Telling Lies to Alice (15 page)

“You can get some wine—there’s a rack under the stairs—but you can’t have any. It’s all going in the pot.”

“We can’t have dinner without something to drink, Alice.”

“Get two bottles, then.”

Jack went out, and came back a few minutes later with two bottles of red, looking pleased. “These’ll be fine.” He opened them and took one back to the table, where he helped himself to another enormous measure of whisky. When he put the bottle back on the table, it was only half full. He followed my eyes and exploded. “Don’t be so bloody tight! What’s the matter with you? Don’t you normally offer people a drink when they come to your house? I’ll bring my own next time.”

“What in? A Pickford’s van?”

“Don’t talk to me like that, you provincial bitch!” The cookery book smacked against the wall above my head and plummeted straight down onto the stove, knocking my frying pan off the gas ring. A jet of blue flame shot up. “It’s on fire!” Before I could get to the oven gloves Jack lurched past me, grabbed the book with his fingertips—“Aaaaaaaah, shit,
shit, SHIT
!”—dashed over to the sink, and threw it in. There was a splash and a hissing noise, then silence. We looked at each other and started to laugh.

I had tears coming out of my eyes and Jack wasn’t a lot better. We were lurching about in front of the oven, clutching each other, flailing and gasping. Jack was hunched over, squeezing his burnt hand under his armpit. “Jesus, that hurts.”

“Stick it under the tap,” I said weakly. “I need to pee.”

The second I closed the kitchen door behind me, I stopped laughing. It
had
been funny, but I’d been there so many times with Lenny, giggling hysterically but being terrified that he could just
turn,
any minute . . . I thought of a conversation I’d had with one of Lenny’s doctors—the last one. He’d told me that if Lenny didn’t stop drinking he’d be dead within a year. This doctor was old—well, near retirement—and he said, “My advice is, leave him. There’s nothing you can do. You’re young and pretty. Save yourself.”

Save yourself. I hadn’t, had I? I looked into the bathroom mirror. “What about this time?” I asked. My reflection lowered her eyes and didn’t reply.

The man’s daughter’s just died, I thought. I can’t turn him out.

I sighed. “I owe you, Lenny,” I said out loud. “I’ll look after Jack. Just help me, that’s all. Help me get through this.” As I turned away from the mirror I had a sudden impression of a flick of dark hair, a gleaming shoulder, and the upturned corner of a sly smile, as if someone had been standing beside me and I’d glimpsed them for just a second out of the corner of my eye. Kitty. I took a deep breath, then dried my hands and returned to the kitchen.

Jack was back at the table, one outstretched hand holding
Charley’s Aunt,
the other clasping the glass to his chest. He looked as if he was having trouble focusing. I fished the sodden cookery book out of the sink. “Bin it,” said Jack. “Just tear the page out.”

“How’s your hand?”

“I’ll live.” He let the book topple out of his hand onto the table. “Let’s pack it in, Alice.”

I shrugged. “Fine. There’s no point, anyway, if you’re cheating.” I turned away to rescue the frying pan.

Jack sighed. “People don’t want to see me poncing about in a frock, Alice. They want serious stuff. Politics. David Hare, Howard Brenton. People saying ‘fuck’ onstage. Something
daring,
so they can boast to their middle-class friends over the spaghetti bolognese.”

“I’ve never even heard of Howard . . . What’s’isname. And anyway, you can’t say everyone wants heavy stuff, I mean, look at
No Sex Please, We’re British
.”

“
No Sex Please, We’re British
?” His voice was high, mimicking. “You haven’t got a bloody clue, have you?”

“Not about theatre, no,” I said, as calmly as I could. “I’ve hardly ever been.”

Jack glared at me. “It’s all right for you, you don’t have to spend the next two months slogging up and down the country saying ‘I’m Charley’s aunt from Brazil—
where the fucking nuts come from
.’ ” He banged his glass down on the table.

“No,” I agreed, “but then I’m not an actor.”

