Playing Along (22 page)

“Looking forward to
that,
” says Duncan.

She leaves George and Duncan standing in the narrow hallway, their heads almost touching the ceiling.

“Regretting it?” whispers George, who is suddenly relieved to have Duncan with him, remembering how lonely he can feel in this house, even with everyone around.

“Not yet,” says Duncan, “but when can we crack open your dad’s sherry?”

LEXI
December 24
^th
, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles

Lexi manages to push her way through onto the balcony where those who have overflowed outside are smoking and talking. She clutches her green cocktail feeling hopelessly out of place. Who would have guessed that Lexi Jacobs, the most popular girl in her senior year, would be this familiar with feeling uncomfortable? She’s contemplating hiding her drink in the jasmine and slipping away inconspicuously, when she hears a man’s voice behind her.

“Come here often?” Lexi turns around to find a tall guy with blond curly hair and glasses. He’s wearing jeans and a blue striped shirt. She needs to think of a cute, snappy comeback, but her mind is blank.

“Uh, not really.”

“Well, I can’t say I blame you. Especially if when you do, guys like me approach you with age-old pick-up lines.”

She smiles, “I’ve heard worse.”

“No! You can’t have done. You’re just saying that because you feel sorry for me. I’m Lance, by the way,” he offers his hand.

“Hi Lance, I’m Lexi.”

“Lance and Lexi, we already sound like a couple.”

“We do, do we?”

“I’m not gay. In case you were wondering. It’s only that a minute ago I was thinking that I might be the only person at this party who wasn’t, until I saw you.”

“That’s very presumptuous, how do you know that I’m not gay?” Lexi takes a sip of her drink, thankful that she didn’t dispose of it in the potted plant.

“I have a straidar—it’s a bit like a gaydar, except opposite.”

“Useful.”

“Well, it
is
tonight. So who dragged you along?”

“A friend. Well, actually Johnnie’s my lawyer.”

“He is? I guess you got a shock when he answered the door?”

“I did! And you?”

“I’ll see your connection and raise you one. Johnnie’s my brother.” Lance has perfectly aligned white teeth.

“Good choice, he’s great.”

“It runs in the family.”

“Unlike modesty?” Lexi lowers her chin and raises her eyebrows. She might be out of practice, but if flirting is anything like riding a bike, she thinks she may have just gotten back in the saddle.

“Life’s too short for modesty, Lexi. Tell me something you’re brilliant at?” She can see sparkle lights reflected in Lance’s glasses. She pauses, unnerved by how few things come to mind these days.

“Baking reindeer cookies.”

“A traditional woman. I like that. I’m brilliant at dancing. Care for a demonstration?” He puts his hand on her shoulder.

Lexi is fully aware that she is supposed to have sworn off men, and in the words of George Bryce, be at a ‘table for one’. However, she doesn’t need her mother or Meg clambering up the side of this balcony to tell her that she’d be a fool not to give this one a try. He’s promising. A far more agreeable word than ‘perfect’. Anyway—it’s only a dance.

“You coming?” he says, searching her face for a response.

“I’m coming,” says Lexi, as she gives in and allows Lance to lead her into the fray.

GEORGE
24
^th
December, 2009
Stanford in the Vale, Oxfordshire

The Christmas tree is plastic and festooned in silver tinsel, coloured fairy lights, and gold baubles, three of which have the triplets’ faces superimposed on them wearing antlers.

Polly points them out to George immediately, “Look at these! Aren’t they fun? I ordered them off the Internet.”

George wonders if Polly ever leaves her house, or if she spends hours on end sitting at the computer buying cheap crap. Was this really the same girl who used to laugh at
him
for being such a twerp? Who used to boast about the pervert who approached her in the local supermarket asking her if she was interested in an international modeling career? She actually fell for it. She was even planning on meeting up with him, until their parents found out and forbade her to leave the house for two weeks and tore up his card. She cried for months and accused George of narking on her. It would have suited him just fine had she been abducted.

The triplets are seated next to the tree waiting for the go-ahead to open their presents. Archie is picking his nose. Padstow is sucking his thumb and Trevor is leaning against George’s leg, having barely left his side since George had carefully cut out the scratchy label.

“So, George, you might be interested to know that the boys are extremely into music now. Archie’s taking piano lessons. Pad’s learning the oboe and Trevor is mastering the tambourine.” Polly points to each of them smugly.

“Excellent,” says George, stifling a yawn.

“Yeah and we’ve got a band and Dad says we’re miles and miles and miles better than you,” Padstow has removed his thumb to make this charming announcement.

