Perfect Blend: A Novel (12 page)

Amy was frowning. “His
floozy?”

“Calls herself an ‘erotic poetess,’ if you please. Now I’ve heard everything. Still, if she floats his boat, who am I to object?” Just then they heard a child crying, and Val said she would go downstairs to check on how Simon and Trevor were managing.

“What on earth is an erotic poetess?” Amy said after her mother had gone.

“It’s bloody disgusting, that’s what it is,” Victoria hissed. “The woman writes rhyming porn and reads it out in public. People actually pay to hear her.”

“Porn poetry evenings?” Amy laughed. “Gawd, I wonder what sort of stuff she writes.” She paused, waiting for the muse to strike her: “Okay, I’ve got it. ‘Oh, Jemima, your vagina is like an ocean liner/Let me anchor my tanker between your thighs in Sri Lanka.’”

“How can a vagina be like an ocean liner?” Victoria was actually giggling. They were sharing a moment, their first in months, years even.

“I dunno. It was the best I could come up with at short notice.”

“Anyway, I’m not happy.”

“Maybe not, but this is Dad’s business, and it has nothing to do with you or any of us. If Mum isn’t bothered, why should you be?”

“I’ll tell you why—because our father has turned into a middle-aged pervert. What sort of example is he setting for Arthur, Lila, and Charlie? Their grandfather is dating a prostitute.”

“Oh, come on. The woman might be a bit strange, but you know Dad as well as I do. It’s preposterous to even suggest that Dad is dating a hooker.”

“Fine,” Victoria retorted. “Have it your own way, but has it occurred to you, even for a second, that we might not know Dad as well as we think we do?”

“No, it hasn’t.”

Victoria looked like she might be about to burst into tears. “Do you mind telling me why we can’t just be a normal family?”

Amy put her arm around her, and to her surprise, Victoria didn’t resist. “What’s normal?” Amy said.

“Not this—our mother dating some weirdo healer. Our father seeing this … this porn peddler. What will people think?”

“Who cares what people think?”

“I do. People’s opinions matter to me. We have to put a stop to this relationship. If we let it continue, Dad will become a laughingstock.”

“No,” Amy said. “This is Dad’s life. No matter how much you disapprove, you cannot possibly interfere.”

“What about Mum’s life? What will her friends say?”

“Mum has the kind of friends who won’t give two hoots. You’ve got this thing totally out of proportion. There is no way that our father is involved in anything sleazy. And even if he were, Mum is separated from him. How could his behavior reflect on her?”

Victoria shrugged. “Okay, you might be right about Mum, but it is still going to reflect on me and my children.” She pulled away from Amy and began rubbing a fingernail over some imagined imperfection on the bath surface.

“Victoria, are you all right?” Amy said tenderly. “You sure there’s nothing else you want to talk about?”

Victoria looked up, clearly irritated. “I’ve told you. I’m fine. Now
please
let it drop.”

AS SOON
as they got home, Amy went to check on Michelangelo. He was curled up in a corner of his cage, barely breathing. The next morning, to her astonishment, he was still hanging on. His impending demise reminded Amy of how her parents had dealt with her grandfather’s death. She must have been seven or eight when one day they announced that Grandpa Ted had unexpectedly and in his sleep moved to Eastbourne. She accepted it without question. A few weeks later Victoria took enormous delight in telling her sister the truth. For months Amy had nightmares about her parents dying.

Just before ten, Victoria was on the phone to say that she and Simon were meeting some friends for lunch and would love Charlie to join them. Victoria was making a real effort to be friends, Amy thought. It occurred to her that the sadness and distress they’d both felt when their parents separated might in some strange way end up uniting them.

“We’re going to Soho House,” Victoria said, pausing for effect. Amy’s heart sank. This wasn’t entirely a hand-of-friendship call. It was also about Victoria needing to impress. Amy didn’t say anything. She wanted to let her sister know that she could take Soho House in her stride. “Simon joined a few months ago,” she persisted. “Last time we went, Jude Law was at the next table.”

