The Mad British (31 page)

"Not really . . .” I admit.

His double take is heavily exaggerated. Being high seems to propel him into overdramatic, highly-concentrated Travis. "What? Why? You two dated for—how long? And moved in together. And you never sat down and talked about that kind of shit? Bunch of dumbarses, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“Why?"

"Because. . . because I was afraid to bring up money. . . "

"Okay no offense, but I'm a freaking eco-yuppie stoner who hasn't had a real honest-to-God relationship in. . . well, ever, but even I know that one is supposed to function as a partnership, not a loose alliance between two separate parties that compromise between sporadic bouts of communication. And brain-melting sex."

"I didn’t want to depend on someone again. After Ethan. . .”

He tips his head back, staring at the stars, his green eyes far away. "If I wasn’t so high, I'd say Ethan messed you up in that pretty little head, Adelaide, and that you need to get over it and not let scumbags break you. But that's rude and I won't say it out loud. I'll just think it really loud."

"Travis?"

"What?"

My voice is dry. "You did say it out loud."

"Oh. Sorry." He coughs. "Well it's about bloody time that someone did. Now either take a hit off that pipe or give it back."

I give it back. "I'm just. . . I haven’t been with someone who actually—" I swallow the hard lump in my throat and try to centre myself. "Someone who truly loves me."

He blinks once before striking another match "Go back to him, Adelaide. Let him apologise. Tell him what a massive arsehole he is, then have some of the best make-up sex ever. And make it real nasty. Because you're right—he loves you. I haven’t seen him in love since uh. . . huh. Maybe never? No wait—Tasha Corey, junior year, and maybe that Italian model with big knockers. No, not the Italian. She went after him but he wasn’t interested—the gay bastard. No, it was me.
I
fell in love with her. More precisely her tits anyway."

I let my hair fall on my face and lean my head against the swing chain to hide my smirk. "Did he ever call those girls strippers?"

That statement cuts Travis off at an impasse. His mouth stays open and his index finger points up like Socrates. "Uh . . .” He lets a few moments pass by before bursting out, "Well, are you?"

"
Travis
." If he weren't a moving target, I would try to hit him.

“I’ve seen the videos.” He winks at me.

"Fine. Yes. I have taken clothes off for money but never the full monty. Okay? Happy now? One, I needed the money, and for your information I was a burlesque dancer. Burlesque dancers are
not
the same as strippers. God, don't let Chloe ever hear you say that or she’d smack the curl right out of your hair."

His hand goes up to his head and he pats it reassuringly. "My mistake.”

I settle back. "That's okay."

“Though Chloe can spank my arse any time." Travis rubs his eyes. "Listen, I am high, really high, but the stripper thing? It's not such a big deal as you think."

"Oh really?"

"Yes, really." He says that last part in a high-pitched lisp, and continues. "Oh really, really."

"Cut it out."

"Sorry, if you get to stall, so do I." Travis turns back to me. "What's really the issue, Adelaide? The money? The apartment? Do you want him to quit his job and sign on for benefits so you don't have to worry about how much more he's making than you? Although I've been trying to convince him to do that for years—not the signing on part—and he doesn't seem to know good advice when he hears it." He stops and realises he’s lost himself in another tangent. "Huh. I digress again. Cut the bollocks. What's bothering you?"

This is the question I don’t want to answer, not to my parents or friends, not to Travis, not to James. Especially not to myself. It has nothing to do with what James referred to me as, or even the fact that he’d lied. The actual truth may hurtle me into a vortex of introspection I may not be able to crawl out of. It is easier to hide away. Ignorance is bliss, right?

The dirt at my feet glows amber under the streetlights. I wish I had my paint box so I could make that colour.

"I miss him."

"You do?"

