The Other Son (30 page)

An image of Dot’s place comes to mind, and then Dot herself, and Alice remembers that she is supposed to phone her. But she doesn’t have the energy right now to fulfil Dot’s expectations of her either, so she fishes her mobile from her bag and sends a text message instead. She’s not sure if the message sends or not. Do they work from France? She’ll have to check with Matt later.

She pushes Virginie’s cat-hair covered cushions onto the floor, then retrieves the cleanest one as a pillow. She stretches out on the sofa so that the sunlight falls across her face (it feels heavenly) and then, listening to the sound of the crickets outside the window, she falls into a deep sleep.

By the time she wakes up again, the sunlight has moved from her face to her feet. She’s groggy from sleep and initially unsure as to what woke her. One of the cats has installed itself between her ankles but when she moves her legs, it instantly jumps down.

The noise, a noise she now realises she had integrated into her dream, sounds again. Tock, tock, tock: knuckles on a window. She lies still for a moment. She holds her breath. But then she hears Bruno’s voice. “Alice? Alice? Heloooo?”

Alice doesn’t want to see Bruno right now. Alice isn’t sure if she wants to see Bruno ever. And if not seeing Bruno means that she doesn’t get to eat, this evening, then she’d really rather not eat. She’s easily tired enough to sleep right through anyway.

But the rapping gets louder. Bruno’s cries become more strident. And Alice realises that she’s not going to get away with just hiding here, so, deciding she’ll simply send him away (she can do it tactlessly; she can do it with fully-fledged Canadian honesty, after all), she drags herself from the sofa and on down the stairs.

When she reaches the sombre kitchen, Alice realises that she must have slept for longer than she thought. She crosses to the door where Bruno’s face, framed by his cupped hands, is peering in.

“Ah, thank God,” he says, through the glass.

Alice unlocks the door and opens it.

“I thought I’d done all of this for nothing,” Bruno says. “I thought you’d phoned a taxi and gone home or something.”

“Wishful thinking, maybe?” Alice offers.

Bruno gestures behind him, so Alice glances at the tiled garden table upon which Bruno, bless him, has laid out a dinner party for two. “Oh!” Alice exclaims, her mood instantly shifting. “Gosh.”

“Dinner is served, Madam,” Bruno says through a grin.

“Yes... yes... I can see that! I... I was asleep, that’s all.”

“And I can see
that
,” Bruno says with meaning.

“Do I look awful?” Alice asks, one hand fluttering to her hair.

“No. But you do look like someone who just woke up from a siesta,” Bruno says. “Anyway, take your time. I need to cuddle Paloma here anyway.”

“Paloma?”

Bruno steps towards the windowsill on which the old grey cat is sitting. “This is Paloma,” Bruno explains. “She’s not going to be with us much longer, I don’t think. She’s very ancient, aren’t you Paloma?”

Alice returns inside the house and washes at the kitchen sink. She checks her face in the mirror. Her hair is squashed to one side and she has the seam of the cushion embossed across her cheek, so she squashes her hair back into shape and then massages her cheek a little before returning to the courtyard. “You really didn’t have to do all of this,” Alice says, taking in the three Tupperware containers of salad and the quiche Bruno is busy slicing. “And you carried it all here, too!”

“Well, I waited for a while,” Bruno says, “But then I got hungry!” He crosses to the doorway. “Now, I just need plates and shit,” he says, “and we’re ready to go. Sit down. I’ll bring them.”

Alice rubs at her eyes and attempts to wake up, attempts to feel present right here, right now, but it’s hard. This tiled table, this unexpected meal, is all so far away from Dot’s apartment where she was this morning, after all. It’s all a bit surreal, this air-travel lark.

“Here,” Bruno says, handing her a plate and dumping a handful of cutlery in the middle of the table.

“Thanks,” Alice says, constraining a yawn.

“That’s beetroot and quinoa and mackerel,” Bruno says, pointing. “That’s Matt’s favourite.”

“Really?” Alice asks. “I could never get either of them to touch beetroot.”

Bruno shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “But when?”

“When?”

“Yeah, I mean, how long ago?”

“Ah,” Alice says. “Yes, I see your point. It was a very long time ago.”

“And that one’s tomato, mozza, basil, and that one’s taboulé and mint. Oh, and before you ask, yes, I washed the mint. And the basil!”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about the mint,” Alice protests.

“Well, good,” Bruno laughs. “We’re making progress here.”

