The Mad British (27 page)

"Hey everyone, this room is off-limits. And you can't smoke indoors."

One of the bathtub models produces a cigarette out of her tiny handbag and lights it. "What are you, the police?" Her words are tinged with an Eastern European accent, and either the alcohol or the cocaine, or maybe both, is making her bold.

I feel like snapping one of her bony wrists like a dry chicken wing. "No, I live here." I cross the space and hold out my hand. "Give it."

Suddenly, every eye is on me as I glare down at the woman in my bathtub. The model has the good grace to look embarrassed, handing me over the cigarette. "I am sorry, I did not know."

The photographer snaps a few quick pictures. I very much want to wheel round and kick him square in the face. The model clears her throat. "This apartment is very beautiful. You are also very beautiful. Do you model?"

A familiar haunting voice rings out behind me when the camera flashes. "No, she got this apartment in a different way, babe." My stomach lurches sideways, and icy tendrils of panic start crawling down my spine. The voice continues. "She lets a rich guy fuck her, and in exchange he buys her a love nest. Maybe if you're lucky, one day it will happen to you."

One of the models in the bathtub frowns. "Ace, you are so mean."

The photographer lowers his camera, revealing cold green eyes in a chiselled face, framed with waving fair hair that peeks out from under a cap. "It's not mean, it's honest. And judging by the size of this place, she must be a damn good fuck. Actually, I already know that." He looks up at me and winks. "Hello Adelaide. Long time."

I want James.

I want him to be here right now.

I need him so desperately in this moment that I frantically wish he could somehow hear me cry for help halfway round the world, even though nothing is screaming but my mind.

The models seem to sense the atmosphere changing, even through their coke-addled minds. They crawl out of the bathtub and exit in a herd of Tahari mini-dresses and stiletto heels. I hear the door close behind me, leaving me alone in the bathroom with Ethan.

My heart is beating so hard against my ribcage that I think it may burst. I take a deep breath.

"How did you even get in here?" I hate how my voice comes out as quiet as a mouse.

He shrugs and starts breaking down his camera. "Same way everyone else did, babe. Friend of a friend who knows somebody. Although it's funny, because I didn’t expect that somebody would be you."

I also hate how my body is shaking and just hope Ethan doesn’t see it. I make sure to keep my voice confident and strong, belying my true emotions. "You're really damn lucky my brother hasn’t seen you or I'd be sweeping up pieces of your teeth. You can leave now."

He smirks, easing the camera into its compartment in the bag. "I'll admit this is one fucking nice place you've landed yourself in. You must keep that man pretty happy. I read the article, you know, about you and him, and well—" He lets out a short piercing cackle. "Me."

"
Fuck
you, Ethan. Get. Out. Don’t ever come near me again."

Ethan simply smiles and plucks the lit cigarette from my fingers. He takes a long drag before speaking. "Princess, I haven’t seen you in like, forever, isn't that crazy? And then one night, I go to a party at what I thought was some actor's penthouse, but then find out it's actually my ex-fiancée's place and she’s become a whore."

"Shut up and get the hell out of my home."

"
Your
home?" He’s taking his time packing up. "Wow. You really believe that."

I cross my arms, partly for intimidation, and partly to hide my shaking.

Don’t let them see you break. . .

"What do you mean?" My voice quivers, and I wish I didn’t already know I’m walking into a trap.

He snaps his case shut and stands, slinging his bag over his arm and leans his body toward me, close enough to almost touch. I try to keep my face neutral so he won’t sense the distress he’s causing me, but I’ve never been able to do that around him.

When he speaks, I can almost remember the love of yesterdays, but his words snap the thread of the tenuous memory. "He bought your painting, Princess. He bought this place. He. Bought. You. You think you’re better than me—you always thought you were better than me but you’re not. We’re the same, Adelaide. You’re using him just like I used you. Remember I told you that this is how the world works, Princess. I’m glad to see you finally get that everyone uses each other, that it’s all about getting to the top, no matter what. Do whatever it takes if you’re not born into it, right? Yeah, you finally get it. Maybe now you can quit acting like the victim."

I focus on the star tattoo on his forearm. Ethan had once been my wish upon a star, a wish that had been shattered with regrets and unrelenting hurt, leaving me in pieces.

"You amuse him now because you're a pretty bird who paints pretty pictures. Not that it matters much, because regardless if you do well or not, you've still got your safety net. I always thought it would be that big painting of yours, but it turns out, it's just a dick with a big wallet."

