The Mad British (22 page)

I UNWISELY WAIT until Steffen is stretching at the top of the ladder, trying to hang a painting, to ask, "What’s been your longest relationship?"

"Three weeks and four and a half days, thank you very much. I had dumped his Minnelli-loving arse over lunch, so I'm counting the morning hours into the grand total. That's the last time I date older guys who aren't out of the closet yet." He lets go of the painting and dusts his hands. "Speaking of lunch, let's get out of here. I'm hungry and there's no place this tacky thing is going to look good. I don't know what I was on when I made it. Oh wait, yes I do. Hash."

"Okay. But I have to stop and get some cash out."

At the ATM I stop and stare at my receipt. "What?" Steffen says, his stomach rumbling.

I crush the paper in my fist. "That's funny. I should be more broke than this."

"Poor you. This means you're buying." He lights a fag when we start off again. "Anyway, how's the new home? And when’s the party? It’s been two whole months since you moved in with James."

"Huh." I snigger anxiously and shrug. "Once I feel like it's actually my home."

Steffen takes a drag. "Explain, babe."

I try to think of the best way I can phrase it and not sound like an ungrateful cow, which is what I feel like most days.

"It's like. . . he bought this apartment, right? And it's fabulous and I love it and I can't believe it's now where I live, but it's like, what if I break something or clog the pipes, or Cheshire pukes on the floor when we're not home and his stomach acid eats away at the hardwood? I have never lived anywhere nice enough to even care if my floors are discoloured from cat puke, but now I freak out about that kind of thing, because it's our apartment, but it's not, it's really his. . . "

Steffen is staring at me like I’ve just pulled a severed head out of my purse. "Sweet baby Jesus, Adelaide, I always knew you were a little unhinged, but I didn’t know you could cross the line into actual crazy."

I cuff his shoulder. "You don't understand. Stop making fun of me."

"I understand you’re still getting used to living with another person, but God, dear, it doesn't bother him, obviously, or else he would have said something, and if it bothers you so much, why don't you just talk to him about it? You're both adults, and thankfully only one of you is mad."

I shoot him a look as I pull open the door to The Coffee Hole. "This mad woman thinks that is mad talk."

"Yes, mature open communication is definitely not the way to go. Tell me, is it current drugs that are killing your brain, or is it the ones from Uni? Because frankly I can't tell and I would like some."

I flinch as something light and scratchy hits my face, and luckily, close my eyes at the same time.

"Hey," Preston yells, drawing stares from other patrons and shakes the saltshaker in my face. "Come back, soldier.
A-ten-tion
."

"Quit it, you little shite. We're in public." I rub salt crystals out of the folds of my eyelids, dislodging a contact in the process.

Bollocks.

Preston smiles at the table staring at us, which would have had a better effect if they were female, instead of grey-haired CEOs in suits. He bites loudly into a raw baby carrot.

"We're always in public. Life happens in public. Right, what's eating you?"

"Nothing," I mutter, my index finger knuckle-deep in my eyeball. "
Ouch
. Shit."

"Yes there is, because that's the second time I caught you staring into space like a school boy daydreaming of tits in history class. Are you daydreaming of tits? No shame, man, that's practically ninety per cent of my day. The other ten per cent is actually staring at tits, pray Jesus."

I’m too preoccupied with the slab of plastic in my eye to catch any of that. "What’re you talking about?"

"Don't worry about it. You’re just about to fess up to whatever the hell's bothering you."

"Nothing's bothering me."

"Yeah sure, grumpy. Please cut the bullshit, I know you already."

I’m not sure where I should start, or when, or what exactly I’m trying to say that will articulate the feeling taking residence in my gut, a feeling I’m not accustomed to. Preston must have seen the indecision written on my face as his tone suddenly goes serious. "I know you well enough to know it's not work, because then you would be bitching up a storm, so that leaves family or girlfriend. I'm going to guess girlfriend." He squints across the table. "Is she knocked up?"

"What?
No.
"

My eye is killing me. Either a grain of salt has somehow worked its way in, or the contact is torn and is now giving me corneal abrasions every time I blink. Still better than someone shooting lasers in my eyes and peeling it like a goddamn grape. I keep Preston waiting for a few minutes while I fish the contact out of my eye and stick it to my napkin.

"Adelaide cleans the bedroom."

Preston sits stock-still and blinks a few times. "How dare she. What a bitch," he deadpans.