"Yeah." The words spill out like water rushing through a burst dam. "I really love him, Travis. I can depend on him to let me do whatever I want. It’s weird, like, there would be times when something would happen, just stupid little things, like I would be out with him, at some stupid dinner at one of his co-worker’s home—"

Travis interrupts with an audible groan. "Oh Christ, did you get stuck at Mark Conway's house? I hate that cock-bag."

"Yeah, that was one of them and I have to agree with you on that one.”

“You do?”

“Yeah but don’t let it go to your head, Lassie. Anyway, we would go, and if I were uncomfortable, he’d notice and would take me home. Without me saying anything or without making me feel bad.” I stop my swing in motion. “You know the first thing he says to me in the morning isn't good morning, it's ‘I love you’. Even when I was half asleep, he'd kiss me on the cheek and say it. Even when he’d gotten a phone call first thing in the morning, before he’d answer it, ‘I love you’.”

“Oh man, my boy is so romantic. I’m starting to feel a little gay for him.”

A laugh too tired to be a giggle momentarily bubbles to the surface. "My God, he will go with me to all of these gallery openings and never complain about them, even though half of them are enough to drive me to madness, and I’m friends with these people and. . . " I take a breath, realising I’m gushing, but not caring any more. It feels good to get it out like this. "And he even puts up with Cheshire—that’s my cat, who isn’t particularly easy to live with. I got him off the streets. He has issues, I guess. . . "

I feel the pressure of a hand on my shoulder, and look over to see Travis straining sideways on his swing to be able to reach me. The sight of him makes me roll my eyes and smile.

Travis' voice is warm when he says, "He still wants to see you happy, Adelaide. I know he does. Forgive him. He is a man that deserves it."

My eyes are swelling with tears, but I blink them back, even though it burns. Travis' hand trails down until it’s grasping mine. The wind bats my hair round my face.

I can’t believe that the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing Lassie is the one to drag me out of my hole and to get me to see I’ve been such a fool.

“God, Travis, I think I’ve been a total bitch.” The words come out without thought, but with full emotion.

He holds the small plastic bag up to the streetlight as if that will somehow cause it to magically refill. “I wasn’t gonna say it.”

“Yeah you were.”

“I so was.” He sticks his tongue out for a second. “If it makes you feel better—you both acted like bitches. Now, let's get outta here and back to London where I can score some decent Purple Haze. You ever try that? It's like sucking a buttery cannabis dick, unlike this scrub."

I laugh so hard then and reach across the divide, planting my hand on Travis' chest, right on the zipper of his hoodie, and push him backwards off the swing. His legs fly up comically, landing on his back in the dirt. "Ah, you gutter-slut," he mutters, but makes no move to get up.

"Travis, never change."

"You know what will be really good right now? Ice cream. With sprinkles. I saw that Mrs Yang sells them in her shop."

My mouth waters at the thought of sugary, creamy goodness. "Chocolate ones."

"No, wait. I change my mind. I want an ice-cream cone with sprinkles and no ice cream."

"Then it’s just sprinkles in a cone."

Travis sticks out his tongue as if he’s going to lick his lips, but seems to forget about the purpose halfway through the action and speaks round his outstretched tongue. "You know what else?"

"Huh?"

Before I have a chance to react, he pulls me down into the dirt with him. "
Ha!
Now you're all dirty and Mrs Yang is gonna laugh at you."

"I doubt it," I groan, getting to my feet. "I used to work in her shop on the weekends when I was in high school."

"Get outta town." I nod. "Damn, why didn’t you say so? Hook a brother up."

When we return to my parents' house, frozen confections in hand, Bailey is waiting on the front lawn. I lick a trail of melting ice cream off the back of my hand. "Bailey? What’re you doing out here?" He should have left hours ago. Inside the house, I can see the flickering lights coming from the living room as my parents watch television.

He shrugs and puts his cap back on. "You guys don't have a ride and I'm not about to leave you here. You want to take off now or wait until tomorrow morning?"

I yawn and drop my exhausted body on the grass. My mind is too blurry to face anything tonight that’s more complex than the stump of my cone.

