The Half Life of Stars (5 page)

‘Do you think she knew something? Should I have listened to her? Robert made me put down the phone.’

‘No Mum, you did the right thing. These people are sick, they don’t know anything. They’re just doing it for attention.’

‘What do
you
think?’ says my mother, leaning towards me. ‘What do you think has happened to my beautiful son?’

He belongs to her, right now. He only belongs to her.

‘I don’t know. I just…I think he’s OK.’

‘Alive?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m sure he is.’

‘Why?’ she says falling back into the sofa. ‘Are
you
a psychic now too?’

She doesn’t really want my answers to these questions, she just wants to make me feel worse. And what am I meant to say? That I think Daniel’s alive because I
know
him, because we’re close. Because I think I would be able to feel it in my bones if something dreadful had happened to him?

‘It’s early days, that’s what the police said. There’s no point in us thinking the worst.’

She seems comforted for a moment and relaxes long enough to take a sip from her glass of water.

‘Have you spoken to your sister today?’

‘No…not since the broadcast.’

‘Would you look in on her for me?’

‘Me? Why?’

‘She hasn’t called. I’ve been leaving messages for her…she hasn’t called me back.’

‘I’m sure she’s fine. She’s probably just busy studying.’

‘You’ll go and see her?’

‘Yes,’ I say, reluctantly. ‘I’ll go round and check on her tomorrow.’

‘She’s such a sensitive soul, Sylvie. I’ve no idea how she’s coping.’

‘She’s OK, Mum, she’s getting through it. Just like the rest of us are.’

‘Do you want to lick my pussy?

‘…’

‘Yes, yes, u-huh, that’s so good. Ooh, amazing you’re so hard.’

‘…’

‘Ooh…you’re so big. Mnnng…I don’t think I can take it. You might have to try it in my ar—’

My sister is bent over her feet, digging toe-jam out of her nails with a pair of scissors. She’s wearing lose sweatpants and a grubby sweatshirt and has a slick of hot oil conditioner spread through her hair. A brown sludgy face pack is smeared across her cheeks and an episode of
Friends
plays dimly in the corner. She slips her free hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and whispers to me, ‘
Wait, I won’t be long
.’

I don’t hang around. I head for the kitchen and turn on the kettle so I can’t hear the rest of what she’s saying. I like to think that I’m pretty open minded, but listening to my twenty-three-year-old sister describing her pussy to pervert strangers over the phone is pushing it, even for me.

‘What are you so bothered about?’ she says, sloping in after me.

‘Nothing. I’m not bothered. At all.’

‘So come and sit down, then. Have a drink or something. Take off your coat.’

‘In the living room?’

‘Yes, in the living room.’

‘Is…uh…is the phone likely to go again?’

‘It might do, Claire. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. It’s just…well if there’s going to be more, you know…pussy talk…maybe I should come back another time.’

‘Don’t be so uptight,’ she says, making cracks in her face pack. ‘It pays my course fees, it’s easy work, I don’t even hear what I’m saying any more. I know the entire script off by heart.’

‘You say the same things every time?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘And a stranger masturbates at the end of the phone while you say it?’

‘Yes, that’s the general idea.’

‘And you’re OK with that?’

‘I’m fine with it.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘It’s a job, Claire. I’m the only one on my course who’s not in serious debt.’

‘Right…well, sure. I understand.’

Sylvie goes to the bathroom to wash off her mud pack and rinse her hair and when she comes back she looks about sixteen years old: fresh faced and perfect and pretty, like a Victorian porcelain doll. Not like the medical student who dissects cadavers once a month and moans about the human grease getting stuck under her fingernails. Nothing like the girl who spends hours on the phone muttering a stream of profanities to total strangers.

No one ever thinks that we’re sisters at first. When you tell someone we’re related–nine times out of ten–they rise up on the balls of their feet and say
really
? Her hair fine and blonde like my mother’s, her eyes big and brown like my dad’s. People do nice things for Sylvie. Usually for no apparent reason. Most people in the world have to jump up and down and wave their hands from side to side just to get decent service in a restaurant: Sylvie just sits there looking vacant and dewy and the whole world flocks right to her feet.

‘So,’ she says. ‘I take it there’s still no news?’

‘No. I’ve just been with Kay, still nothing.’

‘How is she?’

‘She’s numb. The doctor gave her more sleeping pills but she won’t take them.’

