The Mad British (26 page)

I’ve got packing down to an exact science, folding the shirts into perfect squares and fitting them into the suitcase with military precision.

Adelaide sits cross-legged on the bed with a sketchpad and watches me. I’ve noticed she’s been uncharacteristically quiet in the last few days.

And the silence is getting to me.

"What’re you drawing, love?"

The paper makes a rustling noise as she flips the page. "Nothing. Just doodling."

She’s wearing the pearls with her nightie. It looks over-the-top with her white cotton top and pink French knickers. But then the pearls have become a permanent fixture of her outfits, even when it clashes. I’ve told her she can take them off, but they still appear round her neck first thing in the morning, and remain there until she places them back in their wooden box before turning in.

I watch her pencil move and wish she would pull her hair back. It’s falling round her head, hiding her beautiful face.

An orange flash darts in my peripheral vision. That irritating furball leaps across the room and plants itself on top of my shirts in the suitcase, shedding its hairs all over. "Hey, get
out
."

Adelaide’s head rises sharply. "Really?"

"No, not you," I gruff out, wrestling the cat out and dumping it on the floor. “Your pussycat is sitting on my stuff.”

“Are you really complaining that my pussy is sitting on your stuff?” She wiggles her brow. I shake my head and laugh.

Christ, I’ve missed this.

“You’ve been hanging around me too much, love.”

“I know. What has become of me? I used to be such a good little girl.”

“Says the girl who counted cards—why is the stupid thing always getting in my shit, anyway? Half the time I leave the apartment covered in cat hair. Have you even bothered to train him?”

She looks at me exactly the way my sister does sometimes. “You don’t train cats; they train you.” She reaches into my suitcase, extracts a pair of balled-up socks, and tosses them across the floor to the cat who scrambles after it, purring like a motor engine. I let him bat it around while I refold the shirts, then bend down and swipe it from his grasp. I toss them at Adelaide’s head. She laughs and wings it back at me.

I leave the room for just twenty minutes to sort out some papers, and I’m disappointed to find her asleep when I return, her sketchpad balancing on her stomach, pencil still gripped loosely in hand. Gently, I pick them off her and place it on the nightstand before turning in.

The next morning, I dress silently in the pre-dawn hours and watch her still face as she sleeps, pale in the silvery moonlight. I can’t help tracing my fingers along her soft light hair, toying with the idea of waking her, so she can look up at me with those dark eyes and give me a smile I can remember for the next lonely week.

I trace a finger across her jawline, noticing my hand is almost as big as her entire face. Leaning forward, I brush my lips lightly across her forehead and whisper, “I can’t lose you,” before leaving.

The miles to the airport are filled with Priyam yammering about his wife's cousin, who is pushing to visit and perhaps stay, and whom he obviously holds in the same regard as his son-in-law. I stare out the window the entire time, watching the sun lighten the sky behind the grey clouds and intermittently make noncommittal noises, which Priyam takes to be absolute agreement.

My mind is elsewhere. Adelaide’s been a little distant ever since I gave her that damn pearl necklace. She hasn’t been herself.

I notice these things.

I notice her.

I feel like I’m beginning to lose her and I don’t have a goddamn clue on how to bring her back.

I rub the palms of my hands over my face. If buying her an expensive necklace has this kind of reaction, how the hell is she going to react if she ever found out about me breaking Rule Number One?

I don’t feel better until I open my suitcase at the hotel in Beijing. The piece of paper is laying on top of my clothes: A simple drawing of the cat curled up in my luggage, with a thought bubble hovering over his head containing a pair of socks.

I take out my mobile immediately. It rings a few times and then goes to voicemail. I don’t know what to say, but what comes out is, "I found your picture." A pause. "I miss you.”

“HEY, WILL YOU stop that?" Steffen pulls the dishcloth out of my hand and tosses it on the sink. "We hired someone to clean up after us."

James is clever; I’ll give him that. Giving the money directly to Steffen meant that I was frozen out of the decision-making and the inevitable veto power. Steffen essentially had three thousand to throw himself a blowout, complete with DJ, bartender, catering, and a cleaning service to tidy up the place the next morning. I did set some ground rules: no smoking indoors, no animals, no drugs, and the bedroom doors will stay locked.

Steffen had agreed to all of the terms, and then had gone over budget buying top-shelf liquor. I’ve been trying to soak up half of a Mojito that someone had spilled on the carpet.

Steffen tugs on my arm. "Preston just brought up more models. Male ones, this time."

I glance offhandedly at a group of skinny guys in their late teens, all sporting True Religion jeans, candy-coloured Italian trainers, and goatees artfully groomed to look dishevelled. It’s the third group of models Preston has gone downstairs to let in, and I suspect not the last. We had only invited a handful of people, knowing word of mouth would spread the invite to all the crashers. After all, not long ago, we had been those crashers.

But, I’m surprised at the crowd who’ve shown up. The usual art bunch we know is supplemented with much older, established artists in the community, some with enough name recognition and capital that I don’t think they need to crash parties any more.

