The Mad British (23 page)

"
Shit
.
Shit
."

Amazingly, I break all previous records of swearing with the last two, setting a new personal best of thirty blue words in sixty seconds. "What's the time?"

"You are now an hour late," Priyam replies, checking his rear-view mirror. "Most likely they have started without you and are wondering if you are even coming at all and probably everything is very tense. Would you like me to drive on the pavement, Mr Hatter?"

"No—wait, hold on, can you?" I roll down the window to take a look. Unlikely, since there is a bloody souvenirs cart blocking most of the pavement, along with all the pedestrians. I slump back in my seat and add another one to the record. "
Shit
."

The first time Adelaide's parents are visiting and I had to get tied up at work, run into traffic, and thus run late enough to look like a total arse in front of the people that may one day be my in-laws.

Priyam reaches over and turns off the radio. "Sir, when I was young, before Vijaya and me were married, her father and mother did not approve of both me and my family. They expressed this to me in very few words."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. It was very uncomfortable, many times."

Suddenly it seems like my driver may have all the answers. I lean forward on my seat. "What happened?"

"Ah, they died very soon after."

Maybe not.

I drop my head back and pull at my stubble. "Great. Thanks."

"Not a problem, sir." Priyam glances back in the mirror again. "But please realise that whatever you do, you cannot be worse than my son-in-law. This weekend he worked only eight hours and was on the computer for fourteen playing that War of Worldcraft."

"Christ, I worked fourteen hours once and Adelaide cut me off from, you know what, for working on a weekend."

Priyam chuckles. "Miss Queen is a very funny woman. You make her very happy."

My phone beeps and I’m surprised to see it’s Travis, instead of another "where are you?" message from Adelaide.

Travis:
38-25-36! Brn/blu wsh me luk!!!

Me:
Wrap it, boy.

It takes another half an hour of Priyam yammering about his son-in-law before we arrive at the restaurant, which is some sort of trendy organic place that Steffen had picked. I think he is casually dating one of the waiters.

I haven’t eaten in the past eight hours, which could be why I’m in a foul-arsed mood. They bloody better serve some sort of cooked dead animal.

Before entering, I stop at the maître-d' stand and discreetly slip my credit card to the host. "For my table." The maître-d' glances down, sees what type of plastic he’s been handed, and nods sharply.

Unlucky for me, they’ve saved me a seat between Adelaide and her father. But as I approach the table, Steffen springs up in front of me like a ninja and dramatically throws his arms round me, squeezing me, and runs his hands down my back.

"James, you made it." I stiffen. "Hug me back,
damn it
."

I stick my arms awkwardly round Steffen's skinny frame before something in my brain clicks and I realise what’s up. "Is he looking?"

Steffen pulls away with a wide smile. "Oh, God yeah. He practically dropped his tray. I should take you everywhere. You catch on a lot quicker than Blondie over there."

"I didn’t bloody know why you were trying to hold my hand." Bailey stabs the olive in Chloe's martini with his cocktail spear and pops it into his mouth. "Give some warning the next time you wanna feel me up and make your boyfriend jealous. All right?"

I slip behind Chloe, who smiles up at me when I touch her shoulder, and shake hands with Adelaide's father.

"James." Her mother's face is a bit bright when she stands to hug me. "Have I mentioned how much I love that bowl you gave me?"

Adelaide mutters something that sounds like "bloody bowl" as I sit and kiss her on the cheek.

"Thank God you got here already," Chloe slurs, already a bit tipsy. "I couldn’t eat so I drank, and now Bailey is stealing my olives. Steffen, where's your boyfriend? I need new olives."

"He’s not my boyfriend. Not yet."

I feel Mr Queen's eyes on me. "God, I'm sorry for making you wait. You should have started without me."

"We wouldn’t do that," Mrs Queen says, a little too loudly. I think she’s consumed a few olives herself. Adelaide sighs heavily.

My phone beeps again. "Crap," I mutter, fumbling as I pry it out of my pocket. I barely open the message before it goes tumbling to the floor, coming to rest under Mr Queen's chair.

Bollocks.

My stomach churns as I bend over to retrieve it. I have a pretty clear idea who it is, and if anything actually goes right tonight, I’ll get to it before Adelaide's father does.

"No don't, I’ll get it—"

Too late.

Bollocks. Bollocks. Bollocks.

Mr Queen picks it up, glances down, and hands it back to me with a strange look.