‘She must be distraught.’

‘We’re all distraught, Sylvie. This is fucking desperate.’

‘You think I don’t
know
that?’

‘You haven’t phoned anyone. You haven’t spoken to Kay since the appeal. You haven’t called Mum back, she’s worried. It’s not like you…that’s all.’

Sylvie seems to have disengaged. All her life she’s been told she’s the caring sharing intuitive one, but there’s never been an occasion to test it. Now something’s happened that requires her to step up to the plate and I’m not sure she even knows how to behave. I’ve seen Mum every day since Daniel disappeared, put up with her rages and her drunkenness because I know that it’s part of the deal. Still all I hear from Mum is Sylvie. How must this be effecting poor Sylvie? How is she ever going to cope? Maybe I should tape a bit of pussy talk and play that back to her; that would show them all what’s what.

‘I have to study, you know,’ she says, miserably, ‘There’s so much to do, it’s the only thing keeping me sane.’

‘I know, I understand. Just give them both a call, OK? They just need to know that you’re all right.’

She nods; I assume this means she will.

‘I can’t believe it’s been ten days, it feels like forever already.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It really does.’

‘Did you see the newspapers this morning?’

‘Yeah, I saw them.’

‘It’s all bullshit,’ she says, quietly. ‘I don’t think Daniel was in trouble. I don’t think he’s been kidnapped or hurt.’

‘No one’s saying that, Sylvie.’

‘So why are the police spending time on this idiot, then? Just
because some guy who worked in his building was dealing coke, I don’t see what it’s got to do with Daniel.’

‘The man said he’d been threatened. He looks similar to Daniel, they’re just making sure. They have to check every lead they can.’

‘It’s a waste of time, that’s all I’m saying. It’s just a waste of everyone’s time.’

She’s probably right; it feels like they’re clutching at straws now. But what else is there to go on? His bank accounts still haven’t been touched, his passport wasn’t used, there’s no evidence that he tried to board a flight or ride a ferry. The newspaper story is most likely garbage but the truth is we’re lucky to get the coverage. Daniel is white, wealthy and middle class. He has an attractive, articulate wife and a cute, photogenic baby. It’s Christmas, there’s not much other news, it means we’re getting far more attention than we reasonably deserve.

In some respects this actually makes things worse. Half the country probably knows my brother’s story by now but still no one has come up with a concrete sighting of him. If he was hiding out in a hotel or renting a room, someone would have spotted him by now, surely? He has to get money, he has to eat; someone must have sold him something or served him some food. It can’t last much longer, this media interest. We’ve probably got until new year’s day before it dies down for good. And then what? Another curious story that people half remember; another file growing dusty on a police station shelf.

Sylvie is shivering now. Her shoulders are twitching under her dressing-gown and her lips are pursed into a silent growl.

‘You know,’ she says, suddenly, ‘you might want to think about your part in all of this. Did you ever think about that?’

‘
My
part?’

‘Yes. If you hadn’t kept borrowing money off them all the time; giving Daniel extra stuff to worry about.’

‘What was he worried about? Kay swears everything was fine.’

‘Why was he on antidepressants, then? Have you thought to ask Kay about that?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I saw them in the bathroom cabinet, a half-dozen packs of Ceroxil.’

‘Are you sure they were his?’

‘They had his name on them. So he didn’t need you coming to him with your problems. He didn’t need the extra worry.’

‘It was only a few hundred pounds, Sylvie. It was only a few hundred pounds.’

‘But it all mounts up. And you’re always doing it. You’ve been a drain on everyone in this family since your divorce.’

She takes my breath away. Sometimes she just takes my breath away.

‘I should leave,’ I say, standing up. ‘I’ll talk to Kay about the tablets. I’ll let you know what she says.’

‘He didn’t approve, you know,’ she says, as I walk towards the door.

‘Of what?’

‘You two separating. He said you two ought to have worked it out.’

‘He said that?’

‘Yeah, he said it all the time. He said you two gave up too easily.’

‘I didn’t love him any more, Sylvie. Michael didn’t love me.’

‘Yeah, well, so what? He didn’t deserve what you did to him.’

‘What did I
do
to him? It was Michael that lost us the flat.’

‘Christ knows,’ she says, turning up the TV. ‘But Daniel said you must have done something.’

I have to keep reminding myself how young she is. She’s hurting; she’s just lashing out.