Martyn pokes him in the ribs, “No, Paddy, Daddy never said that, did I? I said your Uncle George would love to hear all about your band. Remember?”

“I don’t remember that, Daddy. I remember you said that Uncle George’s band was—”

“Great! I said Uncle George’s band was great!” Martyn’s smile is getting wider and more forced by the second.

“Uncle George’s band
is
great,” says Trevor to his dad. “Mummy said their last album went to number one for lots and lots of weeks and trillions of people buyed it from their commuters.”

George is beginning to grow rather fond of Trevor. “Computers,” George whispers to Trevor stressing the ‘P’, amazed to hear that Polly says anything positive about him when he’s not around.

“Yes,” says Trevor, “comPuuuters.”

“Of course they did, Trevor,” says Martyn, defensively.

“Yeah well, I bet you rug rats rock too,” says Duncan, “What’s the name of your band? Maybe you could open for us at Wembley next year.”

“It’s called We Three Kings,” says Archie, examining the snot he has carefully removed from his right nostril.

“Figures,” says George under his breath.

“What was that, George?” asks Polly.

“Nothing, Pol. I said Fabulous. Fabulous name for the band.”

“Well, Martyn and I thought if the Jonas brothers can do it, why not the Tabor Triplets? Right, Martyn?”

“Right, Polly,” says Martyn on cue.

The doorbell rings and nobody moves.

“Are we expecting anyone else, Harriet?” calls George’s father, settled in his armchair with his second tumbler of whiskey.

George’s mother comes in from the kitchen wiping her hands on a yellow apron.

“I’m not expecting anyone, are you, Polly?”

“Amelia said she might drop in to say hello, but she did say she’d call me first.”

The doorbell rings again.

This inertia is doing George’s head in. He feels like grabbing the Christmas tree and wielding it around the room.

“Should I answer it then?” he asks.

“I’ll get it,” says Martyn, reluctantly standing up.

“But Mummy,” whines Padstow, “Granny said we could open up two presents and she said we could do it now and we’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for ages.”

“Yes, Father Christmas will be here soon if we don’t do it right now!” demands Archie angrily.

“Not true,” says Duncan, “Father Christmas is having a pint at the pub. I saw him there earlier. He needs to chillax before his big night.”

Polly shoots Duncan a furious glare.

“You’re fibbing!” says Padstow.

“Mate,” says Duncan, “trust me. FC and I are like this.” He holds up two twisted fingers and waves them hypnotically in front of the boys’ faces. “Now watch carefully. Keep your eyes on these two fingers. I’m going to put you to sleep.”

Archie and Trevor are riveted, but Padstow leaps up and shouts.

“I’M NOT GOING TO SLEEP UNTIL I GET MY PRESENTS AND YOU NEED TO GO AWAY! YOU’RE STUPID!”

Brat
thinks George, just as Colin walks back into the room followed by—oh God—could it really be? Hardly recognizable, but yes, it is, Amelia Hoffman. Polly’s best friend during secondary school. One of the original Grapefruit Girls.

“Hello boys, Auntie Amelia’s here!”

George had once thought that Amelia Hoffman was the sexiest girl on the planet. Not only did she have luscious breasts and smelled wonderful, but she had long thin legs and a bottom that was just on the right side of curvy. It’s now on the wrong side. She’s painted into black leggings and a gold sequined bustier. Amelia glances nervously around the room and finally settles on George.

“George, what a surprise! I completely forgot you were going to be here.”

“No, you didn’t,” says Polly through pursed lips. “I told you this morning.”

“Oh, did you? It must have slipped my mind.”

Amelia is making her way across the room, clambering over the triplets, towards George, who forces a smile and leans in to kiss her cheek. She has other things in mind though and lunges forward, pushing her ungainly breasts into his chest, as she traps him in a hug. She doesn’t smell like grapefruit anymore.

“Hello, Amelia,” he pulls away.

“Georgie, you’re all grown up. I always knew you were going to be a success. Remember those songs you used to play on your Yamaha? Whenever I passed your bedroom, I told Polly they were amazing. I sensed you had a raw talent.”

Polly guffaws. George realizes that Amelia Hoffman might be responsible for making him feel even shittier than his sister did. She used to mock him mercilessly, until one Saturday night in June when she cornered him at the side of the house as he took the rubbish out. “I’ve always loved you, Georgie,” she had whispered dramatically, “don’t tell Polly, but I’m going to let you kiss me.” Amelia had pitched forward offering him her lips, smothered in slick peach coloured gloss. George thought he was going to pass out. He could smell damp potato rinds and the heady citrusy scent wafting around Amelia’s neck. This would be it. His first kiss. And with the girl he fancied the most. He leaned in to take the permission granted, but just as his lips were about to touch down, she pulled back with a look of disgust. “Psycho boy. I can’t believe you even thought I was serious!”