"Never mind." The other contact is retrieved and joins its partner on the table. I fish inside my briefcase for my glasses.

"No really, now I need to hear this. You've got sand in your arse-crack because. . . your girlfriend cleans the bedroom?"

"Have you ever seen her bedroom?"

I instantly regret the question, not liking the idea of another man going into Adelaide’s bedroom.

Preston laughs and takes a sip of his tea. "No my friend, that's your job, so quit thinking about punching me in the face."

"Her bedroom was never clean. I used to think it was just too small for her because she was working out of it and she needed a lot of supplies to paint with, but then I've seen her room at her parents' house. . . she's just not a neat person. She’s a pig. A loveable pig. But still a pig. And don’t tell her I said that or I’ll—"

"Bro, I couldn’t care what a woman's house looks like, as long as I have a clear path from the bed to the loo."

“How the hell did you get my sister to marry you?”

“Big dick.” I drop my head into the palms of my hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,” he says, snickering.

I look back up, a bitter taste in my mouth. "She cleans everything,” I say, putting the subject back on track and away from my sister’s sex life. “Almost religiously, and especially the bedroom. She even dusts."

"Enlighten me, son, because I still fail to see what the problem is."

I start rubbing my chin. "The problem is, she is still acting like a guest in her own home. She asks me before she does anything, like putting pictures on the fridge or changing the towels and shit—I don't bloody care. It's her home as well. She shouldn't feel like she has to ask."

Preston chews slowly. "Okay, so your whole issue is that she cleans up after herself instead of reverting back to a pig, probably out of consideration for you, which means working to change her bad habits—again, not easy for her but she does it anyway because she loves you and wants to make you happy. And since you're thirty-two flavours of insane—you hate that."

"Just want her to be happy."

"Here's a thought, genius, why don't you just talk to her and tell her to stop with the Suzy Homemaker?"

"I think that will make her uncomfortable. I’m just going to hire a housekeeper."

Preston makes a strangled noise. "Yes, that's such a better idea. Bring another woman into the relationship. I’m pretty sure suggesting a threesome will get you slapped.” My eyes narrow to slits in his direction. “Don't listen to me, I'm just happily married and all."

"It's different. We're not married."

"Please, you bought her an apartment. That's practically a pre-nup."

I’m silent, staring at a point five feet in front of me on the floor, my mind growing distant. Preston sighs and reaches for the saltshaker.

THE MAGAZINES AREN’T stacking correctly, I notice, leaning over for the fourth time in five minutes and re-fanning them out in a semi-circle. Now it looks like a dentist's office. Exasperated, I give up and grab the entire stack and jam it under the sofa.

It’s the most pointless thing in the world to worry about, but I had run out and bought them an hour ago, after realising this room is boring and very white.

I bite at my thumbnail and decide the best bet will be to steer my father toward the kitchen and back living room, both of which at least have televisions. I still can’t believe I live in an apartment that has a back and front living room, and that no one is crashing on the sofas of either.

I grab a sketchpad and settle back against one of the white sofas. They’re far from ugly, but also far from inspiring. And white. I realise I’ve been mindlessly doodling the bowl of fake lemons that Steffen had made me last year and throw my pad aside. My mobile rings. Bailey is calling, meaning they’re here already, or close.

"Hey."

"What's the code again?"

Unreal.

"I've told you like two hundred times, can't you remember four numbers? Four zero two five. Stupid." He hangs up on me in lieu of replying.

I have the front door open as my family come out of the lift. "Dad."

"Hi, hi." He sets down his suitcase and hugs me tightly. I stick my face in his coat and inhale the scent of cedar closets and dryer sheets that I’ll always associate with home. "How's my baby girl?"

"You look skinny," my mother remarks, hugging me. She eyes me suspiciously. "But your boobs are bigger. Did you get something done to them?"

"She’s preggers," Bailey jokes, shoving past me through the doorway toting Mum’s bag. I aim a kick for his shin but miss.

"
What?
" Mum practically faints.

"No, Mum, it's probably my balconette bra." Luckily, my parents aren’t listening any more. They’re standing in the foyer and gaping at the interior of the apartment. "So. . . yeah. This is the place."

My father takes a few careful steps forward. "You don't have a mortgage?"

"Um, no," I answer and notice Bailey giving me a strange look. "I don't. James bought it for me—for us, I mean." I try to swallow the thick lump clogging my throat. "Do you. . . do you like it?"

