The Mad British (21 page)

MY DINING PARTNER keeps reaching over and stealing pieces of my muffin, and not just any pieces, but actively seeking and digging out the thick blueberries buried in the dough—the best part—and slipping them, unashamed, into her mouth. Most of the blueberries are now gone and the muffin is mutilated. There is no choice now but to buy another one. I take another sip of my tea and say nothing.

Jessica trots over to me during a lull in the morning rush and refills my drink, mouthing a quick "thank you" before disappearing behind the counter. Coming in this morning to pick up my usual morning drink, I’d noticed Jessica was working alone with Alice strapped into a nearby high chair, whining as Jessica tried to take orders and make coffee. Despite the blaring heat of August, people still needed their caffeine fix like mad, and the opening person had called in sick. I’d offered to watch Alice until the rush died down, or until a replacement came in, but I hadn’t counted on her hijacking my breakfast.

I turn back to my laptop screen, ignoring the four emails from Travis that’s popped up in the last five minutes, each one marked Urgent.

It’s a lost cause, but I check my muffin one last time to see if salvage efforts will be worth it. Alice is reaching for it again, this time squishing the crumbs in her tiny fist and pulling the mash to her mouth, all-the-while staring at me with her wide blue eyes in the way that young children do—without breaking contact. She starts to stand on her chair, her sky-blue tutu tangling round her legs, still looking at me like I’m a monkey she barely tolerates.

I have the parenting skill of a sack of cement, but I don’t think standing on a wooden chair when you’re small and pretty breakable is a good idea. I pick up Alice and settle her on my lap, praying to all receptive deities that she’s been toilet trained.

She reaches for my hot cup of tea, but I move it out of her reach. "Uh, hey, want to play with this?" I drum a few keys, waking up my laptop, and notice that Travis has given up trying to message me and is calling instead. I click open the dialogue box and Travis' upper body pops onto the screen, sporting a wrinkled T-shirt and a few days worth of stubble.

"Hey, you guys work fast," he says, absently rubbing the back of his head. Alice stares at the screen, transfixed. "Doesn't look like either of you. Hate to break it to you, bro, but I don't think she's yours. And nice beard by the way. Good to see you’re finally letting yourself go wild."

"Dah," Alice blurts, suddenly pointing at the screen. "Hello."

"Awww, she thinks I'm her daddy." Travis pushes his face closer to the webcam and his entire head fills the screen. "Which, thanks to this incredible pussy drought I'm going through, is impossible at this point."

"Travis, I’m warning you, watch your mouth—"

"Hi little girl. Aren't you cute? I've got a fiver if you can manage to pee on Uncle James’ lap."

"What’d you want? Make it quick." I adjust Alice who’s sitting on my tie and strangling me.

"Okay, here it is. Last night I got bored and started, you know, killing time. So after about two or three hours of watching German porn I start searching for something else to, uh, stimulate me, and you're gonna die when you see what I found."

I instinctively clap a hand over Alice's eyes. "Not in front of the kid."

"Don't worry, it's not porn. Well, it's not
not
porn, exactly, but, here, check it out."

He clicks something on his end and a browser window pops up, playing a video. It’s shot with a handheld, showing a stage lit up with soft pink light, and about a dozen girls in various stages of undress, half blonde, half brunette, dancing on chairs along with some rock music.

"You didn’t tell me your girlfriend was in Liquid Sugar."

My eyes widen when I catch Adelaide wearing black lingerie and fishnets, and about twenty pounds of makeup, and actually jamming and smiling like she’s having the time of her life. The crowd, mostly male—I feel my jaw clench instinctually—is going wild for the girl in the foreground, who seems to be the ringleader or something. She looks familiar.

"Mummy," Alice blurts, pointing. I’d forgotten to cover her eyes again. Sure enough, hovering in the background, Jessica is swinging on a rail affixed to the ceiling, her stomach hard and flat, enough to grate something on.

"Ah, here comes my girl," Travis says. The ringleader is back, grabbing one leg and extending it over her head. The camera is shaking a lot, but Chloe's black hair and blue eyes are unmistakable. "That's right, baby. Work out your daddy issues for me."

"That's Adelaide's best friend," I tell him, taking a sip of tea and wondering how long I can expose Alice to this before I’m reported to Child Protective Services.

