The Mad British (29 page)

"What?"

She throws me a look I’ve seen before, usually directed at animal rights protesters who strip naked and lock themselves in cages outside of the zoo. "You alphabetise them."

"What of it?"

"Nothing." She turns back to her task. "Look at this, I was right. Michael Buble."

I cross my arms, and then pinch the bridge of my nose. Why can’t they just bloody tell me already?

"More than one Michael Buble," Steffen adds, leaning over her shoulder. "Oh my God, you even have the Christmas album." He’s halfway to laughing but stops when I glare at him. "But, it's like, good, I mean, he’s all right. I wouldn’t listen to him, because he sucks, but he can be good if you're into that kind of thing. . . Which I'm not, but you are, because you know, you're. . . you."

“Is that your roundabout way of telling me I have shit taste in music?”

Chloe shakes her head and cuts in. "Everybody focus. Where’s Mock Turtle? I know you have Mock Turtle. All yuppies listen to Mock Turtle."

"There's more in the drawer underneath,” I tell her. “And quit calling me a yuppie."

"I'm sorry, but if the shoe fits? You have Mock Turtle and Michael Buble. Your shoe is very much fitting."

"I’ve got The Roots."

"So what? A few good ones don't erase the. . . Josh Groban? Did you really pay money for this?"

"Chloe, how does my shit taste in music have anything to do with my relationship? If I start grinding my arse to hip hop, will it make Adelaide run back to me?”

She stands up and throws a CD case my way. I’m pretty sure she was aiming for my face but I catch it. "Shut up. Remember this?"

I glance down. "Yeah. It's Mock Turtle’s first hit album. What does this have to do with anything?"

Another you-are-a-moron look comes hurtling my way. "Like the cover art?"

It’s a black and white sketch of a woman's head. Her eyes are covered with a dark blindfold and she has no mouth. It takes a few minutes of staring at it to realise that the sketch is made up of tiny written words, expertly woven in patterns to recreate shading. Her disembodied mouth shouts the title of the album in a thought bubble above her head.

"Chloe, I don't get it."

She places a hand on her hip. "All this time with her and I thought you would have noticed. Anyway, flip it over. Read the fine print." I do, several times, before the name catches my eye.

‘Cover art by Ethan Ace Coburn
.

"Ethan did this?" I flip the case back over and study it more closely. "Pretty good. He must have made a killing off this."

"Yep, it made his career." Chloe is standing with her arms crossed, while Steffen angrily throws himself into a chair. "He’s pretty famous in certain circles. All due to
that
picture."

"Good for him, I guess."

Steffen loses it. "Can we please stop dancing around it? James, the reason why we hate Ethan so much—"

"It's Adelaide's," Chloe cuts in.

"What?"

She nods. "It's Adelaide's. She drew it, can't you tell? Take a closer look."

I do, and now I can see it: the flowing lines, the tiny components merging together to create a bigger picture, the single shock in the middle of the face. It reminds me of another painting, and it’s in that instant that I realise what I’m seeing.

I look up dumbly. "It's Victory's head."

"Yes it is."

"What. . . ?" The words get lost on me. "Why does it credit Ethan then?"

"God, you really are dense," Chloe yells, making Steffen flinch. "It credits Ethan because he fucking stole it, James."

My face must have flipped faster than a speeding bullet then, because Chloe looks a little more sympathetic and less homicidal as she continues. "I watched her work on it for months. It was supposed to be a wedding gift for that wanker, and it was in his possession for maybe three days before he sold it as his own work."

There is probably a medical reason for the cold sensation flowing out of the middle of my chest, but I’m too distracted to wonder why. "You're joking. . . "

Chloe's eyes take on a dark cast. "I am one hundred per cent not shitting you. That
creature
"—she nearly spits the word—"even took the extra step to get it copyrighted because she hadn’t signed it. He made a bloody fortune by stealing his fiancée's work, not to mention the huge career boost, and to this day, I don't think he feels a lick of regret about it."

For the first time in my life, I hope my substantial means will allow me to commit a murder and get away with it. I can’t call up just anyone and order a hit, but I’m sure with a little digging, and a lot of money exchanging hands, there is a way to get rid of a certain arsehole permanently.

Although the most gratifying solution is to just find Ethan and beat him until all that is left is a damp red smear on the ground.

"Now can you understand where she's coming from?” Chloe asks, her voice still laced with frustration. “She trusted you, and loved you, and it was so hard for her to let you in her life. . . and. . . she loves so intensely, James, please tell me you understand that."

I do.

I’ve been such a stupid bastard.

But I get it now.

"I’ve got to do something."

"Yeah, you do." Chloe’s scowl wilts a little. The fight seems to be going out of her. "Look, you said some really dumb things, like, really dumb, but I know you're not the kind of person Ethan is, and that it was probably a mistake. A really, really stupid mistake, but still a mistake. And I know you love her a lot—"

"I’d die for her."

"Don't interrupt—though that was pretty freaking poetic. I know that you love her a lot and you want her back, so let’s get this sorted—"

"Okay."