Travis' message, in huge font, is sprawled across the large screen of my iPhone.

PUSSY DROUGHT OVER 4 Travis! HOLLA!!!!!

Steffen's man-toy materialises over my shoulder. "Can I get you a drink, sir?"

I cough, my mouth all of a sudden as dry as the Sahara desert. "Make it a large one."

"Travis says he’s sorry. Again," Adelaide reports round the side of her phone. I don’t respond from my position on the bed. "What's that?" She stands and wanders to the bathroom, the phone still glued to her ear. "Uh-huh. . . Uh-huh. . . No, my dad will get over it. . . James—"she makes a ridiculous face at me from the doorway"—is just being grouchy."

"Ask him why he’s texting me when he is in bed with a girl," I huff out.

"Grouchy wants to know why you're texting him when you're in bed with a girl." She cocks her head, listening. "He said that if you went for as long as he did without
getting
some, you'd be buying a billboard space in Leicester Square. And that—” She pauses. "She’s asleep anyway."

A thought enters my mind. "Is he still there?"

"Are you still there?" She pauses again. "He says no. He’s at home. And he wants to know why—” Another pause. "If you're so interested, why you don't get on the phone yourself."

"Tell that little shit I'd rather he text it to me at inappropriate times."

"He said he’s tired," Adelaide tells Travis, giving me a little booty dance to cheer me up. She must notice the worry still lurking in my eyes. She smiles, does a quick hip roll, then turns her back, runs her free hand through her hair and does a slow wind all the way to the floor. She spins round and giggles at me, continuing to pop her hips in rhythm.

"Travis says her booty looks like Chloe's—hey wait." She stops dancing. "When have you seen Chloe's booty? You guys have never met. Did you Google her?"

I smirk at Travis' sudden rush to get off the phone. Adelaide locks her mobile and climbs into bed with me. "You still bummed?"

"No."

"Liar. You've been brooding since we got home. Grouchy."

"I'm not."

She wiggles in closer, resting her chin against my arm and stares up at me. "Are you worried about my dad?"

I rub a hand down my face. "Wouldn't you be? He barely spoke to me the entire night after he saw Moron's text message."

Adelaide opens her mouth, then shuts it. There’s a long pause before she says, "Tomorrow you've got work all day and you won't see me until the evening for my first autumn showing. Which, by the way. . .” She runs a hand across the tight plane of my stomach. "Don't be late."

I put my hand over hers. "I forgot—my parents are coming. They’re in London visiting at Camilla and Preston's."

"Oh. . ." She buries her face into the pillow. "Great." We’re silent for a long stretch, both occupied with our thoughts.

Travis can’t resist one last message.

Totl BJ lips 2! This is the life.

“I THINK MY dad is bored," I observe, watching my father hover in a corner between two of my works, trying to avoid talking to anyone who looks like they’re under the influence of drugs. Which is fifty per cent of the room at this point, and it sucks. Junkies never have money to buy.

"Give him a break. He has been here for the last two hours," Chloe points out, brushing her hair over her shoulder. "Speaking of, when will I be released from duty?"

"Never. You're my moral support. And you're making me go to that councilman's fundraising thing and those stupid tickets were expensive."

Chloe sniffs. "Oh, boo-hoo. Your boyfriend bought you a penthouse apartment. You can and will sit through one boring political fundraiser for my sake."

"So it's going to be boring, then?"

"Extremely. You're going to want to kill yourself."

“Brilliant. I’ll be sure to bring a rope.”

I watch more of the crowd trickling in. In addition to my parents, Jessica and Noah have brought Alice with them. They’re trying to see if there are any benefits of exposing a toddler to the arts at a young age. So far she’s declared one of her favourite paintings as "ugly" and her favourite exhibit is the bathroom, which has self-flushing toilets. She’s been asking to go to the potty about every five minutes.

"Hey, did you notice there's a lot of yuppies in here?"

Chloe scans the room, standing on the tips of her toes. "There's like, three. Is that a lot?"

"For these kinds of shows, yes." I bite my finger absently. "I wonder why that is. . . "

"Excuse me, miss." I turn, and find myself face-to-face with one of the yuppies in question. He looks taken aback for a second, eyeing me with lovesick puppy eyes. "Uh, someone says you're the artist who makes these paintings here?"

"Uh, yeah, I am."