Amy called out to Charlie, who was sprawled on the living room floor doing a jigsaw and eating toasted crumpets, and asked him if he would like to go out to lunch with his cousins. He demanded to know what was on offer if he didn’t go out with Lila and Arthur. Amy couldn’t help being mildly irritated that her son saw her as the entertainment committee. She told him that they were going to IKEA to buy a desk and a chest of drawers for his room. For Charlie it was a no-brainer. He was adamant that he wanted to help choose his furniture.

Victoria said she was sure that Charlie would prefer Soho House to traipsing around IKEA. At that point Amy could hear Lila shrieking in the background.

“Yay, Charlie’s going to IKEA. Can Arthur and me go, too, and have Swedish meatballs and fries in the restaurant?” She could hear Victoria singing the praises of Soho House fish cakes, but judging by the commotion, the children had made up their minds. In the end Victoria insisted that her two come to Soho House. Amy could hear them sobbing and calling her a big fat poo.

Amy had arranged to go to IKEA with Bel, who wanted to buy a new bed. The two of them had agreed to split the cost of hiring a van.

Bel arrived half an hour late with Jurassic Mark in tow. He was thickset and muscle-bound and smelled overpoweringly of Fahrenheit. His green-and-white-striped rugby shirt, collar turned up, was set off by a surf necklace made of carved wooden beads. On his feet he wore Ugg duck boots. “Sorry we’re late,” he said, ending the sentence as if it were a question, the way all Aussies did and more Brits were starting to. He stopped to fingerfluff his hair in Amy’s hall mirror. “Still, you have to admit I’m worth waiting for. I got up today and thought God gave and He just kept on giving.” He leered at Amy’s cleavage for a few beats before placing his hand on Bel’s right buttock and squeezing. “Right, babe?”

“Right,” Bel said, removing Mark’s hand and shooting Amy an apologetic look. “Actually, the reason we’re late is that I’ve just started this biog of Coco Chanel and I’m totally hooked.”

“Yeah, and I was updating my Facebook status.” Mark piped up. “Came up with something really witty, though.” Another audible question mark and then; “‘Congratulations. If you’re reading this, you survived my cull.’”

Usually this would have been Bel’s cue to offer up girlie giggles and extol Mark’s comic genius. Instead her face formed a pained expression. “Very funny,” she said in a deadpan voice.

Mark winked at Amy and cocked his head toward Bel. “The little lady’s just pissed off that she didn’t come up with it.”

“Yeah, that’d be it,” Bel said.

“You know, babe, I don’t find uppity Sheilas much of a turn-on.”

“Is that right?”

Amy blinked. Bel never ever spoke to Mark like this. Was it possible she had finally woken up and smelled the slime?

Before Amy had a chance to give her verdict on Mark’s Facebook update, he was off again. “So, Amy, any chance of a glass of the amber fluid?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got a carton of apple juice somewhere.”

Mark turned to Bel. “You know, she’s quite witty—for a Sheila.”

“Why, thank you,” Amy simpered.

“My pleasure.” He was gazing at her cleavage again.

“Mark, if you’ve got something to say, please address it to my face and not my breasts.”

“Mark, for Chrissake,” Bel hissed.

“Aw, come on—fair go. A bloke can look, can’t he? I mean, by anybody’s standards that is a bit of a bloomin’ rack Amy’s got there.”

Amy decided that nothing she could say would make an impression on Mark. Bel just looked weary and fed up.

Mark seemed to sense that he was making himself unpopular. “You know what?” he said to Bel, “I think I’ll go and sit in the pub and have a few cold ones. Then this afternoon I might go to the football game.”

“But what about IKEA?” Bel said. “You promised you’d help us load all the stuff into the van.”

“You’re big girls, particularly our Amy here. You can manage. I’ll see to you later, babe. And don’t forget to pick up some pizza on your way through. I’ll have a quattro stagioni with extra olives, anchovies, cheese. And get them to drizzle some of that chili oil on top. You always forget that.”

“Right.” Bel couldn’t have sounded less enthusiastic.

“And pick up a few beers, too. I’d get them myself, but I benched a hundred and twenty K yesterday and the old back’s really crook.”

“’Course it is,” Bel muttered.

AS IT
turned out, the van had room only for three passengers and there wouldn’t have been space for Mark. They decided that Bel should drive. Charlie sat in the middle with his headphones on, listening to
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
. Amy sat beside him, her arm across his shoulders.

