpassed himself. I’m lying in bed with the man I might almost love and it’s reached a delicate stage in the proceedings. We’re newly naked–on the point of entry–and a telephone is raging on my bedside table. It rings so fiercely, stopping then starting all over again, that I’ve either to smash it or pick it up.

‘Who is it?’

‘Claire, it’s Kay.’

Just what you want with your pants down; a phone call from your high and mighty sister-in-law.

‘Kay, uh, it’s late…you know, I’m sort of in the middle of something.’

‘God…I’m sorry…are you…is somebody
there
?’

Of course there’s somebody here. And it’s not just anyone, either. It’s the man that I might almost love.

The man I might almost love is a pastry chef. In all honesty I’m not sure I can make a life with a man that comes home smelling of pastry. He has dough in his fingernails and flour on his shoulders that looks suspiciously like a coating of dandruff. At work he wears a nylon cap on his head which looks like it’s made out of stocking tops and is meant to stop his hair from falling out into the cannoli batter. I imagine him wearing it when I close my eyes and kiss him; it makes him look deranged and a little cheap. But this is my weakness all over–the things that repel me are the things that attract me the most.

My sister-in-law pauses at the end of the line, composes herself and starts over.

‘Claire, I’m worried about Daniel. We don’t know where he is.’

‘What, you mean you’ve lost him?’

‘No, we haven’t lost him, we’re just not sure where he is. You haven’t heard from him, have you?’

‘No. Not since the weekend.’

‘He didn’t mention anything to you? About going to a Christmas party this week. About staying out late for some reason?’

‘He phoned to talk about the loan, Kay. He wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat.’

‘No…right. Of course not.’

I shouldn’t be short with her; it’s not her fault I’ve had to borrow money off them again.

‘What’s up? You going to be long?’

The pastry chef is rubbing my thighs; he’s kissing my belly as she speaks.

‘It’s just…he’s not home yet. He never came home from work.’

I should never have invited him back to my flat.

‘It’s gone midnight. He hasn’t even rung.’

The pastry chef and I have no future.

‘I don’t know what to do. Do you think I should call the police?’

He hasn’t had any kind of education; not in the traditional sense.

‘Claire, please, I’m worried. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

I give in. I can hear the choke of panic rising up in her throat and I clamber to the edge of the bed. The pastry chef lays there nonplussed; erection gleaming in the lamplight, a smile on his face like a lick of warm butter. My stomach flips; he is a god. He is the man that I might almost love.

‘So, what do you want me to do? Do you want me to, you know…to come over?’

‘Would you? You don’t mind?’

My lover is stroking my breasts.

‘No…no, I don’t mind.’

I swing my legs wearily over the mattress and pull my underwear and skirt back on. Why did I say I’d go over there? I should have told her to call her mother. Or
my
mother. Or a friend. I should never have moved this close to them in the first place. I had a decent buffer against them all when I lived in Oxford; an hour and a half if the traffic was bad, a blissful hour and a half. But, as with everything in my life, from money to men to choosing where to live, I have the worst instincts imaginable.

The pastry chef offers to drive me to my brother’s house and because he’s doing me this favour and being so understanding it only seems polite that I tell you his name. He calls himself Gabe, short for Gabriel.

‘Like the angel?’ I said, when he told me.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Just like the angel.’

There’s been a car accident on the Hammersmith flyover and all traffic has ground to a halt. Sirens are brewing in the distance–raw and urgent–and I suspect we might be stuck for some time. It makes me nervous. Everything was fine while we were moving but sitting here stranded, just the two of us–virtual strangers–neither of us knows what to say. The car fills up with awkwardness, with a silence I feel obligated to quell.

‘I’m divorced,’ I say, suddenly, even though he hasn’t asked. ‘I separated from my husband last year.’

‘Well…that’s a shame.’

‘It was. We ran a business together and he was a bit rash with money…the whole thing, it sort of fell apart. We ended up going bankrupt.’

‘I see.’