“Neither am I, you stupid cow! I’m going to fucking
die
out there. You know, Alice . . . what we used to do in the theatre. Twice nightly. We could do
anything,
and now look at me. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Jack Flowers and I can’t get it up once nightly, never mind twice.’ ” He drained his glass. I ran to grab the whisky bottle but Jack was faster, scooping it off the table and cradling it in his arms, gazing down as if he was holding a baby. “Come
on
. . .” I held out my hand for it. Jack raised his head and shook it slowly, victory in his eyes. “Oh no you don’t, Bunny Alice.” He twisted in his chair, turning his back on me. I took the red wine instead—pointless, but I had to do something—and put it beside me on the worktop.

I finished the recipe in silence, left the whole lot to simmer, and went to sit down opposite Jack. The whisky bottle stood on the floor by his chair. It was almost empty. I leant forward and held out my hand. Jack took it. “Talk to me,” I said. He slumped to one side, his face on his outstretched arm, and looked up at me from under his eyebrows. Woeful, dark-rimmed bloodshot eyes. “What’s going on?”

Jack sighed. “I haven’t got a fucking clue. Never did have.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is . . .” He hesitated, and I thought he was going to tell me about his daughter, but he said, “Do you remember, Alice, the first time we . . .” He lowered his eyes.

“Lenny’d bought you that fur coat and hit the roof because you wouldn’t wear it, and you were crying . . .” He was smiling at some memory. “Lenny’s mum—he’d told her what happened. She was in a home by then and a bit past it, and she said to him—
she said
”—Jack snorted, fighting laughter—“she said, ‘Well, you should have got her one of those
stimulated
fur coats. . . .’ ” He fixed his eyes on me again. “But . . . what I said about us . . . it
was
good, wasn’t it?” He sounded almost pleading. “What you said, upstairs . . .” His thumb rubbed circles on my palm.

“Yes,” I said. “I meant it.”

“I love you, Alice.”

“You’re drunk, Jack.” I pulled my hand away.

“No, I know, but . . . you weren’t like the others. . . . You were special. We both wanted—loved you.” He sat up and looked at me accusingly. “He wouldn’t share.”

“What do you mean,
’He wouldn’t share’
? Jack, I’m a human being, not a . . . a . . . train set.”

“We always shared,” he said. Petulant, like a child.

“Really? Did you share . . . Val?”

“Val?”
Jack sat up. “Val my wife?”

“Yes,
Val your wife.
How many other Vals do you know?”

“Of course not.” He looked disgusted.

“Oh, not Val. Just all the others. That’s all right, then. I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to this. It obviously never even crossed your mind that
I
might have an opinion on the subject.”

“Well, you expressed it, didn’t you?” He looked triumphant again. “I didn’t force you, did I?”

“No, but . . .” Confused, I looked down at the table. “That wasn’t what I—”

“You wanted to, Bunny Alice. Just as much as I did.” He leant back in his chair and tried to click his fingers at me. “Come here.”

It was his expression that really got to me. Smugness, confidence, arrogance—all of that. And the way he obviously thought I’d still find him irresistible even when he was pissed as a newt. And because what he’d said was right—I
had
wanted to as much as he did, and he knew it.

“Oh, just . . .
belt up!
I’ve had enough. Either you can tell me what’s going on, or you can just . . .
fuck off,
okay?”

Jack stared at me. “I don’t know why you’re getting hysterical all of a sudden.”

“Look,” I said, as calmly as I could manage. “I’m going to see to the food because if you don’t eat something you’ll fall off that chair and I’ll have to pick you up off the floor. I don’t know why you’re here—I don’t even know if
you
know why you’re here—or why you went through my room and hid my mail, because I know damn well you did—and right now, I couldn’t care less. We’ll have dinner and you can leave first thing tomorrow and that’s it.” I yanked open the nearest drawer and grabbed a handful of knives and forks.

Jack pulled himself to his feet and lurched towards me. The scotch bottle was swinging from his hand. “You started all this,” he said. His eyes were poisonous. “It was your idea in the first place.” I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach.

“Lenny told me,” he said. “It was your idea.” I saw the glass blur in the air as he raised his arm. I’m not quite sure what happened after that. I know I flung the cutlery at him and put my hands over my face, and then there was a crash and the next thing I saw—through my fingers—was Jack staggering sideways and practically falling on top of Eustace, who shot backwards and collided with the dresser. It rocked back and forth, plates cascading down the front. Neither of us moved until everything was still again. Jack mumbled something about wanting a cigarette, and I mumbled something back—I’ve no idea what. It was a real effort not to flinch as he leant past me to put the bottle on the worktop. He misjudged the distance and it shattered at our feet.