‘Is this about you and Sam?’ I say, trying to make sense of her outburst. ‘Have you two been having more problems?’

She rolls her eyes.

‘Jesus, Claire. We split up ages ago, that’s all done with. And, no…it’s got fuck all to do with this.’

I wonder what she means by ages–in my sister’s language that could mean a matter of hours.

‘Well, you never said anything. I didn’t know.’

She laughs.

‘Yeah, that’s right, you don’t know
anything
. And it doesn’t matter now, anyway. I’m already going out with someone new.’

‘
Already?
With all this going on?’

‘I have to get out. I have to see my friends. It’s the only thing keeping me sane.’

‘Who is it? Someone from the hospital, another doctor?’

‘No. It’s that pastry guy…Gabriel. We went out a couple of times. I’ve been seeing him.’

When I’m feeling this negative and down on the world I like to have something good to eat. A Portuguese cake, a bar of the cheapest kind of chocolate, or a thick slice of freshly buttered toast. Right now I’m craving something savoury, something rich raw and slippery, like fish. And if it’s going to be sushi at midnight on Christmas Eve then there’s only one place it can be–ladies and gentlemen I give you, the Jin Itchi Sushi Bar and Restaurant.

I’ve been coming to this place–off and on–for the last eight months, and it’s definitely something of an acquired taste. Ordering food here is a minefield. The menu is seven pages long with letters the size of rice grains, and only half the items have an English translation next to them. The pages are grubby and sticky to the touch, and whatever you decide to eat, the waitress always acts like you’ve chosen spectacularly badly.

‘I’d like the mackerel sashimi.’

‘Bad idea. Stupid lady.’

‘Did you just call me stupid?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what about the mixed tempura? I’d like that. How about the mixed tempura?’

‘Foolish.
Foolish
.’

‘The sea urchin?’

‘No.’

‘The sushi set?’

‘Uh uh.’

‘Well, is there something that you could recommend?’

‘Hold it. I see what we got left over in the kitchen.’

On balance, you might think this is the type of dining establishment that’s best avoided, but in the months since I split up with Michael I’ve made a special effort to seek it out. Jin Itchi is not the kind of place you could happen upon casually; it’s hidden away in a low-rent basement room in China Town and you need a detailed set of directions in order to find it. There’s no sign on the door, no gaudy pictures on the steamed-up windows, no two-for-one buffets to reel in the hoards of bargain-hungry tourists. Just a narrow set of steps–perilous when it’s wet–leading down to a battered, smoky vestibule.

It seems like there have been a few attempts to brighten the place up over the years but none of them have made it look any more cheerful. There’s a poster of Mount Fuji on the back wall, its edges stained black from the constant breeze of passing nicotine; a couple of paper lanterns tied loosely to the ceiling, their thin folds choked up with fish grease and dust; and over in the corner an ancient TV set plays silently for no one, its speaker long since blown from overuse.

When they’re not serving gourmet sushi or insulting their nervous customers, the waiters sometimes feed tapes to a worn-out video machine. Japanese soap operas and quiz shows broadcast on a loop–bizarre, garish, soundless–but no one pays them much attention. Occasionally you might glance up to see a midget hitting an old woman with a rubber truncheon or a topless girl chasing after a bus, but the programmes are mostly there for decoration. It all adds to the general sense of otherworldliness, to the feeling that you could be anywhere other than central London.

The customers here are mostly locals–Chinese shopkeepers, Asian businessmen, the odd language student chain-smoking cigarettes and reading Manga comics–and most lunchtimes you’d be hard pressed to hear an English voice. From time to time a lost shopper takes a wrong turn and heads down the steps in the hope of sustenance, but they almost always leave without taking a seat. The noise and the heat and the general ill will hits them, and they quickly scamper back from whence they came.

And that’s the way I like it. When I was breaking up with Michael, this place always felt like the perfect balm and it still feels comforting to me now. I know I won’t bump into anyone that I recognise here, and even in the midst of all this craziness with my brother I’m unlikely to come across a nosy soul who will recognise me. It’s quiet and calm and I can practise my Japanese, and if you can tolerate the insults and the décor, it’s an excellent place to sit and think. The other great thing about Jin Itchi is that it was Daniel who first recommended it to me.