“I wasn’t aware that
I
needed to make progress,” Alice replies, drily. She’s a little surprised at herself for the spunky reply, but then again, why not? She’s spent enough years sparring with Ken, after all. Even if he never once noticed.

“Touché,” Bruno says.

“Touché yourself,” Alice retorts.

Bruno picks up the beetroot salad and points it at Alice. “Some salad number one, Mrs Hodgetts?” he asks. “I take it you still go by Hodgetts?”

“I suppose so,” Alice says. “And yes, thank-you, Mr...” She frowns. “And your surname is?”

“Campbell,” Bruno says. “Like the soup, unfortunately.”

“Then yes, Mister Campbell. Some soup would be lovely.”

“Some salad?”

“Sorry, yes, of course. Some
salad
would be lovely.”

“Gosh,” Bruno says. “
More
positivity.”

“You’re a very rude young man,” Alice says. Her tone of voice implies that she’s vaguely amused by his rudeness. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

Bruno shakes his head. “Not till now,” he says, slopping wine into their glasses. He raises his. “To honesty, then,” he toasts.

“To tact,” Alice offers, raising her own.

“Tact’s overrated,” Bruno says.

“But nowhere near as overrated as honesty.” Alice sips her rosé – it’s cool, and fruity and delicious. She forks some beetroot salad to her mouth. “This is nice,” she says. “I can see why Matt likes it.”

“Tact or honesty?” Bruno asks.

Alice shrugs. “A bit of both, maybe? If that’s possible.”

“I reckon,” Bruno says.

“So tell me something else I don’t know about Matt.”

“Something else?”

“Well I didn’t know about him being... you know...”

“Gay?” Bruno asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s OK,” Bruno says. “You’re allowed to say it these days. They changed the rules.”

“I know that, it’s just... Anyway. So I didn’t know he liked beetroot either. What other surprises have you got for me?”

Bruno shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not sure what stuff you know already.”

“Not much to be honest,” Alice says. “He was always very secretive.”

“He likes dance music,” Bruno says. “Techno and trance, and really boppy electronica.”

“He
used
to like the Smiths and The Cure.”

“He still does. But he DJs now, so he listens to dance music, too.”

“He DJs?”

“Yeah, at parties and stuff.”

“Then that’s a thing I didn’t know.”

“He loves dogs,” Bruno says. “All dogs. Any dog. Every dog.”

“Oh, your puppy,” Alice says. “Where is he?”

“He’s at home. He’s fine. He sleeps a
lot
.”

Alice forks a chunk of mackerel from the salad. “I knew about the dogs, of course,” Alice says. “He drove us mad for one when he was little.”

“Yes,” Bruno says. “He told me about that.”

“Oh, did he?”

“Yes... Um, moving quickly on,” Bruno laughs, “He hates rosé. And capers. And anchovies.”

“Not keen myself,” Alice says.

“Careful now,” Bruno laughs, tapping the neck of the bottle.

“The anchovies, I meant. The wine’s lovely.”

“So it’s genetic then? The anchovy thing?”

“Possibly,” Alice says.

“He’s scared of motorbikes.”

“Fearless Matt?” Alice asks. “Scared of something?”

“Not-so-fearless Matt,” Bruno laughs. “But then that might just be my driving. I don’t think I’m very good.”

“Well that’s lots of things I didn’t know. And you? Tell me some things about Bruno Campbell.”

“Er... I’m Canadian. I make pots,” Bruno says.

“And you like beetroot.”

Bruno wrinkles his nose. “It’s OK,” he says. “I like cooking. And gardening. Especially growing vegetables. I get really excited when they start to form. Things you can eat, sprouting from nowhere. It’s like magic.”

“I could never get anything much to grow,” Alice admits. “I’ve never had green fingers, me.”

“Matt’s not much cop either,” Bruno tells her. “He lacks patience. But he’s good at other stuff.”

“Such as?”

“DIY.”

“Really?!”

Bruno nods. “Really,” he says. “He can build pretty much anything. And he’s very good at his job, apparently.”

“Washing up?”

“Yes. Well, clearing tables and stacking the dishwasher.”

Alice sighs. “OK, there’s a thing where you can maybe enlighten me, Bruno. Why does Matt always do such silly jobs?”

“Silly?” Bruno repeats.

“He’s got an art degree, for God’s sake!”

“He has?”