“Good job it was nearly empty,” I said. The words came out too bright, stupid.

“Lenny said it was your idea,” Jack insisted, as if I’d disagreed with him. “He
told
me.”

“What do you mean, my idea? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. For God’s sake, just go and sit down and let me clear up this mess.”

As I rummaged in the cupboard for the brush and pan I heard the clink of a bottle behind me. When I turned round, Jack was back sitting at the table, pouring himself a glass of red wine. “Do you know how I found out he was dead, Alice? A headline, that’s how.”

“But surely Don Findlater—”

“We were on a yacht. He couldn’t get hold of me.” Jack shook his head. “A headline in a fucking newspaper.”

“Try and eat something.” I put a plate of coq au vin in front of him and fetched some more cutlery. He ate and drank sloppily for a few minutes, dark sauce spraying his shirtfront and his unbuttoned cuff soaking up spilt wine from the table, then pushed away his plate.

“
You
aren’t eating anything,” he accused.

“I’m not hungry, Jack.”

“Stop staring at me, then. I’m not a zoo animal.”

“I can move if you like.” I got up and went over to sit on the sofa with Eustace. Jack ate a bit more and then pushed away his plate again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to . . . you know. I was upset, that’s all. Got a bit carried away. Anyway, I feel much better now. Let’s go for a walk.” I looked at my watch—11:15—the pub was shut—and thought that if we were out of the house at least he’d be away from the source of booze for a bit. To be honest—history or no history—I’d got to the point where I didn’t much care what happened as long as I could get rid of him in the morning.

Jack picked up the wine bottle and looked at me expectantly. “Glasses?”

“What?”

“We need something to drink out of, don’t we?”

“Okay.” I took two clean ones off the dresser. Eustace watched me from under his eyebrows as I closed the back door, but made no move to follow. I set off towards the middle of the village, Jack beside me. Given how drunk he was, he was amazingly steady on his feet.

It was fairly warm out, and bright because it was almost a full moon and there weren’t any clouds. Apart from the odd rustle, it was silent, and neither of us said anything until the church came into view behind the trees. Jack laughed. “What’s this, confession time? Bit late for that, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, Jack. Is it?”

“I didn’t . . . Oh, never mind.” He launched into a breathy imitation of a school choir. “Oh Go-dour-helpinage-espas-tourhope-for-yearsto-come-Mour-shel-ter-from-the-storm-

yblas-TAND-OURET-ER-NAL-HOME!”

I tugged at his sleeve and tried to shush him, worried that he’d wake the people in the cottages, but he stopped of his own accord. “What’s that?” he hissed. “At the end of the road,
what is it?
” He pointed to where the lane joins the big road. A girl was standing there. We could see her in the orange glow from the street lamp on the corner. Young and slim, long hair hanging down her back, hands shoved into the pockets of her denim jacket. “Is it a ghost?” he whispered.

I was surprised to see real fear in his eyes. “She’s probably waiting to thumb a lift. It’s all right.”

“Alice,
you don’t know.
It’s all much closer than you realise. For Christ’s sake, let’s get away from her.” Jack turned away from me and started fumbling with the latch on the churchyard gate. “It’s bad luck. An omen. I don’t want to look.”

We walked along the path between the headstones. There’s a wooden bench built round the base of one of the big oak trees by the church porch. We sat down on it. I let Jack pour me some wine—more in order to empty the bottle than because I wanted it, and sitting facing in slightly different directions made it easier to pretend to drink and then tip it on the ground.

“You’re not usually superstitious,” I said.

“I heard a story once—a girl hitchhiker, young, like that one . . . She was killed, and now her ghost stands on the spot where she got the lift and if anyone picks her up, they crash. The drivers always die.”

“How was she killed?”

Jack didn’t answer.

“Sounds like a bad horror film.”

“How do you know? It could be true.”

“Yes, it could.” I stared very hard at the side of the Selwood family’s mausoleum and said, “She could have ended up in a car at the bottom of a lake, couldn’t she?” Only the trees moved. Jack mumbled something.

“I didn’t hear you.”