Preston had come with Camilla and a pair of young actors who are in London opening their new film. He had gotten on the phone, and suddenly there were more famous faces among the throng of struggling theatre actors, writers, hipsters, and anyone else who was up for crashing a party at an artist's penthouse.

I turn down the dimmer switch, and in the forgiving light, everyone is exquisite. I wish I could grab my sketchbook.

Steffen takes another long swallow of his drink. "There's this absolutely adorable guy I’m going to conquer tonight. He says he's in a band, but that might be all bullshit. I used to say that I was in a band."

He pulls me into a brief hug and whispers in my ear, "I so love your boyfriend for doing this for me. I know you have issues with spending his money, but that's only because you’re mad." He pulls back, his eyes glittering with uncharacteristic emotion. "No one's done something this nice for me, ever."

"Steffen," I sigh, grabbing his arms.

"No, shut up bitch, let me finish." He takes a deep breath. "My parents haven't talked to me in years, and I don't think they ever will for the rest of their lives, or mine. Half of my friends are so busy or messed up that they don’t even call me and wish me a happy birthday, and I just got dumped by an idiot who would rather live with a disgusting old man with sagging balls because he'll pay his bills while the idiot works on his shitty screenplay." He swallows. "I'm not kidding. This might be the happiest night of my life. Thank you."

I hug him tightly. "No, I should be the one thanking you. You've always been there for me, no matter how crazy or self-absorbed I get."

We let go, and he wipes his wet eyes with a thick cocktail napkin. "You know what else was in the card that James gave me? Besides a huge cheque."

"What?"

He’s smiling at me. "The usual card crap:
Thanks for taking care of my girl. You're a good friend to her and to me.
Blah blah blah. But that's not even the best part. At the end he wrote:
PS. Fuck the haters.
" Steffen gives me a crazy grin.

I feel my eyebrows touch my hairline. "James wrote that?"

"He so did. I am so in love with your boyfriend, Adelaide. For all the obvious reasons, and despite that irritating heterosexuality problem. He's just a plain bloody nice person under that cocky act." I smile and squeeze his elbow.

Chloe finds me through the crowd, shoving aside a couple of dark-haired girls with neat bobs and cat-eye glasses, like they are paper dolls.

"Adelaide, you will not believe what just happened. There's this old guy who's been staring at my bum for like, the last two hours, so finally I just went up to him and asked him what his problem was, and get this—he tells me he wants me to pose for him."

"So?"

"So?
So
? He wants me to pose nude.
Nude
. Said I can be his muse, whatever the hell that means. Can you believe it? Pervy bastard."

I crane my neck to see the front living room, which is finally being used for once, where people are crammed on and around the sofas. "Um, Chloe, that guy's legit. You just turned down the opportunity to be famous."

Chloe stops for a minute, digesting. "Well. . . he shouldn't have been staring at my arse, then."

"He's a renowned artist. He’s probably just appreciating the various aesthetic qualities of your form. Besides, everyone looks at your arse that won’t quit. You know this. Your arse is legendary. Travis has written entire essays about it."

"I can't wait to meet that guy," Chloe says blandly, taking a sip of her Pimms, and nonetheless, looking very pleased about the effect her posterior is having on a range of perverts. "I do have a nice arse."

"Yes, you do." Bailey comes up from behind his girlfriend and grabs a handful of that arse that won’t quit. "Guess what? I think I just got hit on by a desperate model."

"She must be hungry," Chloe says, grabbing his face and squeezing it affectionately. "Do I have to go and choke her, boo?"

"If you'd like, babe, but she’s all bone. It would be like fighting a spinal column." He turns to me. "Hey, give me your keys. I need to get in your bedroom for a second."

I’m immediately suspicious. "What for?"

"I, uh, left something in my coat."

I immediately sense bullshit, but comply. "Fine. Come here." I find Steffen and retrieve the keys to the bedroom. "Don't forget to lock the door when you're done."

"Yeah, yeah." I barely catch the almost imperceptible nod Bailey gives to Chloe, who then follows him through the crowd, teetering on her new Manolos.

It dawns on me. "Hey, wait a second. Gross. Bailey, you're disgusting. Use one of the guest bedrooms, for God’s sakes."

"For what?" Preston sidles up to me, drink in hand. Camilla flanks on his other side. She squeals like a faulty brake pad and grabs my hands and holds me at arm's length.

"
Oh
my God, I love your dress. It's simply adorable."

"You do?" I run my hands down the pale-pink ruffles. In its previous incarnation, it had probably done time at a mid-eighties prom before landing at the charity shop where I’d found it. I’d hacked a good foot and a half of material to raise the hemline to my upper thighs, and then stripped off the poofy sleeves to make it strapless. A strip of fabric from my old peacock dress is serving as my headband. "Bailey says I look like a cupcake."

"No, not a cupcake." Camilla's dress is pale beige and perfectly fitted, and the garnets strung round her neck and on her ears are the size of pennies. "And if you do, you're a yummy cupcake. I love cupcakes." Obviously, she’s had a few drinks in her already.