"You serious? And you haven't hooked me up?"

"She's been with Adelaide's brother for almost two years."

"Great, there goes that fantasy. Why didn’t you tell me she’s a Sugar girl? Do you know how many times I've, uh, applauded them one-handed on many a long, lonely night? Why didn’t she stick with it? They’re touring with Jessie right now. And the new head Sugar has her own reality show, and yes, I do TiVo it."

I click the video off. "She wanted to focus on her art."

"Bull. That's the highest form of performance art imaginable, and probably the most underappreciated. Did you notice they never get nude? But they make you think they do. It's brilliant. And how all the blondes wear black all the time, and the brunettes are in white, they play with the whole virgin, whore archetype. It's actually very well done. My friend,
that
is art. Not scribblies on paper."

"That's how she met Preston," I inform. "He represents the rest of them now."

"Lucky bastard. Maybe I should look into being an agent. Or maybe I should buy a football team. What’d you think? Too pretentious? Too Richard Branson? Tell me the truth, I can handle."

Alice is reaching for the keyboard, her fingers sticky with muffin debris and saliva. "Is this all you called to tell me?"

"Yeah, and to ask if Adelaide's ever Sugared for you. Because it's not fair for her to hold out on something like that.
Damn.
"

"Bye Travis."

I close the box and make a mental note to slap him on the back of his head for that last comment.

I give Alice a yellow highlighter and a stack of Post-It notes to play with while I complete one more transaction that, if it’s ever discovered, will utterly screw me, steal my lunch money, and leave me in the doghouse for eternity.

Adelaide has set three big rules in our relationship, and I’m breaking Rule Number One.

Again.

Timing is everything. I have to wait until she collects commission or makes a sale, find out the amount, then quietly move funds into her account from one of my own. Judging by the number of unopened bank statements stacking up in her room, it’s unlikely that she’ll ever notice.

If I’m lucky.

Every damn thing comes down to luck. Naturally, there is some guilt in breaking Rule Number One on a pretty regular basis. But there’s no other way I can get round it, and I’ve got to get round it. I justify it by sticking to Rule Number Two to the letter of the law.

Maybe I shouldn't do it this time. I’ve been pressing my luck so far, and it can’t hold out forever. . .

Then I think about the video I’d just watched, and then I remember the night she came to the Helix on my birthday.

I don’t want her abandoning her underwater painting until she can afford more cobalt blue—which surprisingly is expensive enough to merit its own street value—and the decision makes itself. I click the mouse.

Jessica rushes to the table again. "James, thank you so much, I know I already owe you free tea for life but will you like to keep my firstborn? She seems to like you."

"Don't worry about it." I pick up a napkin and try to wipe off a smear of goo that Alice left on my shirt, hoping it’s one of the more innocuous bodily fluids. "Just have your husband keep the flagrant fouls down to one per game."

Jessica's expression is pained. "Noah still feels really, really bad about that."

"I'm just teasing. Part of it was my fault. If I didn’t sprain my fingers then I wouldn’t have been called for a charge. I was trying to dunk over him."

"Even so. At least it’s your left hand, right? Like, who needs their left hand?"

"I'm left handed."

"Oh. . ." She wipes something off Alice’s face. "What’s happening with. . . ?"

Suddenly I’m nervous. The child on my lap senses my change in mood, and out of mercy, momentarily stops drawing on my shirt with the highlighter.

"I'm going to show her today. What do you think?"

She smiles at me. "I think you need a new muffin."

Chloe has always had excellent taste in shoes. She had used her first advance to buy a pair of red Escada platforms with Swarovski crystal embellishments. An addiction was born, and since her professional career took off she’s amassed a distinguished collection. Fortunately for me, and unfortunately for her, we wear the same shoe size.

But if she saw me practically running down the street wearing her steel-coloured goatskin Prada stilettos, risking a scuff, or worse, a broken heel, I would be cut off in half a blink. And maybe even murdered.

"Hey James, slow down. You're like running. Do you know what Chloe would do to me if I mess up her shoes?"

He slows down. "Sorry, love."

He had left work in the middle of the day, which considering I haven’t seen him in daylight hours in at least a week, is highly suspect. The explanation is equally foggy. Something about checking out a new apartment he wants to buy in Chelsea. I can’t fathom any reason why he would want to move, other than the fact I’d dropped a cast iron pan and chipped a corner of his countertop. It still fills me with mad guilt every time I stand in his kitchen. But now he seems anxious as he charges down the pavement, pulling me by one hand.