“I’ve finally had it,” Bel said, attempting to pull away and stalling the engine. “I’m ending it.” She turned the ignition again. “The man is a misogynist jerk.” She rammed the gear shift into first. Despite the grinding sound, the van started to move.

“Hang on. A few days ago you were adamant about how you loved doing things for Mark and that you couldn’t leave him because the sex was so fantastic. Then there was the bit about how you liked to be controlled by men. What happened?”

“Okay, I know you’ll think I’m mad, but the other night I’d had a couple of glasses of wine and I ended up phoning that shrink on Capital Radio, Dr. Beverly.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I said I thought I was addicted to controlling men and that when I was with them I had this total personality transplant and became subservient and compliant. She told me that if I didn’t give up on toxic guys, I could end up with one that beat me. That seriously scared me. She made me realize that I confuse love with control and that, like I thought, it has to do with the way my dad treated my mum.”

“She’s totally spot on, but this is an addiction. It’s going to be hard to break.”

“Tell me about it,” Bel said. “And that’s not taking the sex into account. Sleeping with Mark is like shooting up some class A drug. And it’s not like I can half dump him and gradually wean myself off him. If I finish with him, I have to go cold turkey.” She slowed down to negotiate a roundabout.

“You know you’ve done brilliantly to get to this point. There were times when I thought the penny would never drop.”

“You can stop fretting. I’m sorry I took so long, but it has dropped—well and truly.”

“And I’m here if you need me …”

“I know and thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll invest in a vibrator if it’s all the same to you.”

They both laughed.

“By the way, talking of sex, my father is seeing—get this—an erotic poetess.”

“An erotic poetess? What does she do, make them have sex in iambic pentameter?”

That made Amy giggle. “Victoria thinks she’s a hooker.”

“Your dad and a hooker? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. She’ll just be some giddy middle-aged hippie.”

“That’s what I said.”

At that point Charlie took off his headphones and piped up, wanting to know if they were there yet.

Amy said it was going to be at least another half hour. She produced a juice box and a packet of Hula Hoops from her bag. The Hula Hoops were a rare treat. His eyes lit up, and he started making a puppy dog panting sound.

“You’d think I never fed him,” Amy said, watching him tear into the packet. A moment later he was chomping away, ear-buds back in place.

“Once I’ve finished with Mark,” Bel said, “I will need to be very careful about the men I choose to go out with. I have to find blokes who aren’t sexist control freaks.”

“There’s always Brian. He’s definitely not a sexist control freak.”

“Going out with Brian would be a nightmare.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Come on, we been over this before. You know it would. Our relationship is based on mutual piss taking and competitiveness. We’re like brother and sister. Plus his obsessions would drive me mad.”

Bel sounded pretty adamant. And she was right that this was old ground. Amy decided there wasn’t much point pursuing the subject.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you what happened in the café yesterday,” Amy said. She told Bel about Arthur bullying Charlie and how this chap Sam Draper had come to his rescue. “He even had a go at Victoria for condoning Arthur’s behavior.”

“No. God, not many people take on your sister and live to tell the tale.”

“It was the first time in years I’d seen her completely lost for words.”

Bel chuckled. “Wish I’d been there.”

“Anyhow, then I got chatting with this Sam and managed to make a complete fool of myself.”

“How?”

She recounted their conversation. “I just assumed he worked for Bean Machine. You should have seen me. Talk about getting on my high horse. I was so unpleasant and aggressive. I don’t know what got into me.”

“You were just angry on Brian’s behalf and you told this guy what you thought of him.”

“Yeah, but when I found out he didn’t work directly for Bean Machine, I had a go at him for having anything to do with unethical companies that exploit Third World workers. Then we got into this whole debate about buying goods from countries with dodgy human rights records.”

“I don’t get it,” Bel said. “Why are you so bothered about your behavior? You were upset. You lost your temper. It happens.”

Amy shrugged. “I dunno. I just hate giving people the wrong impression. Now he’s gone away thinking I’m this bad-tempered, argumentative bitch.”

“So what? Who cares? Unless, of course, you fancy him.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not being daft. A fight can be a bit like dancing—you know, a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.”

Amy became thoughtful. “You could be right. He did have rather nice eyes. Sort of midgray verging on charcoal, with these golden highlights.”