Preston snorts. "Honey, she saves the slutty dresses for when your brother's around." He cranes his neck. "Adelaide, can you watch my drunk wife for a moment? Make sure no sleazy little over-gelled hipster checks her out. Normally I'd use Chloe and that spectacular arse of hers as a decoy but she has seemed to have disappeared, unfortunately." He cups Camilla's face and brushes his lips against hers tenderly. "Baby, I’ve to go babysit the celeb-u-tards for a few minutes. Will you be okay?"

She bats at him. "Of course I will. Love you."

"Love you," he calls over his shoulder, blending into the crowd.

Camilla sighs happily and settles one hand on her hip, while holding her drink aloft with the other. "Do you like them?"

"Uh," I stutter, wondering why Camilla is asking about the bobbed girls in front of us. "I don't really know who they are," I admit.

Camilla sees whom I’m talking about and scoffs. "No, not them, silly. I meant these." She reaches forward and grasps my pearls.

My hand automatically joins Camilla's, just as they have every time someone touches the strand round my neck. My response is just as automatic. "Of course."

"Oh good," Camilla says, her hand drifting back to her side. "I had to really rack my brain to think of what to get for you."

"You picked these out?"

She looks at me. "Yes. Would you really trust my brother to pick out something stylish? You've seen his taste, it's ghastly. Enough to give one nightmares. Thank God you've got the artistic eye." She picks up on the slight change to my expression. "I mean, is that okay?"

I force a smile. “Yeah, it's fine."

Camilla squares her body. "You don't sound very convincing. What don't you like about it? The colour? I thought it was a little wacky, but I felt like gold complements your dark eyes."

"No, it's not that. . ." My hand twines nervously in the pearls. It’s a habit I’ve picked up that makes me feel like an old rich woman. I search for the words forming perfectly in my head but die on my tongue. "They’re so expensive."

"So?"

"So. . .”

I’m very aware that I’m wearing a second-hand prom dress accessorised with twenty thousand pounds round my neck.

A borrowed crown for a courtesan.

"I'm weird about things like that."

Camilla smiles softly. "Don't be. James can afford it."

"That's not what I'm worried about," I murmur.

"Don't, Adelaide. Don’t worry about this." She takes a sip of her drink. "Because if you do, he won't stop until he thinks you're happy."

I have a sudden image of drowning in a pile of gold coins and jewellery like pirate treasure in a cartoon.

As the night crawls toward morning, the crowd doubles in size, the party accumulating stragglers from other gatherings, a surprising mix of bohemians and bourgeois. I personally know about twenty people here. Steffen knows a few more than that, and the rest are all friends of a friend of a friend, or someone lucky enough to piggyback on someone who knows someone. The catering staff has already made another run for alcohol, and Preston is kicking out anyone claiming to be a blogger and taking pictures.

Steffen is over the moon, again. "Oh my God, we've totally made it," he shouts over the music. "I don't know any of these people, and apparently, there are more waiting outside on the street to see if they can get in. Preston won't let them because a few of them are on reality shows and he doesn’t mess with those psychos."

I laugh softly. "Any of them cute?"

"I don't mess with those psychos, either. Besides, you're spoken for by a big sexy ripped jealous hunk. So shut up."

“You’re drooling.”

“Blame your man.”

I spot Bailey weaving his way to the balcony with a fag clamped in his teeth. He only smokes on certain occasions. When he’s extremely drunk, which is not the case right now, and the other. . .

"Hey." I grab him by the elbow.

His eyes are shining. "What's up, sis?"

It’s confirmed.

"Did you have sex in my bed?"

"What?" He tries, very unconvincingly, to look nonchalant. "No." He slides through the doorway. "I had a shag in your bed."

I’m going to kill Chloe. "Gross.
Bailey
."

"What?"

I follow him outside onto the balcony. "For one, what's the difference?"

He borrows a light, then takes a drag and exhales a cloud of smoke. "Sex has more kissing."

I hit him on the arm. Now I definitely have to take the bedding to the cleaners. "Did you at least remember to lock the door?"

"Uh. . . no." Off of my look, he throws his arms out and exaggeratedly shrugs. "
Come on
. I just got laid, I can't think straight. Give me a break."

"I'll break you," I mutter, shoving him aside and heading toward my bedroom. On my way, I pass Chloe, who is perched on the back of a sofa, her hair bunched up messily in a sloppy chignon, and indulgently grinning while listening to the much older man who can’t take his eyes off her legs.

". . . such a glow. I will be honoured if you let me capture you like this, my dear. . . "

I chuckle softly to myself as I walk by the man and his newest potential muse. The hallway is sparsely populated, but to my chagrin the bedroom door is open a crack. If Cheshire is out, there is no telling where he will pee.

I slip inside the dark room and notice there are voices and light coming from the master bathroom. Oh great. "Hello?" I call out. The door is open so I let myself in, hoping no one is doing coke. "Hello?"

My bathtub is full of models.

It’s a big bathtub. A white, free standing, oversized bowl with high sides. Three lithe women are lying across each other in it, dangling their spindly legs over the sides while they sip champagne and forcefully laugh and pose for a photographer who is on his knees in front of them, snapping away. There are other models in the room sucking on cigarettes, and a rolled-up fifty pound note lies on the counter.