The guy clears his throat and looks sideways, like he’s afraid of being caught. "I'm looking to acquire one of the blue paintings that help you relax. I don't see any here."

"I'm sorry—the what?"

"The blue paintings. My colleague has one hanging in his office. It looks like it's underwater or something. He says it helps him de-stress. It must work because it's the only thing I've seen him put on his walls. He said I could get one here?"

"Oh. . ." James had seemed obsessed with Untitled 23, and while I’m unsure if it was the composition or the fact that I’d painted most of it naked that drew him to it, I had given it to him. "I, uh, I only painted one of those so I don't—"

"What she means is, each one is unique, so she only has one of that one," Chloe interrupts, throwing back her shoulders and drawing her spine up to full height. "I can show you some other works, if you like. I can find something that complements your personality."

The man stares at Chloe with fire in his eyes, nodding like the lovesick puppy that he is. I glance quickly to see if Bailey notices, but he is too busy mangling a Cure cover in the corner.

Chloe leans in. "Twenty pounds says I sell this suit at least two. Which ones do you want to unload?"

"Peace Tree—and if you can swing it, Vermont. It weighs a ton and I don't want to pack it back up at the end of the night." Chloe blows a kiss at me and leads the yuppie away.

"Miss Queen?" I turn, and face a young woman with a dyed blonde bob, nose ring, and a full tattoo sleeve up her arm. "Hi, I'm Scarlet Gardner, I'm from The City magazine."

"Hi." I shake her hand, and a rolling sensation squirms in my stomach. There is only one possible reason a writer would be here. "Hi, hi, thanks for coming. My friend reads The City like, religiously every Sunday. She loves it."

"Thanks." She peers around the room. "Great show."

I rub my palms together. "I hope so."

"I actually came tonight to see if you would be able to sit down for an interview with me. We're interested in doing a feature about you for the next issue."

"Me?" I don’t mean to squeak the word out. "Really?"

"Yes really. Not the cover, sorry, but we can give you some pages."

I nearly choke getting the words out. "Oh my God, I mean, yeah.
Yes
. Thanks. I would love to."

"Good, good." The reporter pulls a card out of the back pocket of her hipster trousers. "Would this week work for you?"

Chloe sidles up to me before I have a chance to respond. "Good thing you named that one Peace Tree instead of what it really looks like. Am I right?”

"Hey, man."

"Hey Noah." I look down at the small person pulling on my trouser leg, surprised to see she’s wearing a fairly normal children's clothing instead of her usual blue costume. "Hi Alice. What happened to your—"

Noah cuts me off. "There's a little girl in another country that doesn't have many clothes, so we decided to send the Tinkerbell dress to her so that she can wear it now. We like to share." Alice nods solemnly, repeating the last word in a small voice.

"Ah." I turn my head sideways to whisper. "Threw it or outgrew it?"

"Shit-canned the damn thing. It didn’t survive the last spin cycle and I am sick of my daughter looking like a fairy hobo."

I laugh and gesture across the room to Chloe who is standing in front of a huge painting with a guy in a suit. I used to be that guy.

Repressed suit.

Chloe is probably taking him to the cleaners.

"Cross your fingers that he buys that one,” I tell him. “It weighs a ton and I don't want to have to pack it up again."

"I shall do that," Noah says. "Because if you have to pack stuff up later, it usually means that I do too. Hey, isn't that Adelaide's father?"

"It is. They’re staying with us this week."

Noah raises his eyebrows and takes a drink. "How's that working out?"

"Shit. Thanks to Travis, they think I'm one of the lads, and I think. . .” I pause and think for a moment. "They’re uncomfortable around me. Especially her dad."

"Huh," Noah mumbles into his glass.

"Think it's because of the apartment."

"Okay."

"And maybe other stuff."

"How about the fact that you're sleeping with his daughter?"

"That too."

"Because believe me, once you have one, that's all you think about. It makes you mad as nuts."

"What’d you think?"

Noah is watching Alice point toward the bathroom. "I don't know, go grab a beer with him or something. Actually. . .” He quickly gives the room a once-over. "There's a pub across the street that's pretty low key. Go now. I'll come by in half an hour to make sure he’s not beating on you with a pool cue."

Noah’s a pretty smart guy, but this suggestion just rockets him into Nobel Prize territory. "Christ, feel like such a pussy."

"But you're still going to do it. Thirty minutes, bro. Do it."