When I say recommended what I mean is, that I once asked Daniel if he knew of anywhere near his office that I could eat a good lunch for less than five pounds, and Jin Itchi was the best he could come up with. It was April this year, I’d just moved back to London and I was as broke as I’d ever been in my life. Daniel was loaning me some money to see me through the ruins of my marriage break-up and he’d seemed almost confused by the question. A cheap restaurant? A place you could eat lunch for less than five pounds? Who knew of such a place? He seemed a little embarrassed that he could actually come up with an answer.

‘So, remember,’ said Daniel, writing out my loan cheque, with his Mont Blanc pen. ‘Whatever you do, don’t order the sushi.’

‘No, OK. I won’t.’

‘It’s great, but it’s too pricey for your budget.’

‘OK, I get it. I understand.’

‘Stick to the noodle soup. £4.50 a bowl, it’s pretty good.’

‘The soup. I hear you.’

‘And the waiters can be a little rude, so don’t take any shit from them.’

‘I won’t.’

‘It’s not the most salubrious place in the world, but if you want to eat that cheaply…it’s the best I can do.’

‘Daniel?’

‘What?’

‘Why don’t you come with me?’

‘I can’t, I’m busy this afternoon.’

I frowned at him.

‘Daniel?’

‘What?’

‘You’re a
partner
.’

‘So?’

‘So, live a bit. Take some time off.’

My brother smiled at me; a firm polite smile that said it was never going to happen; a signal that said it was time for me to leave…

‘Well…look, I’d better go. And thanks again…for the money.’

‘That’s OK. No problem.’

‘I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.’

‘No hurry. I know things are difficult, take your time.’

‘I’ll see you soon, then?’

‘Yep…uh-huh…absolutely.’

He’d already turned back to his files. He was already lost somewhere else.

I walked out of my brother’s office that spring afternoon with his cheque burning a hole in my pocket; I didn’t even know how much it was for. Daniel was too embarrassed to ask me how much I needed and I was too humiliated to take it out and look at how much he’d given me. I felt awful, to tell you the truth. I wanted to hang out with my brother in a different way to this. I wanted us to be able to relax and have a laugh and chat honestly and openly about our lives. I wanted to ask him how he’d been getting along these days, I’m never entirely sure. Whenever you ask Daniel how he’s doing he always says he’s doing great, then he immediately begins on a story about Kay, or the baby, or the business.

Is that about getting older? I suppose it is. He has his own family now, a life that’s utterly separate from mine. We share not a single friend nor acquaintance in common–we haven’t done for years–and we rarely see each other one to one even now that I’ve moved back to London. We generally meet up at family
gatherings, or horribly choreographed dinner parties where Kay tries to fix me up with someone ‘suitable’. Failing that I visit him at his office every six months or so to ask him if he’ll bail me out–yet again.

It took me a good while to locate Jin Itchi that first afternoon and when I’d finally navigated my way down the series of back roads and blind alleys, I remember being shocked by how low key it was. It was so unlike the kind of place I’d expect Daniel to know about. I couldn’t resist it. The idea of seeing my brother stripped bare in these surroundings was too good an opportunity to miss. I decided to call him back and harangue him some more.

‘Daniel, just get yourself down here.’

‘I can’t, I told you.’

‘You can, come on. The waitress is already being rude to me and taking the piss out of my Japanese. Come down here and look expensive so she’ll like me more and won’t spit up in my food.’

‘I can’t…
really
.’

‘Daniel…come on. It’s my treat.’

‘Did you look at it yet?’

‘The cheque?…No, I didn’t look.’

‘Do me a favour, then, don’t. Not until after we’ve eaten.’

‘You’ll
come
?’

He hesitated for a moment.

‘Yeah…I’m a partner. Why not?’

We had the best afternoon. We drank too much sake, ate too much raw fish; talked about my marriage, my divorce and my lousy taste in men, and my consistently woeful financial acumen. We even talked a little about the old days. There were certain things we skirted over (there always were) but we connected in a way we hadn’t done for years.

‘So, how are you?’ I said, not knowing exactly why I was asking.

‘How am I?’ he said, loosening his tie. ‘You know…I’m fine, I’m good.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. The job is going great, Kay’s enjoying the baby…’

I frowned and bristled at him slightly.

‘No. Not Kay, not the business,
you
. How are you, Daniel? Are you happy?’

He looked almost bemused at the question. And then I just blurted it out.

‘You ever miss the running? You ever sorry you gave it up?’

I shouldn’t have said that; it’s on the list of things we’re not meant to talk about.

