Don't Get Me Wrong (6 page)

At night, in these record-breaking temperatures, there was a frenzied party atmosphere. Everyone spilled out onto the pavements from the bars and cafés. You stayed up until the heat left the brickwork, until the early hours brought air that felt, by comparison, soft and new. And only then did you head for home, with the carnival still alive around you, through crowds laughing and singing and shouting.

Which made getting up even harder, thought Harry, looking out of the window. He yawned. This high up, in the clouds, you couldn't see much. Mist, or perhaps pollution, meant the city was still shrouded in gloom. But he knew the great, wide river was down there somewhere. Although even the Thames had lost its cool. It wasn't so much gray and aloof as boiled to a kind of khaki.

When Harry got back from the shower, there was a message on his phone.
R u free Sat lunch? At my brother's.

He had a mental picture of Titania with her long legs and carefully tousled blond hair. Titania, named after the queen of the fairies. (“I can forgive my mother for loving Shakespeare. But what was wrong with Rosalind? Or Miranda?”) An English rose,
complete with thorns, she survived in the male-dominated world of investment banking by behaving with the brisk detachment of a boarding school headmistress. She treated most of the traders as silly little boys. In retaliation, they called her the Iron Lady.

Syed was terrified of her. “She'd have me for breakfast.”

“She wouldn't want you for breakfast.”

“That makes it worse.” Syed shot him a sideways glance. “And how do you know what she likes for breakfast?”

“I'm telling you nothing.”

“Very wise. It would be all over the bank by lunchtime.”

“You have no discretion, do you?” said Harry, grinning.

“None at all,” said Syed with satisfaction.

Titania usually wore silk shirts in soft blush colors like oyster and pink, fastened to a point just above her cleavage. Fund managers fantasized about missing buttons.

Harry, in the cool, sleek modernism of his recently renovated flat—white walls, full-length mirrors, white blinds over the floor-to-ceiling windows—looked again at her message. He texted back,
Sorry, no. Busy.

The last time they'd had dinner (two Michelin stars, an extraordinary wine list, and a chef so keen on deconstruction that it was amazing any food ended up on the plate at all), Titania had said casually, over coffee, “What do you do at weekends?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the times you're busy.”

He shrugged. “Working.”

She flashed him an icy glance from her gray-blue eyes. “Harry, this is me you're talking to. I know you work at weekends. We all do. But when you're not working, what do you do?”

“What's brought this on?”

“I just don't feel I know you any better than I did a year ago.”

He picked up a coffee spoon and turned it round between his fingers. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything. Where you were born, where you went to school, brothers and sisters, parents . . .”

“Childhood illnesses? Phobias? Dead pets?”

“I'm serious.”

“I've had a very boring life. There's nothing to tell.”

“Try me.”

Harry smiled. But the light had gone from his eyes. It was a relationship with no commitment. He had always made that clear. “There's no mystery. What you see is what you get.”

“But that's the point, isn't it, Harry?” She gave him the kind of direct stare that would have had Syed backing off in terror. “There isn't that much of you on show.”

The conversation replayed in his head as he got dressed. He liked Titania. She was beautiful, funny, clever. He didn't want to lose her.

Damage limitation, he thought. Weekend in Paris? Flowers? Her favorite restaurant? He picked up his phone and texted,
Friday night Sauterelle at the Royal Exchange?

I might be busy.

Harry laughed.

•  •  •

Kim, late for her interview, leapt onto the bus. She pressed her Oyster card against the yellow reader. Nothing happened. She
tried again. The bus driver, hands on the wheel, stared straight ahead.

“I put five pounds on it just now,” said Kim.

Rain lashed against the windows.

“Try again,” said the driver.

Behind her, the squashed queue of wet people with useless umbrellas was getting impatient. Kim pushed her card against the reader. She rubbed it round and round in circles. Nothing registered. There was no cheery little bleep.

“You have to get off.”

“I put money on it just now. A few minutes ago. At the newsagent.” Kim fumbled in her pocket. “Here's the receipt. Look. Five pounds.”

