Beautiful Malice (15 page)

“I knew about Alice, of course,” he says. “But not much. Robbie never introduced us, obviously. I always had the feeling it was sort of an on-again, off-again thing. If only we’d met … This is all my fault. I should have insisted. I should have taken more interest. But I thought I was doing the right thing. Giving him his privacy.” He puts his head in his hands. “This shouldn’t have happened. This should never have happened.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s Alice. She does this.”

“But why?” he wants to know. “Why would she do this?”

I am silent. I have no answers.

“She said that she was twenty-seven,” he says quietly, almost whispering. “I believed her. She seemed so confident, so mature. I can’t believe … Eighteen? Jesus. I believed her, I believed everything.

“I was starting to love her,” he tells me.

29

I
don’t tell Mick about Alice right away; I don’t want to contaminate my time with him by thinking or talking about her. So I wait until he has left for work the following evening before I call Robbie. That way there’s no risk Mick will overhear our conversation.

Greg answers the phone.

“Robbie’s gone, Katherine.” He sounds tired, defeated.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“To Europe. Switzerland. He got on a plane this afternoon. He’s going to try and get a job. Skiing. We have relatives there.”

“What about his party?” I ask, stupidly, as if a party really matters. “What about his job?”

Greg laughs. “There won’t be any party, dear. I’m pretty sure the restaurant will manage without him.”

Greg reassures me that Robbie will be okay, that his son is strong, resourceful. He suggests that I give Robbie time to lick his wounds, to get over the humiliation of it all, and then e-mail him. Before he hangs up he tells me not to worry, everything will be fine.

And although I’m still horrified by Alice’s behavior, and the memory of the previous night still makes my stomach churn, I can’t help but be glad. Robbie has finally seen the truth. There’s no way he could possibly accept Alice back now. And he’s far away, in Europe. Miles away. He’s safe now from Alice’s games. Free.

I turn my cell phone off and decide to leave it that way for a while so that Alice has no way of reaching me. I don’t want to think about her, let alone talk to her. I don’t want to hear her explanations, her excuses.

I leave my cell phone off for a week, and the time passes in a blur of late-night gigs and sleeping in. But the thought of Alice is constantly at the back of my mind. Unpleasant as it is, I know I’ll have to speak to her eventually. It would be easy just to avoid her, easy to never speak to her again. But I have to say my piece, express my anger, defend Robbie. In any case I’m pretty sure that she’ll be trying to contact me and that she’ll keep on trying until she succeeds. I’d rather just get it over with.

And so one afternoon when Mick has gone out to buy beer, I find my phone and turn it on.

There are fourteen voice messages and numerous texts. I don’t bother listening to or reading them. I’m sure most of them are from Alice and that she’s probably angry or upset because I haven’t contacted her. But I’m no longer interested in what she has to say. I just want to call her one last time to let her know how disgusted I am. I punch in her number quickly, before I lose my nerve.

She answers almost immediately. “It’s the mysterious stranger.
Finally
. You know, I never had you pegged as the type of girl who’d dump a friend as soon as she gets a man. But you never can tell with the quiet types, can you?” She laughs. “That’s what they say, isn’t it?”

Only Alice would have the nerve to twist the situation in such a way when she is guilty of so much damage herself.

“I’m sorry, Alice. But I’ve been upset. With you. I haven’t known what to say.”

“Upset?” She sounds irritated, scornful. “For God’s sake. This isn’t about Robbie and his dad, is it?”

“I spoke to Greg that night,” I say. “After you left.”

“Of course. I knew you would.”

“Yes. I did.”

“You did. Great. We’ve certainly got that established. So what? What did you want to say?”

I don’t know if she is being deliberately obtuse, but I feel slightly ridiculous, suddenly uncertain of my own righteousness. “It was an unbelievably cruel thing to do, Alice.”

“Jesus, Katherine, I had no idea you two would be there, all right? None at all. That was all Greg’s brilliant idea.” Her voice is impatient, abrupt, as if she is already bored with the topic and resents having to explain herself. “How was I supposed to know what Greg was thinking?”

“It’s not about the dinner, Alice. Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t believe you think that’s some kind of justification. The whole relationship with Greg was cruel. Not just that night, not just the fact that you got caught. I can’t believe you did it. I actually can’t believe that you would be such a bitch—to Robbie, who has only ever been good to you.”

She is silent for a moment. She sighs. “Okay. Fair enough. I see your point. Lecture over now?”

“No, not really, but there’s no point continuing, is there? You don’t care. But this is all really horrible, Alice. Really upsetting.”

Alice laughs. It’s a nasty, humorless sound. “I don’t get it,” she says eventually. “I don’t understand what this has got to do with you. Why on earth should my relationship with Greg, or my relationship with Robbie, for that matter, upset
you
?”

And for the briefest moment I’m taken in by her, confused into thinking I’ve overreacted, that I should be minding my own business. But no, I think, it’s reasonable to not tolerate such appalling behavior from your friends.