‘You know what?’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘I do miss it. Sometimes I miss it a lot.’

He looked like a different person as he said it. His cheekbones almost seemed to change shape. It was as if he’d been training his muscles to hold his face a certain way all these years and for a moment they’d given up on the effort. He looked the way he might have if his life had been altogether different, if he’d chosen an entirely different course.

‘Hey,’ I said, giving his arm a squeeze. ‘Maybe you should take it up again, for fun. Keep yourself fit, stop your arteries furring up from all those rich dinners your wealthy clients keep treating you to.’

He laughed for a second and smiled this delightful, youthful smile.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe.’

I stayed a long while after he left. I drank a cup of coffee and ordered a bowl of cherry-blossom ice cream that still stands as one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten. It tasted floral and sugary, like a bowl of frozen jam, and it took me an age to get through it. I savoured every mouthful, rubbing my finger round the bowl to collect the pools of melted cream, and tapping the sugary droplets into my mouth. I put off opening that cheque for as long as I possibly could and when I eventually did, it made me gasp. A cheque for five thousand pounds. It would cover my debt, pay the solicitor’s fees, and put me properly back on my
feet. I couldn’t believe it. I was overwhelmed, actually. Too overwhelmed to call him up immediately and tell him how much I’d enjoyed our meal together. Too overwhelmed to call and let him know what an exceptional brother he was and to assure him that this was the last time I’d ever have to borrow money from him.

When I tried to reach him later that evening he’d gone out somewhere with Kay and I didn’t manage to speak to him again until the following afternoon. By then his whole tone had altered. He’d closed up again, pulled away; become reserved, efficient and polite. And I let things slide, like I always do. I paid back the money bit by bit, went back to the melodramas of my own dysfunctional existence and neglected to delve any further into his.

So what if Sylvie is right? What if there was something going on in Daniel’s life that I didn’t know about; that I managed to ignore or exacerbate? What if he’d become depressed and despondent and I’d missed it because I was too caught up with my own problems? What if it turns out that I failed him, if it turns out to be too late?

‘Hey, waitress…I was wondering. Have you got any of that cherry-blossom ice cream in the fridge?’

‘Do you see it written on the menu?’

‘Well, no.’

‘So, what do you think? I’m gonna go find a tree, cut down some cherries and make a special bowl all for
you
.’

‘Look, I was only asking.’

She takes pity on me and brings me a bowl of tinned lychees instead.

‘You look tired,’ she says, setting down the bowl of fruit. ‘Tomorrow is Christmas. You don’t look very Christmassy to me.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s been a bad week.’

‘What happened?’ she says, nonchalantly. ‘You broken up with a boy?’

‘Sort of. Among other things.’

‘Another woman?’

‘It’s not important…he wasn’t my boyfriend. Not really.’

‘But you liked him?’

I shrug.

‘And now he’s with some other tarty bitch?’

‘It’s my sister, actually,’ I tell her. ‘He’s started seeing my sister.’

Her mouth falls open and she giggles.

‘Ah, rubbish…you’re only joking.’

‘No, really. It’s true.’

‘It’s real? How old is she?
Younger?
’

‘Yeah, a lot younger. Twenty-three.’

She takes this in for a moment. She lets out a hoot of contempt.

‘Twenty-three,
pah
. What the point in that? She barely got hair on her fanny yet.’

I laugh. Despite it all I start to laugh. I like it that this woman doesn’t look sorry for me. She doesn’t dip her head to one side or avert her eyes from mine, she just shrugs her shoulders as if to emphasise the chaotic ups and downs of life, and pours out a little extra green tea.

‘Lot of people with problems come in here,’ she says. ‘Down here is a good place to hide from your problems.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘My name is Yori, by the way.’

‘Claire,’ I say, holding out my hand.

‘You been in here a few times before now, right? This week you been in here a lot.’

‘This week I’ve had a lot of problems.’

I say this last part in my best Japanese and she smiles and raises her eyebrows.

‘Not bad,’ she says, collecting up my plate. ‘Pronunciation bit loopy, but not too bad.’

She doesn’t ask any more questions. She disappears behind the sushi counter for a couple of minutes, returns with an unlabelled video tape, and slips it into the ancient machine. Without asking if it’s OK, she sits down at my table and folds her slim arms around her knees. The customers are almost all gone now and she’s ready to relax and take a break.