“It makes no difference. It's not on the card. You have to get off.”

Kim walked forward into the body of the bus and sat down. Behind her the queue, released, surged forward. Commuters distributed themselves onto damp seats. But the bus doors stayed open.

“You have to get off,” said the bus driver for the third time.

“Are you talking to me?”

Some of the passengers groaned.

“I'm talking to you. You haven't paid. You have to get off.”

“But I have paid. I showed you the receipt.”

The bus driver turned off the engine. Someone at the back shouted, “Get off!” A young man with a red beard frowned at her. Kim glared back.

“You got no cash, love?” said an elderly woman in a tweed coat.

“I've got cash. But I'm not paying full fare. There's five pounds on my Oyster.”

“Some of us have got to get to work, though,” said a young woman with eyebrows plucked into such fine arcs she looked astonished.

Kim stared straight ahead.

“Are you getting off or what?” shouted the bus driver.

“Look, I'll pay for you,” said a man in a suit with a nose stud.

“Sit down.”

“But I—”

“Sit down!” said Kim in a voice of such ringing authority that the man cringed backwards as if she'd hit him.

“Oh thank you,” said a woman, breathless, running onto the bus through the open doors in the mistaken belief that the driver had waited for her.

No one spoke.

The driver swore unintelligibly. The engine labored into life. There was a small cheer from the less stressed commuters. Steam covered the windows so thickly you could have been floating in a cloud.

The young man with the red beard leant forward. “You know, I normally use a bicycle. But the chain broke.”

“I'm so sorry,” said Kim, “but I really don't want to talk to you.”

“No,” said the young man. “Right.”

The bus grumbled on towards Brixton.

•  •  •

“Is Wales always this bloody cold?”

Harry grinned. “Didn't bring your thermals?”

“Did I, fuck. I came here for the fine dining. Not hanging around in a howling wind freezing my bollocks off.”

If someone had tried to come up with a cartoon version of a posh English banker, they would probably have drawn Giles. He was tall but fleshy, as if way too fond of strawberry jam, sweet tea, and port. Cold weather and excitement made his cheeks burn red, like someone had slapped him. In his late twenties, he already had the beginnings of a paunch, a bald spot on his crown, and a face that was beginning to droop into jowls at the jawline. Despite this disappointing appearance, Giles was brimming with confidence. He took center stage wherever he went. In a crowded bar you could hear his voice booming out across the banter and bravado.

Years ago, Harry had found people like Giles intimidating. It was the way they slotted into positions of power and privilege as if born to rule. But these days it didn't bother him. He had learned how to play the game.

They were in north Wales, guests of a multinational health care company that had invited a select group of City analysts to see their new research laboratories. The two-day visit, planned for the summer to make the most of the breathtaking scenery, included luxury accommodation in a five-star hotel and the chance to try traditional country sports like clay-pigeon shooting. So far, thunder and lightning had limited the time they could spend outdoors. Luckily, no one really cared. The meal the night before—oysters, white truffles, champagne, chocolate fondant with gold leaf—had drifted on into shots of single malt by the fire. Harry dimly remembered getting to bed around four a.m.

The best thing about trips like this, he thought, is telling Kim
about them afterwards. She's so appalled by the decadence, extravagance, and overindulgence that she goes pale with fury and splutters. It's always entertaining to see her lost for words.

Giles prodded Harry in the ribs. “I think you might be in there.”

In where? Harry followed Giles's gaze. Emily, the only female analyst on the trip, was being helped by a very attentive coach to position the shotgun into the hollow of her shoulder. She gave a little toss of her red hair, as if she knew she was being watched.

“She keeps giving you the eye,” said Giles in his Etonian drawl.

“I think you're imagining it.”

“Wish I were. Wouldn't mind getting in there myself.”

Harry smiled. “I'm spoken for.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. The terrifying Titania. The Iron Lady. No one ever calls her Titty, I notice.”

“I think they might regret it if they did.”

Giles roared with laughter. “I tell you, Harry, if you ever get tired of her, you let me know. I'll be over like a shot.”