‘And we…well
I
, lost the flat. because it was me that put down all of the deposit, and when I think about it now…we should never have got married in the first place. It was a total impulse sort of thing.’

Gabe’s foot eases down on the accelerator and we edge forward a couple of metres.

‘Forget it,’ I say, sinking back into my seat. ‘It’s a long story, I’m sure you’re not interested.’

‘No…I am…what kind of business did you run?’

‘A language school. I speak seven languages: Spanish, Italian, Russian, some Japanese…we were going to set up our own place.’

‘Your husband was a linguist, too?’

‘No, a jazz pianist. We were going to teach music as well.’

‘But it didn’t work out?’

‘We never even opened. Michael, that was my husband, he sort of got carried away with the ordering.’

‘The ordering?’

‘He ordered a lot of pianos.’

The pastry chef smiles. I start to relax.

‘So what now?’ he says. ‘How does a bankrupt linguist make a living?’

‘Translating, mostly. It’s pretty mind numbing at times, but, you know, it has its upsides. You get to meet a lot of interesting people.’

‘I’m not sure I’d like it all that much.’

‘Really? Why not?’

‘Translating other people’s words. I think I’d find that…stifling.’

What? Like baking wedding cakes is so rewarding. Like making tea roses out of lumps of greasy marzipan is the pinnacle of human creativity. He sees the look on my face. Quietly attempts to placate me.

‘But it must be nice, though. Being able to talk to people in their own language. I’d like that. I’d like to be able to do that.’

It’s taken the best part of an hour to reach my brother’s house: a white-faced Edwardian villa with strands of Christmas lights burning in the windows. It is a dream house, in the sense that I can only ever dream of having one like it. Three storeys of oak
floors, high ceilings and wood panelling, filled with all that is tasteful and authentic: real fires in the grate, real fruit in the fruit bowls and art from actual galleries on the picture rails. I still have posters on my walls. Occasionally I might run to a clip frame.

‘Where were you? We thought you weren’t coming.’

It’s my mother who opens the door to us and I let out a sigh, unable to contain my disappointment.

‘There was an accident on the flyover…what are
you
doing here?’

‘We’re all here, Claire. If Kay had relied on you, where would she be?’

Less than thirty seconds and she’s already sticking it to me. It must be some kind of a record.

‘Oh, hello, who’s this, now?’

My mother sucks in her belly. She tugs at her winter kaftan, trying to fashion herself a waist, and her eyes rest squarely on Gabriel.

‘This is my uh…my friend, Gabe. He drove me over, he’s just dropping me off.’

‘Hello, Gabe, nice to meet you. I hope my daughter hasn’t been an inconvenience.’

‘No…not at all.’

‘It’s just that we’re experiencing a bit of a family crisis this evening…my mental son has gone missing.’

Why would she say that? Why would she say that in front of someone she’s only just met?

Gabe holds up his hands, already surrendering.

‘It was no trouble. I’ll leave you to it.’

‘Nonsense…you should come in and wait with us. We could all use the company, you should stay.’

He hesitates a moment too long and by the time he realises his mistake she’s already reaching for his coat. It’s not an obvious move–she’s a master at this–but I notice her fingers graze over his buttocks as she drops his coat from his shoulders and walks away. I give her a look that says ‘behave yourself’–she gives me a look that says ‘screw you’.

Kay comes out to greet us: a skinny, snub-nosed woman in a tightly buttoned blouse who reminds me of an over-bred dog, a Pekinese or something like that. I find I have trouble breathing when I’m near her: she makes me feel like there’s no air in the room.

‘Who else is here?’ I say, kissing her bony cheek. ‘You didn’t tell me everyone would be here.’

‘I told them not to bother…there’s really no need…but when I mentioned you were coming—’

‘We called ourselves a taxi straight away,’ my mother says. ‘And Sylvie was adamant…she insisted we stop and pick her up.’

My sister’s here too. Of course she is. She wouldn’t have wanted to be outdone.

‘You don’t have to wait,’ says Kay, awkwardly. ‘Especially if…well, you’re
busy
.’

Kay glances at Gabriel. He coughs.