He takes another drag and continues. "You know, Princess, one day, maybe tomorrow, or next month, or next year, doesn't matter—sooner or later he's going to get bored just like I did and find a new bird who does something else to entertain him. You're like a new car, or new toy, or new whatever. He'll chuck you once your shine wears off." He reaches out with one finger and gently touches the pearls hanging round my neck. They suddenly feel very heavy. "You think he loves you?” His mouth curves into a cruel smile. “He doesn't love you. He owns you."

I slap his hand away. "You have five seconds to get out of here."

He backs off and slowly heads toward the door. "Just saying, babe. Do yourself a favour and don't be so naïve."

"
Four
."

He stops and turns to me, smiling one last time. In another lifetime, that smile would have melted me into oblivion. Now it makes me sick to my stomach.

“
Three
.”

"Take care of yourself, Princess.”

“
Zero
.”

I slam the door shut behind me, and curl up on the floor.

He is wrong.

He is. . .

* * *

It’s the morning after the party and I’m sitting in a corner feeling strange watching the cleaning service straighten the apartment. Luckily, nothing has been destroyed, but the tea-party magnets and the fake lemons in the bowl have gone missing. Steffen had bitched a fit over that one.

I draw my knees up to my chest and stare out at the city, the uneasy feeling roiling in the pit of my stomach. A sketchpad sits in front of me with only a few pencil lines drawn on the paper. I haven’t touched it for a half hour, my mind blank and numb, waiting to feel something again.

"
Oh
," one of the cleaners yells, when a stack of envelopes fall out of a cabinet. I vaguely remember jamming them in there the previous night. "I'm sorry, miss."

I get to my feet and help the older woman scoop them up. “Honestly, don't worry about it, I’ll get it."

Most of them bear the same return address and logo in the corner, and are stuffed fat with documents. My head starts to ache. I haven’t opened a bank statement in months, although I really should since my tried and true method of praying the ATM machine won’t reject my card isn’t really conducive to my long-term financial health.

Then it dawns on me that my tried and true method hasn’t failed in a while. Not since. . .

A quick search of the most recent postmark, and then I slide my thumbnail in the corner and tear the envelope open. . .

In mere seconds, my whole world crumbles beneath me.

He was right.

I COME HOME with a pebble in my pocket.

I’d found it on the ground in Beijing when bending over to tie my shoe, and noticed it sitting in between a crack in the street. Plain grey and smooth, it would have been unremarkable if not for the small protrusion on one end like a proboscis. I’d picked it up and turned it round in my fingers, ignoring the slightly hostile stares I was getting for blocking the path.

Later that night, while out for drinks, I’d pulled it out and showed it to a colleague.

"What do you think of this?"

"It's a rock, Hatter."

"Yeah, but look at it."

"Look at what? It's a weird shape, but it's still a rock. What's the deal? Did you pull it out of Tiananmen Square or something?"

"No."

"Throw it away. It's just a rock."

Adelaide won’t think it’s just a rock. She will remark about its unusual shape, or stick it in the centre of the table and sketch it out, or paint eyes on it and put it on the dashboard of my car, where it will live for a few days before being relegated to the cup holder or glove box. She will bring life to stillness somehow. She’ll see further behind the polished surface, see what lies beneath the shades of grey. I know, because she had done the same to me. I drop it back into my pocket.

It’s late on a Friday night when I return. I expect her to be asleep, or in her studio, sketching or painting, playing music while that fat—sorry, big boned—cat runs around, getting in the way. I’m eager to show her the pebble, and give her advance warning that Travis is coming to stay with us soon.

Her gorgeous blond hair will be pulled back with a pencil stuck through to keep it in place, and if I’m lucky, half of her clothes will be tossed on the floor.

As expected, she’s in the studio sitting at the table in the middle and drawing heavy black lines in charcoal on a piece of cardstock. Her hair is down, her clothes are on, and it is dead silent.

Something is wrong.

Very,
very
wrong.

She looks up when she hears me come in. "What are these?" she says, before I can tell her that I love her, that I’ve missed her. She nods at the stack of papers in the middle of the table.

Shit
. . .

I pick one up with dead hands, wondering how the stone in my pocket has found its way into my throat.

"I knew it," Adelaide whispers hotly, averting her eyes and biting her lip like the revelation is killing her inside. "Ethan said you—"

"Wait,
what
?" That word should have been shouted, but it comes out as a hushed threat instead. "When did you see
him
?"

I can see her catch her breath, probably remembering she wasn’t ever supposed to mention him. I can feel the fury building inside of me like a crazed animal.

She makes the mistake of stuttering, which only increases the anger rising and growing out of control. "He came to Steffen's party—"

My blood boils with anger, and my voice is hard as iron. "
He
was here? In our home?"

She stands up, throws the handful of bank statements on the floor. "He was right."

"Was this the first time you've spoken to him?"