“Pull!” shouted Emily in a loud, clear voice. The target arched out of the skeet into the murky gray sky, and she fired.

“Score!” shouted Giles, an explosion of excitement.

•  •  •

“Kim? Can you hear me? I'm by the pool. At Jean-Marc's house. Such a beautiful old villa. Up in the hills. Lemons, figs, oleander. But I don't know how good the reception is.”

“I can hear you perfectly.”

“I've booked my flights. Three weeks' time. Nice to Paris, Paris to London. I get in at two in the afternoon, September sixth. But of course, I don't expect you to meet me at the airport. I can easily carry my own bags.”

“No, I can be there.”

“Such a shame you don't drive. But I don't think the Heathrow Express will be that exhausting, will it?”

“I could book a cab. Although it's quite—”

“Only if you're sure. It's probably not that much more expensive if there's two of us. Or three, if Eva comes.”

“She might be teaching.”

“Teaching?”

“Guitar.”

“How extraordinary.”

“She's been taking on more pupils because it's going to be harder to get around from now on. She can't really travel round Europe as she used to.”

“And that's exactly why I'm coming. To give Eva some moral support. Of course, she's not going to be the only single parent in the world. But this can't be easy for her. So I don't want to put either of you to any trouble.”

“It's fine. Really. You can have my room. I would offer you the box room, but it's full of junk. A lot of it's yours—”

“I was thinking of booking into a hotel. But then of course I wouldn't be able to spend so much time with my daughters.”

“Really, Mum, it's no problem. I can share with Eva for a few days.”

“In the big room? My old room?”

“The one at the front.”

“Such a lovely bright room. So important to make the most of whatever sunshine there is in England. Because you know I do suffer from SAD. Seasonal affective disorder. That's why I went to the South of France, really. For the sunshine.”

“Are you saying you want Eva to move out of her room?”

“Oh, good heavens, no! She's pregnant. I wouldn't want to inconvenience her in any way. How's she feeling at the moment?”

“She gets heartburn.”

“Oh, I remember that. With both of you. Although of course it's the birth itself that causes the long-term problems. Especially if the baby's late. Like you were. And how's she sleeping at the moment?”

“Fine, I think—”

“I only ask because the mattress in the big room is quite soft. I remember that. Fine for me, obviously. But she might find a firmer mattress suits her better as she gets bigger.”

“Are you saying that you'd like to have Eva's room, and Eva should move into my room, and I should sleep on the sofa?”

“Why—do you think that's a good idea? It hadn't even occurred to me. But I'm completely happy if you think that might be the best solution.”

•  •  •

What I don't understand, thought Kim, at the top of the loft ladder—peering into an attic full of the accumulated junk of twenty-five years' worth of family chaos—is how Harry managed to get himself so mixed up in our lives. None of my friends have their sisters' attachments coming round for Sunday lunch,
turning up at birthdays, hanging round on bank holidays, and inviting themselves round for Christmas. He doesn't ask. He just assumes. A family friend. Like a creepy uncle.

I never liked it. Even before I found out he was cheating on Eva. Like the time he turned up just as we were going to Brighton for the day. Kim, holding on to the aluminum ladder, stared into space. It was the summer I was seventeen. Eva was going to her Welsh commune for a month, teaching guitar workshops, and this was our last special day before she went, before I lost her for the whole of August. I stood there in my straw hat and blue sundress and said, What's he doing here? We had the picnic all packed, with Mr. Kipling fondant fancies, and cloudy lemonade, and salt and vinegar crisps, all silly stuff reminding us of our childhood, and it was going to be just me and Eva on the pebble beach, in the Lanes, on the pier. Just the two of us throwing chips at the seagulls. And then, suddenly, there was Harry in a white T-shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms, looking at me as if this was some kind of huge joke. She said, Don't stress, he can drive us there. And I said, But we were going on the
train
. A special offer on the
train
. And she said, But the car will be quicker. And I said, But why's he coming? Why's he here? And she just smiled and said, We'll have a good time.