‘No.’ I say. ‘I’m here now. I’ll stay.’

Kay ushers us onto one of the stiff-backed antique sofas that decorate the living room and disappears to the kitchen to make tea. My mother heads for the drinks cabinet–her second home–and it’s left to her second husband, Robert, to fill us in. What a sweet man he is. He quite likes me, I think, but because he knows how to toe the party line he keeps his greeting brief and succinct. These are the facts the way he tells them.

No one has heard from my brother since he left for work this morning. He gave no indication to anyone that he was working late. His secretary said he was still in the office when she left, but that’s the most anyone knows. His friends had nothing arranged. One of them–and it’s only a suspicion–thinks he might have accepted an impromptu invite to a seasonal party.

It’s clear that this has become the optimistic view. A client has taken him out for drinks, it’s nearly Christmas; he’s been invited to a club and got drunk. His phone has run down, he’s stuck in a taxi queue, he’ll probably be home any minute. It’s not like
him to come home late or forget to call his wife but who knows, he works hard, it happens. We decide that 2:00 a.m. is our cutoff point. If we haven’t heard anything by then we’ll start calling the hospitals.

‘So…Gabe,’ says my mother, sitting back down with her drink. ‘How long have you and my daughter known each other?’

Christ, she’s started. What is he going to say? How is he going to sell this? Well, Mrs Ronson, your daughter picked me up at the pastry shop where I work. She was overcome with a dose of ants in the pants for the sexy Latino boy, his beauty cruelly blighted by the net stocking on top of his head. In fact, Mrs Ronson, since you ask, we were just about to start fuc—excuse me,
making love,
when the call came. She’d known me for what? An hour by then, an hour and a half?

‘Three weeks,’ he says, not missing a beat.

‘And you met, where? Through work?’

Go, Gabe. You’re on a roll. Make something up. Something impressive.

‘No. She came into my shop. I’m a chef. I make pastries.’

‘Pastry?’

‘Cakes, pies, biscotti. Our speciality are pasties de nata.’

‘What are they?’

‘Portuguese tarts filled with custard.’

The way he says this–slowly, deeply, to her face–it’s nothing short of heroic.

‘Oh, I love those, they’re delicious. We buy them at Café Vasco in Soho before we go dancing. You can go all night on one of those things.’

This is Sylvie, my sister: twenty-three, gorgeous, as blonde as an angel, a bigger slut even than I am.

‘Yes,’ says Gabe. ‘That’s the place. It’s my father’s bakery, his name is Vasco.’

Sylvie uncrosses her legs and leans into him.

‘And what is the secret, do you think?’

‘The secret?’

‘Of making good pastry.’

‘Attention to detail. The art of baking is to take great care. You have to be…
precise
.’

Precise. The word makes her shift in her seat. She’s getting it now. Inhaling it. Feeling the Gabriel buzz. Please don’t let him want to fuck her. It would so piss me off if he wanted to fuck her.

The night stretches on quietly: everyone tense, everyone distracted, my mother never more than an arm’s length from a gin and tonic. Kay is beginning to unravel. Creases are forming in her neatly ironed blouse and she’s finding it hard to control her nerves. She grips her cup tightly in her manicured fingers, and there’s a rash developing on her neck from where she keeps scratching at an itch that turns out to be nothing.

I want to tell them not to worry, to persuade them that there will be some harmless explanation. Any time now a key will turn in the lock or a phone will ring in the hallway and it’ll be Daniel. He’ll come belting through the door, all fretful and apologetic and regale us with some astonishing and fanciful story. He’s a capable, intelligent, responsible man: the rock of our entire family. It’s only a matter of time before he turns up, shakes his head, and explains about the power cut, or the flat tyre and asks us what on earth we’re all doing here.

Even as the words start to form in my mouth, I know I can’t say them out loud. What makes me so sure that something hasn’t happened to him? How can I possibly know? It’s something as weak as superstition, I think. It’s just that I’ve come to believe over the years that the same level of misery and misfortune can’t strike the same family more than once.