The place across the street turns out to be an Irish pub, slightly better than average in that my shoes don’t automatically stick to the floor. We find seats at the empty bar, and I resist the urge to start ordering shots of Jameson.

"Right," Mr Queen starts, nodding at the bartender when he slides two beers across the counter.

I can’t think of anything to say because, I tell myself, I am a moron, so I nod.

Mr Queen clears his throat. "You look like you could use something stronger."

We order up shots, and it occurs to me that maybe Adelaide's father is just as nervous around me as I am him.

"Kippis," Mr Queen says, raising his glass. "Finnish," he clarifies at my perplexed expression. "Means cheers."

We sit in silence for a few moments, idly watching the football game on the television propped over the bar. I idly wonder if Travis is still considering buying a sports team when Mr Queen puts down his glass and interrupts my thoughts.

"Why did you buy that apartment for Adelaide?"

I default back to moron mode. I knew this was coming, but hadn't counted on her father to be so blunt about it. If the next question has anything to do with us bloody sleeping together, I will down a pint of Jameson.

"She needed a studio.” Even in my head it sounds stupid, doubly so now that I said it out loud.

Mr Queen's laugh is dry. "Adelaide needs a lot of things, to get her head on straight, for one, but that was. . .” He trails off and shakes his head, taking another swig of his drink. "I guess what I'm trying to ask is what your intentions are."

Where the bloody hell is Noah? He said a half hour. It must have been at least that long so far—that cock.

"I think my intentions are obvious, sir."

Mr Queen reaches for his wallet and pulls out a wrinkled paper, folded into fourths. "Here. I want to show you this. Be careful, it's pretty old."

I take the paper, worn soft from years in creases, and carefully unfold it. It’s a sketch of an egg, with a chicken running in the background, a little crude, but still leaps and bounds above what I can do.

Adelaide's father is watching me. "That's the first thing Adelaide ever drew. She was only four, if you can believe it. I’d given her some paper to keep her occupied while I watched a footy game, and I couldn’t believe it when she showed it to me." His dark-brown eyes are wistful. "My baby girl could barely tie her own shoes but she could capture the world she saw with a number two pencil."

He pauses and rubs his face. "I know every father thinks their kid is the most special one in all of creation, and half of them won't shut up about it, but my girl. . .” He stares down at the bar counter. "The world is a brighter place with her in it." He laughs to himself, softly. "Here I go, bragging about my kid. Sorry. I just—you know she was engaged once."

I nod. Adelaide had told me the basics, and I’ve gleaned some details from Chloe and Preston, but for the most part, the subject of Ethan is like Fight Club. And the first rule of Ethan is that you don’t talk about Ethan. Rule Number Three. Bailey sometimes spits when his name is mentioned.

Mr Queen continues. "I didn’t know that he’d basically thrown her out onto the streets until months after it happened, which was probably better for me, since I was so angry after, I couldn’t sleep well for months. I know couples have their problems, and believe me, I've been through some myself, but I just can’t understand how someone could claim to love my little girl, and want to share their life with her, and then hurt her and throw her away like she was crap stuck to his shoe. Couples break up but. . . what he did. . . it was
cruel
. . . I don't think I can stand that happening to her again."

I find the words that I couldn’t before. "Mr Queen." The older man turns to face me. "That will never happen again. I assure you. I’d rather die than hurt her."

We look at each other for a long moment. I reach and fold the picture again, and hand it back to him. "I don’t need to see this to know she's special. She shows me. Every day. I’m a better man because of her."

Adelaide's father visibly relaxes, tucking the paper into his wallet. "I knew you were different. I just needed to hear you say it to my face. When you have a daughter, you'll understand.” He smiles at me, then waves the bartender over. “Now I'll admit, I was kind of nervous bringing this up with you. Want another drink?"

"Jesus, yes."

Off to the side, I notice Noah entering the bar, followed closely by my father, who has obviously escaped the show and looks as if he’s stepped in through the gates of Heaven.

Bollocks.

We have to wrap this up before my father has a chance to introduce Mr Queen to the obnoxious Irish drunk facet of his personality.

"I'll keep this last part short, James, and this is the last time you'll get crap from me." He waits until the shot glass is halfway into my mouth before continuing. "Make damn sure you marry Adelaide if you get her up the duff."

Choking on Jameson bloody hurts, but that was probably Mr Queen's intention.