I trot a bit to catch up with him. "Hey. Did I tell you the prints of Victory are done? Steffen already sold two of them online. Now he has to figure out how to ship one of them to Halifax. Wait a second, there's something yellow on your shirt. It looks like highlighter."

He stops in front of a building. "This one." The doorman opens the door for us.

"Thanks," I call over my shoulder, entering the lift inside a minute later. I keep talking as he swipes some card and punches a button. "So anyway, he doesn’t even know where Halifax or even Yorkshire is. He doesn't know where anything is outside of London, and he threw this total bitch-fit when I teased him about it so now I have to draw a tattoo for some guy that he's sweating over so he can pass it off as his own."

He doesn’t even catch it. "What?"

"What's wrong with you?" I stare at him. "Do you have a body hidden up there or something? What's going on?"

He grabs me by the elbows and pulls me close. "I really hope you like this place."

"Uh, I like the place you have now. There's nothing wrong with it. At least your bedroom doesn't have pigeons falling through chimneys in it."

"Believe me, you'll probably like this one better." The hallway is small and there is only one unmarked double door. James pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door.

My borrowed heels click on the floor when I enter. "Wow." I turn slowly, taking in the high ceiling and natural light pouring in through the skylight. "This is huge. . . lots of wall space." I trail a hand against the wall, continuing my inspection, already planning which pieces I can arrange on all the empty space. "Wow. . . This. Is. Incredible."

"I want to show you something. Come."

I stop halfway through my inspection of the kitchen. "It's that body you're hiding, isn't it?"

"No, I keep those in the boot of my car. Just come here already."

He leads me down a hall, passing other rooms that at a quick glance are just as gigantic as the rest of the place, and opens a door at the end of the hallway.

This room is different. The walls are white; the floor is wood; and the ceiling stretches a good twenty feet above my head, with a gigantic skylight letting the afternoon sun in. A countertop runs across the length of one of the walls, complete with an industrial sink, and most significantly, a spiral staircase that leads to a small loft, complete with more cabinets.

James is watching me as I stare open-mouthed and tentatively touch the countertops. "What’re you thinking, love?"

I pause, pushing the hair out of my face. "I'm. . . thinking there's only one reason you would consider buying a place that has studio space in it." I turn to him, my stomach tensing. "You can’t be serious."

"Of course I'm serious. Do you like the track lighting? I had Noah put it in. He owes me a favour for almost breaking my fingers."

I’m shaking my head. "It's too much, I can't accept this."

"Yes you can."

"No I bloody can't, James. This is a total violation of Rule Number One, I do not take money off you." I can’t think of what else to say, so I simply slump to the floor.

"Adelaide, you're not taking money off me."

"Bullshit. This is beyond taking money off you. This is like, taking giant solid gold freights of money off you.” My eyes shut. “I will owe you forever."

He reaches down and pulls me up by a hand. "You won’t owe me anything. You’ll never owe me anything. Adelaide, I'm asking you to live with me."

"I'm sorry, I'm freaking out, I just—it's like, I've never had someone do something like this. . . "

"You didn’t answer my question."

"You didn’t ask one."

He reaches out and caresses my face with his thumb. "I asked if you would live with me. Don't get hung up on the details. Just say yes."

I stare into his eyes, loving and vulnerable, and let what he is really asking me sink in. James isn’t another ordinary grey mixing into my world. He is a new colour. A rainbow of hope. I had very little trust left to give when I’d met him. Somehow, along the way, he has made me want to change the things I thought could never be changed. If I cut him off here, I may as well hand him the scissors.

The best things in life only happen when you give them a chance.

I nod, and in less of a second, he pulls me into a rib-crushing hug, knocking the breath out of me. "You already bought it, didn’t you?" I turn my head into his big warm chest.

"Sort of."

"Sort of like how? In Wayman's terms."

"Layman's terms."

"Whatever, Poindexter."

"I gave the previous owner a set amount of legal tender and signed papers and now I am the current owner."

"What will you do if I say no?"

He pulls back to look at me. "Then I will have one really huge bathroom—with track lighting—to check my beautiful arse in."