"Why? What does it matter? This isn't about me and Ethan. This is about me and you."

"Really?" I’m exhausted and bone-tired from moving through too many time zones in too short of a time, and every unwelcome mention of her ex-fiancé grates on my raw nerves. I want this to end, but I can’t stop, and neither can she. "Because it sounds like you two had a great conversation about us."

"Get off of Ethan, for God’s sakes." Her voice is rising in pitch. "This isn't about him at all. You bought Victory and it's
still
sitting in the gallery. You don't really care about me, or my work, or anything I do. You just want to own it. You just want to own me. Right from the start, James—God, I should have known not to trust a man who wagers a woman, for God’s sakes."

"I don't see why money is such an issue with you. You need it."

I follow her out into the hallway. Her eyes narrow and her arms cross her body protectively. Christ, she’s protecting herself against me. It cuts me harder than a knife to my skin.

"I can get money on my own. Do you think I'm totally useless, James?"

The walls are inching closer with every word spoken. "What?
No
. But I mean—you're not exactly in the most stable profession."

She flinches, but stops backing away, obviously ready to stay in the ring for this round. "What’re you saying? That I'm a total loser who can't hold a job?"

"No I'm not—"

"Because you know I
was
surviving before I met you. I’m not looking for a sugar daddy to come and rescue me."

"Adelaide, will you—"

Her voice is rising, even though we are only a few feet apart. "You think I can't support myself, don't you?"

"Well. . .” I pause.

Stupid move.

Her breath is coming in hard gasps. "Well, what?"

I dance around, deflecting her verbal jabs as she tries to draw me out of my corner. "Never mind, it's nothing."

"No, say it." Her hands are balled into fists. "Whatever it is, bloody say it."

"I don't know," I say, my voice angrier than I really feel. I’m tired, jet-lagged, and pissed off that that arsehole had come near my woman. "I don't know, Adelaide, I don't usually date strippers."

There is a moment of silence as I frantically try to determine if I’d really said that out loud. Because I would never say that. It isn’t true. I don’t know where that thought—those
damn
words—came from. There seems to be some other person wearing me like a coat, and this person is an endless well of anger that will say something like that just to keep a lick of superior shitty pride.

She has to realise that it wasn’t me, the
real
me, who threw the knockout punch. I don’t know who it was that said those bloody words, but it wasn’t me. She must know that. She has to know that.

She doesn’t.

Her beautiful, kind face slackens first, then her hands unclench and drop to hang limply at her sides. Her shoulders seem to coil inward as a single tear starts to fall. Her eyes, wild with pain and hurt, never leave mine.

I don’t know what to say to stop it from coming, or to put it back in, or to make her understand the words I’d said have nothing to do with how I feel about her. They had been formed independently from my brain and emotions, and I was just the vessel that carried them from their unintended beginnings to their poisonous end. I know there must be some way I can make her realise this, but for the life of me, I don’t know what it is.

An apology is useless. It will be like trying to put out a bonfire with a petrol fire hose. I want to hold her, to kiss her, to reassure her they were meaningless words that came from nothing. But none of those things will reverse time so I can kill myself before I spoke those words. Nothing can do that.

Once it has all been said, you can never go back.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

So I stand there, my heart thumping so much it hurts, while she breaks apart in front of me. She finally says something but I can barely hear her.

I wish I hadn’t heard her at all.

“You think so little of me. . . ”

I must make some small movement toward her, because she whirls and darts away from me, slamming the bedroom door behind her. I can hear her crying through it, and I stand and stare at the door blankly, hating myself more with every second that passes.

I don’t move until she comes out with two bags half an hour later. She doesn’t meet my eye, but adjusts her hat nervously, heading fast toward the front door.

"I'm going to stay at Steffen's tonight."

"Wait, Adelaide—"

"
No
." She holds up a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “You lied to me, James. You
lied
. I trusted you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“
Don’t
.” She takes a few deep breaths before murmuring, “Why did it have to be you?”

“Ad—”

"Just. . . just don't talk to me right now, all right? Nothing—" She bites her lip and I can see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “Nothing you say right now is going to make a difference, so just. . . don't. . . please. . ."

Her hand is on the doorknob when I call out, "Wait."

I can tell she’s wavering between going and staying to hear me out. "What?" she barely whispers.

I pick up a sketchpad that’s been lying on the dining room table and bring it to her, holding it out at arm's length. Any closer, and I will try to hold her, and then I won’t be able to find the strength needed to let go.

"You don't want to forget this one. It has your work for Camilla's book in it."

She holds my gaze for a moment. “I’ll send Steffen to pick up Cheshire.” Turning, she walks out of the door.

Walks out of my life.