"Adelaide," my father begins, unzipping his coat slowly. "Just how much money does this bloke of yours have, anyway?"

"Shitloads," Bailey helpfully provides. "You guys never noticed?"

"Language, Bailey." Mum shakes her head. "No. . . he never mentioned. . . neither of you mentioned anything. We knew he was successful, but not this successful."

Bailey shrugs. "Not my place—Hey, is this why you guys always made me drive when we visited? So Dad wouldn’t see the Porsche or the Lotus?"

"Um, yeah,” I say quietly. “Plus the four of us fit in your car. You know how much Chloe packs."

"See the. . . What did you say?" Mum asks. I shift my weight. I feel like throwing up.

"Tell him to buy a Range Rover or something. Those trips are hard on the Astra," Bailey adds.

My father is wandering past the bland front room and into the kitchen. My mother lets out a sudden gasp. "I donated the bowl he gave us as a gift to the school summer sale."

I wince. "Mum. Please tell me they sold it for more than three hundred pounds."

"No, I think the local butcher took it home for three pounds. Oh darn it, darn it."

Bailey guffaws. "Not your fault, Mum, it was piss-ugly."

"It really was," I agree. "He picked it out himself. He really shouldn't be allowed to do that."

"He did okay with this place," Bailey comments. I watch my father continue his meandering.

He is too silent.

"Dad?" He turns to me, and something in his face is very disquieting. "Want to see the best part?"

I lead them down the hallway and into the studio. "Tah-dah." The studio had transformed from its time as a bare room with unscratched floors to a heavily creative workspace: paintings in various stages of drying are hung on the walls; easels with half-completed works are positioned in a line as if standing at attention; sunlight filters in, catching specks of dust swirling in the air; the counters are filled with paint tubes and jars full of brushes, rolls of canvas, wood, nails, cans of thinner, jars of oils, pads, pastels, a spool of wire, stained rags, and grinding stones. Its surface is barely visible.

My father turns in a slow circle while my mother reaches down, picks up a discarded T-shirt and habitually folds it before placing it on a blue sofa resting against a wall. "Adelaide, don't leave your clothes lying round—this sofa is broken."

"Um. . . yeah."

Formerly belonging to Steffen's now-evicted roommate, the sofa has proved itself indispensable. When James comes home from work agitated, he decompresses by popping a beer, settling down, and silently watching me paint. Usually this will lead to working out stress in another way, too, and if my mother would look closely, she’ll notice that not only is the sofa frame broken, but the feet have scratched deep gouges in the floor from repeated hard friction. And the T-shirt that she’d folded has a seam coming apart from when James had ripped it off from my body. Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any visible stains. . .

"I like this new one." Bailey nods toward a sketch on an easel. "Sure you want to keep her hand up like that?"

I stand next to him and cock my head, examining the canvas sideways. "Why, what’re you thinking?"

"Uh. . . Hmm, maybe turn the wrist? Her arm can stay up but her hand hangs down limp."

I reach for a pencil and draw on top of my sketch. "Now?"

"Gimme that." He takes the pencil from me and redraws the hand. "Okay, better. Reminds me of Victory a little. Speaking of, where did James finally stick it? This place is huge but you don't have that kind of wall space here."

I frown. "Hasn't moved yet." Bailey sees my face and backs off.

"Right. . . I'm sure there's an airport somewhere that needs something to hang in their baggage claim. Anyway," he says, turning to our mother. "Mum. What do you think of the track lighting? I put it in. Well, helped. This smarty engineer guy did most of the work."

I lead my parents out of the studio and into the guest room where they will be staying. Bailey pops out with Mum to get a drink in the kitchen. My father is still silent, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Dad. You okay?"

He picks up a throw pillow from the bed and tosses it a few times before his eyes sharpen, putting it down quickly. He starts rubbing his short beard. "Where is James, anyway?"

"At work. He's going to meet us for dinner later."

My father looks at me. I notice he looks tired, and a little overwhelmed, and I suddenly feel strange in the room with him, like I am a tour guide at Buckingham Palace and he is the caretaker.

"I'm fine, sweetheart." He attempts to straighten his shoulders. "Fine, fine, don't worry about me." He stands up, pats me lightly on the arm, and then heads out of the room. "Why don't you show me the rest of the place while your mum and brother get a head start on getting drunk."

"Okay." I go to the bed, pick up the pillow my father had tossed aside, and see that someone, probably me, had forgotten to remove the price tag. I throw it on the bed and leave the room.