Brutal. The memory burns.

“Um, Amelia, this is Duncan. Duncan, Amelia.”

Duncan takes her hand and kisses it. “Sounds like you know all of Georgie’s dirty little secrets, Amelia. I’d like to hear more.”

“I wouldn’t,” says Polly, “anyway, the boys were just about to open some presents, Amelia. That
is
before you arrived, unannounced.”

“I’ll stay,” says Amelia, “I love presents!”

Polly is clearly livid. “Are you sure you can stay? It looks like you’re on your way to a party.”

“Oh, this old thing?” says Amelia, tugging at the gold top. “It was just the first thing I grabbed.”

“Could I be the second?” says Duncan with a straight face.

“I don’t think so, Duncan. Amelia’s married with a lovely little girl
and
a baby. Aren’t you, Amelia?”

George is enjoying watching Polly bristle.

“Yes, Polly, I’m married, not dead.”

“Neither has stopped me in the past,” says Duncan, finding his lascivious stride.

“Well, aren’t you just the naughty rock star!” giggles Amelia. George reckons he’s in for a long night.

LEXI
December 24
^th
, 2009
West Hollywood, Los Angeles

Lexi has had more green cocktails than she cares to remember. She lost count after the YMCA. She’s back on the balcony now with Lance sitting on a bench underneath the jasmine plant. They’ve danced for an hour and she feels giddy and a bit sweaty. Unlike her, Lance seems to be entirely in control.

“You’re sexy when you dance, you know that?” His arm has found its way around her shoulders.

“Oh God, I’m sure I made a fool of myself!” says Lexi, self-consciously flattening her hair back behind her ears.

“Quite the opposite. You had fun. Looked like you needed it.” They are the only people on the balcony and the party seems to be clearing out. Johnnie pops his head around the French doors. “I knew you guys would hit it off. Lexi, Andrew says you’ve had a run of bad luck in the boy department.”

“Thanks to Andrew,” says Lexi embarrassedly.

“Well, I’m here to tell you,” says Johnnie winking, “Lance is a keeper.”

“I’ll bear that in my mind,” calls Lexi, as Johnnie disappears again.

Lance turns to look at her. “You? Bad luck in the boy department? I find that extremely difficult to believe.”

“Do you always say all the right things?” Lexi’s head is still swimming in jasmine and tequila and she’s wondering if this man is too good to be true.

“Only when I’m not saying the wrong things,” and before he can say anything else, he leans in to kiss her.

GEORGE
24
^th
December, 2009
Stanford in the Vale, Oxfordshire

George is lying in his old bed, in his old room, staring at the black wintry sky outside his old window. The wall is a patchwork of faded blue paint, empty outlines reminding him where his beloved music posters were once taped up. He’s surprised there’s not a crater in the mattress—a carved out space where he spent endless stagnant years, gazing at the ceiling. What an awful night. Amelia was toxic. Duncan got too drunk, too quickly. The triplets eventually opened their presents and then Archie whined relentlessly for more. Duncan called Padstow a “fuckin wanker” under his breath, but Polly heard. And George’s parents looked on disapprovingly, as ever, shaking their heads as if to say,
where did we go wrong
?

George tries to remember a time when things in this house weren’t so horrible. Flashes of memories spark in his brain like worn-out film reels. Planting strawberry seeds in the garden with his mother. Watching his father tinker with the engine of his granny’s Triumph 2000 on the weekends. Occasionally he’d allow George to assist, and George has never forgotten the pungent smell of the engine oil smeared on the tips of his fingers like paint. Playing hide and seek with Polly and squeezing tightly in the narrow dusty space beneath his parents’ bed. He can’t remember exactly when things began to deteriorate. When his grandmother died his father stopped speaking for weeks. He always looked distracted and George began to feel like a nuisance. George withdrew in response, turning inwards, while Polly came out, shouting and crying at even the most minor of disturbances. It appeared that her tactics were far more successful. His mother was always dealing with Polly while his father spent more and more time locked away. When George turned twelve, already lost in the music inside his own head, his mother tried to explain, “He doesn’t mean to be so hard on you, Georgie. It’s only that
his
father was always so tough on him. It’s all he knows.” George’s grandfather had died of stroke before George was born.