"Tomorrow. You can crash here tonight, Travis."

Travis drops next to me and runs his fingers through his hair. "Well yeah. Where else am I gonna sleep? In the shed?" He yawns, stretching his face out, and looks at me. "Can I sleep in your bed?"

"
No
," both my brother and I say in unison.

"Sorry, had to try."

"I can't believe this shit," Bailey mutters.

I blink up at my brother. "What?"

He glances quickly at the front door before continuing in a whisper, "You guys bloody smoked without me."

"How’d you know?" I whisper. A glob of ice cream falls from my cone and splatters on the grass. I waste half a minute watching the milky liquid run down my hand.

"Uh, you're covered in dirt, Travis' got grass in his hair, you just wolfed down a cone like the meaning of life is at the bottom, and you could use about a gallon of Visine." He looks genuinely pissed off. "I can't believe you didn’t call me. Why do I always get left out of these things?"

I snap my eyes away from the white splotch on the grass. "Bails, we had crap to talk about. Stop whining."

Travis pops up like his backside is made of springs. "It's cool, I'm down to smoke again if you are, man. Go for a walk?"

"I'm down," Bailey replies.

I watch the two figures take off down the dark street and pull the sleeves of my jumper down. Travis' voice fades when they move further away. "For the record, Mrs Yang sells terrible weed."

"Ugh, never buy off of her,” Bailey tells him. “Ask for Billy Yang."

THE NEXT MORNING, on the way back to London, the dog falls asleep in the backseat.

Unfortunately, Lassie wakes up.

"Who's going where?" a groggy voice asks from the backseat. "I want to come."

"Bailey and Chloe are going on a ski trip, but you can't go, Lassie. It's a trip with a purpose. Want to see the ring?"

Travis is slouched in a half recline, but his eyes pop open at that. "What? You gotta be kidding me?" He straightens. "You're taking Chloe off the market permanently?"

Bailey glares into the rear-view mirror. "Yeah."

"
Damn
," Travis mutters, leaning his head back and yawning. "Is she preggers?"

"
No
." Bailey’s brow deepens.

"Goddamn it, I never got a chance to tap that. Eh, it's not that bad. Married women like me too."

"Travis," I reproach, when I see my brother’s knuckles turn white on the wheel.

"I'm kidding. Christ. I will never try and shag one of my friend's wives." I glance in the side mirror and notice he is smirking at me when he says that.

It isn’t long before the hazy view of London peaks over the horizon. Traffic increases on the motorway and then grounds to a standstill, and inwardly, I’m grateful for the delay. My heart still aches at the thought of facing James, even though it’s all I want in that moment. Bailey senses it, naturally.

"Travis, where do you need dropping off?"

"Thought I could crash at your place, man, and hang out with Chloe."

"Never gonna happen, mate, don't trust you. Also, she will never forgive me."

"She will never forget me." Travis grins at the middle finger my brother flips him through the rear-view mirror.

Five miles.

Three.

Two.

Four blocks.

One block.

Then Bailey turns the corner and we are on my street. My throat closes up when he pulls in front of the building. The doorman bounds over to the door and then the path to the entrance is open, and I’ve no choice but to climb out of the car, shoulder my bag, and stand immobile on the damp pavement.

Bailey peers out of the car through the passenger side and Travis crawls out of the backseat and into the front. "You gonna be okay?" my brother asks.

Both Travis and Bailey are looking at me expectantly, their eyes boring into mine, and I force my head to nod. "I will be."

My brother is far too perceptive to let that slide. "I can wait with you until he comes home from work."

"No, it's okay," I say, waving him off, even as my breath starts to pick up. "Go. I'll call you if I need you."

"Okay," he says, when the doorman shuts the door. "I'll have my phone on."