"Didn't I just tell you not to interrupt?" I fall silent. "Okay, so that’s all I had to say, anyway. I’m just still a little angry, you know." She looks at the empty scotch bottle plunked in the middle of an end table, right next to a sticky spill. "My God, James—man up."

“Have you ever thought about entering the financial arena?” I ask her. She shakes her head, confused. “You should. You have enough spine to make a grown man cower.”

WHEN BAILEY ARRIVES home on Sunday afternoon, he doesn’t say anything about my mess, except to ask if I’m all right before popping a beer and settling down to watch the game with our dad.

"Want one?" Bailey asks me.

Drinking myself to death has a certain appeal.

"No thanks."

"Want to go out later?" he tries again. My father is watching the exchange out of the corner of his eye.

"No."

He shrugs and gets up from the sofa. "Okay. I've got to talk to Mum about something."

Once he’s gone, my dad looks over and silently pats the cushion next to him. Wordlessly, I slide over and lie down with my head in his lap. He pats the end of my hair, and I focus on a crease in his jeans and feel like I’m five-years-old again. "What’re they talking about?"

"Ah. . . I don't know." He rubs his beard and focuses on the game. "Maybe they're trying to think of a way to cheer you up."

I hum a single note and don’t respond.

Dinner is an exercise in forced normalcy, with Bailey and Dad talking about the game that afternoon, while I pick my way through the Sunday roast and avoid my mother's glances. It’s like high school all over again.

I retreat to my room immediately after dinner, turn all the lights off except for the small table lamp,and open up m
y
sketchpa
d.
There’s enough ambient light streaming in through the window for me to see the princess smile and dance in the garden, blithely unaware that her destiny will end in tragedy.

For as long as I’ve been hiding out, I haven’t touched the sketches I’m supposed to be working on for Camilla's book, or anything else, for that matter.

This is what happens when you fall in love. It feels like falling into a never-ending hole of madness.

My eyes focus on a dark smudge against one side. I lean in, squinting in the low light to better examine the mark.

It’s a fingerprint.

His fingerprint.

I lower my chin without taking my eyes off the smudged print, not realising that my breath has stopped in my lungs like stagnant water. It must have been left behind from when he’d handed me the pad as I’d walked out. I stare at it a moment.

He has left marks on my life, and I can’t ignore them no matter how many phone calls I refuse to answer, or how deeply I bury my head in the sand and hide at my parents' house, and pretend I can wait out the storm.

One finger reaches out and traces the fingerprint, careful not to touch or smear it. In the dim light, I can barely make out the whorls and loops in the middle; a mark of his on my canvas.

He is everywhere on me; he is in me.

I can’t place at what point it had happened. It’s easy to point to moving in together, but it had happened before that, without me seeing. Scenes flip by in my mind like a film reel and I reflect on how a person who is so unlike me had fit so easily in my life
.
A knock on the door brings me out of my reverie.

"Is that you, Bailey?"

The door opens a crack and my brother slides through. "Can I come in?"

I lower the pad. "Sure, fine."

He moves a box of our mother's scrapbooking supplies out of the way and balances himself backwards on my seldom-used desk chair, crossing his arms over the back. "How's it going?"

"Bailey, cut the crap."

"Okay, fine." He lowers his chin to his crossed arms and focuses on a point on the floor. "I need to ask you something."

The evening air flows through my window, ruffling some rejected pages across my bedspread, and I let them blow to the floor.

"What is it?"

"Um. . . " He shifts in his seat. Before he can speak, my mobile starts vibrating on my bedside table. "Want to answer that?"

"It’s fine."

I know who it is.

Bailey waits until it falls silent before continuing. "Will. . . will you mind if I take Grandma Inka’s ring? Her diamond?"

I blink. "What?"

He still isn’t meeting my eyes. "Would you mind if I take Grandma Inka’s ring? Mum says to work it out with you because she left it to both of us, and I know you don't wear diamonds and—"

"Of course you can—wait, hold on, why do you want. . . Bailey, are you. . . ?"

He runs his hands through his hair when a small, bashful smile peeks out. "Um, yeah. I mean. . . "

A shock of emotion causes me to bolt upright. "Are you serious? Oh my God, Bailey, are you really—oh my God. Oh my
God
. Does Chloe know? I mean, of course Chloe doesn't know, but do you think she has any idea?"

"Uh, no."

I throw myself off the bed and hug my brother while he’s still sitting down. He’s forced to pat my arm awkwardly as I squeeze him from behind. I’m still hysterical.

"Oh my God, how are you going to do this? How about at Le Gavroche? It's still her favourite, right?"

"Uh."

"Wait, never mind, that's too public. Chloe doesn't like public. Don't even think about doing it during a Kings show, she’ll probably kill you. What about the park? At sunset or something?"

"Um."

"I know, that's clichéd. Can I tell Jessica? We'll think of something that will totally blow her away, I swear, and you know Jessica won't tell anyone."