“Well, almost,” Alice says. “He did four years. I mean, he dropped out before the end. But it really was
just
before the end.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Ah!” Alice says. “You see. We can trade secrets.”

“But to answer your question, I guess he doesn’t think that they’re silly.”

Alice looks doubtful.

“Don’t you eat in restaurants?” Bruno asks. “Don’t you stay in hotels?”

“Well, yes,” Alice says. “Not as much as I’d like to, but...”

“So someone has to deal with the dishes.”

“But Matt’s so clever,” Alice says. “He could be so much more.”

“He
is
so much more.”

Alice squints at Bruno as she thinks about this. And just for an instant, she thinks she knows what he means. But like some complex mathematical problem, her comprehension has vanished almost before she has finished grasping it. “It still seems such a waste to me,” she says. “That’s all.”

“I thought we were watching our negatives.”

“You said that, not me,” Alice replies. “Why don’t you watch your own?”

“I do,” Bruno says. “All the time. But anyway, getting back to Matt, I’m just saying that he’s happy. So maybe you could try to concentrate on that instead.”

Alice nods. “OK,” she says. “I’ll try. But you really are a very strange young man.”

“Strange is good,” Bruno says. “Strange is what we strive for.”

“Well, I’d say you’re doing pretty well, then,” Alice laughs.

“And you?” Bruno asks. “Tell me about you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alice says. “There’s really not much to tell.”

“OK then,” Bruno says, mockingly. “Let’s talk about me again. I’ve got
masses
to tell. Salad number two?” He points the second Tupperware container at Alice.

“Yes,” Alice says. “Thank you.” As Bruno serves her with tomato and mozzarella, she smiles. It’s strange, but in fact, this bad-natured sparring is shifting to good-natured sparring, and she’s starting, despite herself, to enjoy it. It’s been so long since she has found herself opposite someone quick enough to fight back. “So, I like to read,” Alice says. “If that counts.”

“Sure. What kind of thing?”

“Anything. Fiction, non-fiction, biographies, everything. I just devour books.”

“Like Matt, then?”

“If you say so. And black pudding. And fish and chips. I know it’s not haute cuisine or anything, but I
do
like fish and chips. And asparagus. God, I
love
asparagus.”

“It’s nice, but it makes your...” Bruno’s voice fades out.

“Yes?”

“Never mind,” Bruno says. “It’s not, you know... tactful dinner conversation.”

“It makes your pee smell?” Alice laughs. “Was that it?”

“Yeah,” Bruno says. “You know about that, then?”

“It would be hard to like the stuff as much as I do and
not
know that, really.”

“Eww,” Bruno says.

“Hey,” Alice says. “You started it.”

Alice and Bruno spar on into the night. Around them, the light fades, the temperature falls, and the mosquitos appear prompting Bruno to fetch and light a huge yellow citronella candle from Virginie’s larder.

The cats, ever present, take it in turns to attempt an invasion of Alice’s lap, but she’s not having it. “You’ll give in eventually,” Bruno tells her. “Cats are incredibly tenacious.”

“So am I,” Alice tells him. “They’ve met their match.”

By the time they have polished off the bottle of rosé, Alice is feeling tipsy and cocooned, as if wrapped in cotton wool. She’s also surprised to find herself feeling something approaching happiness. At some point the sparring has ceased and the conversation has become pleasant, intimate even.

Right now, Bruno is telling Alice about his parents, about their move to France, about the gallery in Aix and his suspicions that his mother merely pretends to sell his work. He’s explaining about the Japanese technique called Raku – he’s describing the pots that he’s trying to make, groups of smooth, perfectly formed cylinders, mounted on a base, each designed to hold a single flower. His eyes are sparkling in the candlelight. His pottery, Alice can see, really is a passion.

At some point, Alice checks her watch. She’s surprised to see that it’s almost half-past eleven. “At least it’s cooler now,” she says.

“That’s what’s so great about living up here,” Bruno replies. “Even in the hottest part of summer, you can still sleep properly. It’s horrific down on the coast. In Aix, I used to get up to take cold showers every couple of hours. Otherwise I couldn’t sleep at all.”

“That must be horrible,” Alice agrees.

“So how are you feeling about everything?” Bruno asks. “We’ve talked about just about everything except you, really.”

“That’s true,” Alice admits. “But I think it’s done me good to be honest. I almost forgot for a moment what a mess I’m in. It’s been quite restful.”