The doorman pulls the door open for me. He must be new. I don’t recognise him, which means he doesn’t recognise me. There is still a chance to turn tail and run, call a taxi to Steffen's flat, curl up with Cheshire, and stay up all night psychoanalysing what is wrong with me, with the entire world, until I’m brave enough to face him.

The image of James’ fingers touching mine while I glide a paintbrush down a strip of canvas flutters into my consciousness. It’s enough to force one foot forward. Then the other. The space between the door and me seems to fold over, and I find myself in front of the lift doors.

My hands are trembling so much it takes several attempts to get the key card through the reader successfully. The floors blink by, and before I know it, I’m standing in the foyer, staring at the door. I turn the key and step through the doorway.

My hearts sinks to the floor like it’s been chained to a heavy weight. The walls are bare. Everything else seems to be untouched, neat, and very white.

I pivot in a circle, panic slowly building in my chest, and I scan the blank walls until I spot the crates against the wall. I tear open the top one. Anger is nestled inside, packed in bubble wrap. My paintings have been packed away. I’ve been packed away.

A yellow Post-It stuck on the bubble wrap catches my eye. I reach in the box and peel it off. It reads:
This is one of my favourites, but I know it isn’t one of yours—JH.

All of a sudden, the truth rains down on me like a ton of bricks. All this time I thought it was about James having the control of our relationship. But I was so wrong. James and I had
both
painted our life together. It was both of us.

One beautiful mess.

And now it is gone.

Because I was a coward.

I don’t realise I’m crying until I feel a hot teardrop smack the top of my hand. "I want it all back," I whisper.

I can’t wait a second longer. My fingers fumble with my mobile and I drop it to the carpet several times before hitting the right buttons. The call goes straight to voicemail. "Shit," I mutter, dropping it to the floor again. I phone James’ office, but Diana tells me he has taken the day off.

I start pacing nervously as I try another number. This one picks up. "Adelaide?"

"Preston." I lean against the doorframe.

"You okay? Where are you?"

I draw in a deep breath to compose myself. "Preston, I-I. . .” In the background I can hear traffic and wind and a loud car horn. "I need to find out where James is. Please. Please I need to find him."

"Okay, okay. Calm down, Adelaide. I just left him."

"Oh. . ." I lean my head back and allow a few more tears to escape. "Preston, everything got messed up and then I left, and now I think he thinks I hate—"

"Adelaide."

"Yes?"

He clears his throat. "I know where he is."

"Where?"

"Before I tell you, can you promise me something?"

"Yeah, okay. Anything. What?"

In typical Preston-fashion, he waits a moment for dramatic emphasis. "Promise me that no matter what goes down, you'll allow yourself to be happy."

"What?"

"Promise me you won't start thinking you can't make someone happy. Because you have, you know. We're all—” He stops for a second. "We're all screwed-up, beautifully flawed people, and if we're lucky, we find someone just as flawed and screwed-up as we are, and they love us and we love them because when we're with them, we forget that we're flawed and screwed-up and life seems a little more tolerable. The truth is, you can be flawed and happy, and happy with someone, because love makes you see the good parts in that person and the good parts in yourself, and the stupid crappy parts don't matter as much, to either of you, because you love each other that much and you don't care about the crap when you're together."

I’m silent as I let those words sink in. My voice is strained when I finally speak. "Preston?"

"Huh?"

I smile through tears. "Sometimes I think you've got the heart of an artist."

"Bollocks," he responds gruffly, but I can hear the emotion behind his words. "Don't get too excited. I think I got that out of a chick magazine. Camilla keeps them in the bathroom and I get bored when I forget my iPhone."

I laugh and play along. "Of course."

"I've got a reputation to uphold. So, do you want to know where that sexy bastard is or not? I can send a car." My eyelids fall shut, concealing the empty, loveless, colourless home from my vision.

All the colour has gone from my life, and all that is left is white empty space.

There is only one thing that can fix this.

"Tell me."

H
e
created a world of hurt in me, but I still love that Hatter like mad.