“Because what you did was deliberately cruel, Alice. Destructive and awful. Robbie is devastated. He’s gone to Europe. Did you know that? All because of you. And you’ve wrecked his relationship with his father,” I say. “Robbie is one of my best friends. I’m amazed that you think I shouldn’t be upset.”

“Oh, screw you. I haven’t
wrecked
their relationship. They’ll work it out. Neither of them knew about it, so they didn’t actually
do
anything to each other, anyway. It’ll probably bring them closer in the long run. And some time away will do Robbie some good. He really needs to get his head straightened out. He’s got a lot of anger, that boy. And he’s ridiculously possessive. Anyway, they should both be glad to be rid of me, especially if I’m as bad a person as you seem to think.”

“Whatever happens between Robbie and his dad doesn’t change what you did. It was just wrong, Alice, totally evil. And why did you tell Greg your name was Rachel? Why that name?”

“I don’t like your tone, Katherine. You’re not my mother, you’re not better than me, I don’t need your good opinion.” Her voice is suddenly low and cold and serious, a noticeable contrast to the lazy, indifferent way she was speaking only moments before. “I seriously don’t want to talk about this anymore, Katherine. It’s getting boring. Very boring. Do you want to go out on Friday night or not? Let me know. I’m organizing a table at Giovanni’s.”

“No,” I say, and though I’m outraged and shocked by her lack of remorse, her brazen audacity, my voice sounds surprisingly normal. “No, thanks.”

“What about Saturday night, then?”

“No. Yes. I mean, no, Alice, I don’t want to go out with you. I’m angry. I’m shocked. Don’t you get how serious this all is? I’m really upset, really disgusted. Please stop asking me out.”

“Disgusted? You’re disgusted?”

“Yes. I am, to be honest. Disgusted and ashamed.”

“Oh.” She laughs. “You’re ashamed, too? You’re ashamed for me?”

“Of you. Yes.” My voice is small.

“Don’t you think you have enough to be ashamed of, Katherine? All by yourself?” And I know exactly what she’s going to say even before she says it. But I don’t hang up, I leave the phone pressed hard against my ear and listen, compelled to hear the words. “I may have done some bad stuff, but at least I’ve never left my sister alone to get raped. At least I’m not the gutless wimp who ran away and let her baby sister get murdered.”

30

L
ater that night, Mick and Philippa and I order pizza for dinner. Just as we’re sitting down to eat, Philippa asks if I’ve seen Alice recently.

“No. But I spoke to her on the phone today.”

“And?”

So I tell them, while we’re eating, about what she did to Robbie and Greg, about my telephone conversation with her earlier in the day.

“You’re kidding.” Mick puts his slice of pizza down. “That’s obscene. Sleeping with both Robbie and his father? What kind of person would do something like that?”

“A sick one,” Philippa says. “A very confused, very unhappy one.”

“And what about Robbie? Why was he with her? Is he nuts, too?”

“Robbie’s lovely,” I say. “One of the nicest people you could ever meet. A real gentle soul. A great friend.”

“Then why—”

“Because he fell in love with her,” I interrupt. “And you just wouldn’t understand how charming she can be unless you got to know her.” I speak deliberately, wanting Mick to understand, not to judge Robbie harshly or think me foolish. “I was really happy when she became friends with me. I was flattered—she’s such fun, people just want to be around her. She could be friends with anyone. I was lonely, I guess. Alice was like a breath of fresh air.”

Mick and Philippa are both looking at me sympathetically, and I realize, too late, that I’ve gone off track. I’ve started justifying my own friendship with Alice instead of Robbie’s. But it’s all the same, really. Me, Robbie—we were both bewitched.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mick looks hurt. “When you found out about all this? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, pretending not to be stung by the edge in his voice. “I just didn’t want to think about it. We’ve been so happy. I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“It couldn’t have spoiled anything. I don’t even know them.” Mick is frowning. He looks quite upset, offended that I’ve kept this from him, and I’m about to explain when Philippa interjects.

“Don’t be a brat.” She elbows him playfully. “She’s telling you now, isn’t she? And you’re right, you don’t know them, any of them, so shut up.” But then she looks at me and speaks in a mock-angry voice. “But I know them. Why didn’t you tell me? That was absolutely not fair. I’m totally and permanently offended. You denied me the opportunity to say I told you so.”

“I did, didn’t I?” I smile. “But, hey, you can still say it. You were right. I was wrong.”

“Right about what?” Now Mick looks confused.

“Right about Alice,” I tell him. “Your clever sister warned me about her months ago. She told me she was a mental case.”

“Anyway, I
have
met her,” Mick insists. “She’s that chick with the short dress, isn’t she?”

“The gorgeous one,” Philippa says. “Yes. The one in the short dress that all the men couldn’t stop staring at.”

“Not so gorgeous.” Mick makes a face, shakes his head, and—childishly—I’m glad. “Not to me. Too loud, too full of herself. Not my type at all.”

“So. Anyway.” Philippa rolls her eyes at Mick, then turns to me. “I hope you told her that you don’t want to play anymore. I hope you told her to go away and leave you alone forever.”

“I did,” I say. “Well, I tried to. Alice is good at ignoring what she doesn’t want to hear.”