"I, uh—"

"Please? I promise I won't tell Steffen. He'll give it away as soon as he sees Chloe. Speaking of which, I don't know how Mum kept from spilling it at dinner. You know she usually starts crying over stuff like this."

"Uh, yeah, she was worried about you."

I ignore him and keep going. "This is so exciting. Chloe and I are going to be actual sisters. Why didn’t you tell me before you were thinking about doing this?"

Bailey starts swivelling on the chair. "Don't get too excited yet. It might not happen for a while."

"Huh?" I plop down on my bed and lean against the wall. "Why not? You've got the ring and there's no reason to wait. What's the big deal?"

He starts rubbing his hair again. "I want to wait until it gets cold and take her skiing." I nod. Chloe is forever trying, to no avail, to drag him skiing. "I’m going to ask her then. Like, put it in the middle of a snowball and give it to her."

"Awww." I didn’t know Bailey had that much sentimentality in him.

He leans forward on his hands. "But I don't know if I can afford it this year."

"What do you mean?"

"It’s just. . . work has been slow and the Astra needs some repairs. I want to move us into someplace better, or at least somewhere that doesn't have pigeons falling through chimneys. So probably next year or something, maybe. I hope."

His wish is so bare and plaintive that I waste no time in making my decision. "Screw next year, I'm making this happen now. How much do you need?"

"What?"

"How much do you need?" I crawl to the end of my bed and grab my handbag. The balance in my account has remained unchanged since I’ve come to my parents' house. Plus Steffen had called to say that two more of my paintings had sold, and the advance for Camilla's book is coming soon.

"Three thousand? That should take care of your car and probably enough for Aspen. Unless you want to do like, take her to Switzerland or something. In that case I'd better make it four."

Bailey looks like he had just witnessed a land mine exploding under his car. "Adelaide."

"Good thing Chloe speaks French."

"Addie, I'm not taking your money."

"Huh?" I open my brand-new chequebook, and think of how the first cheque I’m ever going to write is going to such a worthy cause. "Of course you are. Why not? This way you can get all that other crap out of the way and get married. She’d better make me maid of honour."

"Will you quit? I'm not taking your money," he repeats. "It's too much."

"Bailey, it's not a big deal."

"Yes it is."

"No, it's not." I raise my head, and try my best to look convincing. Doesn’t he realise he has to do this? "Come on, Bails, I can't think of a more worthy cause than you and Chloe getting married. Plus I won't miss it and I'd rather you have it and be happy."

He’s smiling at me, but not in an amused way. "Then why did you get mad at James for doing the same thing?"

I lower my pen. "That's different."

"How?" He rolls the chair closer to me, and I’m forced to meet my brother's eyes. We have the same eyes. It’s like looking into a strange, gender-bending mirror sometimes. "He just wants you to be happy."

"He lied to me. . . All this time he’s been lying to me. . .” My chest tightens, burns. “Do you know how hard it was for me to trust another man?”

He nods. “But James is nothing like Ethan.”

“I know. I know he isn’t. I’m not even comparing that arsehole to James. But. . . what I’m trying to say is. . .” I close my eyes and pause for a minute to breathe. “It’s easier to run away.” I open them again and look out at the stars in the night sky. “I don’t think I could handle the pain again. So why not just cut him off before he can really, truly, hurt me?”

He chews on his lips for a bit. “I really don't think he meant what he said to you."

"How do you know?"

"I talked to him."

"What? When?"

"On the phone last night. Addie, really, he poured his heart out to his girlfriend's brother. If he really meant it, I think he would do his best to avoid me and a beat down."

One of my pillows makes its way into my arms, and I fold my body round it. "What did he say?"

"He said that he didn’t mean it, and that he was just angry because he found out you’d talked to Ethan, and that he’s a stupid jealous bastard, and he must have apologised a thousand times about it and asked me to talk to you because you're not picking up your phone."

The offending object is blinking with a new voicemail message. "I don't know what to say to him."

"Well then," Bailey says, standing up. "Why don't you just listen?"

He is almost out of the door before I call him back. "Bailey?"

He stops and turns. "Yeah?"

I smile and hold out a slip of paper. "If you don't take it, I'm going to deposit it into your account anyway."

Bailey looks at the floor briefly, seeming to struggle with an internal decision, before taking the cheque from me. "I'll pay you back."

"You'd better not," I say. "Consider it a wedding gift."

"Can you do me a favour?"

"Need to borrow petrol money now?" I chuckle, and then stop when I realise his face is serious. "What is it?"

He nods toward my mobile. "At least give him some courtesy and stop ignoring his calls."

"I . . .” I start, and the tear that’s been threatening to fall finally surfaces. "Bailey, he never hung up my painting."

He sits down on my bed and pulls in for a hug. "That doesn't mean anything," he murmurs into my hair.

I take a trembling breath. "No. . . it means everything."

My mother knocks lightly on the door. "Adelaide, sweetie?"

"Yes?"

"There's someone here for you." My mother hesitates. "He says his name is Travis O’Neil and then he said: Tell her James’ dog is here and that he needs a walk.”

Oh crap. . .