“At least you told her,” Philippa says, smiling. “Finally you’ve come to your senses. Seen things my way. I have to admit that I’m absolutely, totally glad. She doesn’t deserve to be your friend. And I won’t say anything about poor Robbie. But I hope you’re not sorry. You don’t really think you’ll miss her, do you?”

“No.” I cover my eyes with my hands. “All that drama. I couldn’t bear any more of it. She’s just so damn exhausting. It sounds mean, but I’d be happy to never see her again in my life. I don’t want to know about her, don’t want to see her, talk to her. I’ve turned my phone off again, and I’m leaving it that way for a while.”

“She was pretty vicious when you talked,” Mick says. “She sounds like bad news all around.”

“She is.” Philippa nods, reaches for another slice of pizza. “Bad news. That’s exactly what she is.” And then she looks at my plate, at my barely touched slice. “You’re not eating. Don’t you like it?”

“Yeah, I do,” I say, but talking about Alice has made me feel weird—and the pizza isn’t helping, it’s too oily, too spicy. “I feel horrible. Thinking about what Alice did to Robbie just makes me sick. You should have seen his face. It was all just so unbelievable.” I slide my plate across the table. “I think I’ll just get some water—”

“I’ll get it.” Mick jumps up, frowns down at me. “Don’t let her make you feel bad. She’s not worth it. Forget about her. You don’t owe her anything.”

Philippa watches Mick as he goes to the kitchen. She turns to me and smiles, whispers, “He really loves you.”

“I know,” I say, and I smile back, but I suddenly feel so tired and queasy that I have to fight back an overwhelming urge to lay my head down on the table and close my eyes.

“He’s never been like this around a girl before. He’s usually quite indifferent. Always polite, but indifferent, if that makes any sense. And, if it’s okay to say about my own brother, he’s always been a bit of a heartbreaker. Always had plenty of girls interested.”

I’m genuinely fascinated by what Philippa is saying—there’s really no subject that could interest me more right now—but I’m having a hard time concentrating.

“I bet,” I say. I can feel the bile rising in my throat.

“Are you all right?” Philippa asks. “You’re white as a ghost.”

“No.” And suddenly I have to stand up and leave the table. I rush to the bathroom and make it to the toilet just in time to throw up what little I’ve eaten.

31

M
ick has five days off and we spend the next few days together. Mick practices and we go shopping for food, but the rest of the time we stay holed up at his place. We talk—Mick tells me all about his childhood, about his dreams for the future, about his passion for music. I tell him about my childhood, about life before Rachel died, about life after. We are both intensely curious about each other, and though I barely move from Mick’s room, there is not one moment during that entire five days when I am bored or restless or wish I was somewhere else.

On Mick’s last day off, we call Philippa and arrange to meet her at a nearby café for breakfast. She is already there when we arrive. She’s wearing a yellow dress and has her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks pretty and fresh, and I imagine that in my crumpled T-shirt and jeans I look scruffy in comparison.

I normally find Philippa’s fast-paced conversation delightful, but today, listening to her rush of news and responding with the requisite level of interest and enthusiasm saps all my energy. Secretly I long to return to Mick’s and go straight back to sleep.

When our food arrives—we’ve ordered French toast and coffee—I feel a familiar rush of saliva in my mouth, the taste of bile at the back of my throat.

“Oh, God.” I stand up, clamp my hand over my lips. “Sorry, guys.” I hurry to the bathroom, lean over the toilet bowl, and retch. But I haven’t eaten, and there is nothing but a thin stream of bile.

“Katherine. Are you all right?” Philippa’s voice is right behind me. I feel her hand on my back. “You poor thing.”

I stand, go to the sink, and rinse my mouth, splash my face. I look at myself in the mirror and am shocked at how pale and gaunt I look beside Philippa, and I wonder, for a foolish moment, if I’ve got some kind of terminal disease. Perhaps it’s my fate to die young, just like Rachel.

“You were sick the other day, too,” Philippa says. “Is it food poisoning, do you think? Some kind of virus?”

“Dunno.” I shrug, scoop water into my mouth and swallow, hope I can keep it down.

“You really should go see a doctor.”

I nod.

“Maybe it’s morning sickness.” She laughs. “Maybe you’re pregnant.”

Pregnant
. Though she is only joking, as soon as Philippa mentions it, I’m suddenly quite certain that is exactly what is wrong with me. It would explain a lot—the nausea, the paralyzing tiredness, my sore, swollen breasts. And try as I might, I can’t remember when I last had a period.

“Oh, shit,” I say.

“Oh, shit, what?” We look at each other in the mirror; Philippa’s eyes widen. “What? Oh my God. Pregnant? Are you serious? Really? Could you be?”

“Fuck.
Fuck.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. But I …”

“When was your last period?”

“That’s the thing. I can’t remember. Oh, crap, Philippa, I can’t even remember having a period at all. Not since I’ve been with Mick. I’d remember, wouldn’t I? I mean, I’d remember because he would have noticed. We wouldn’t have been able to …” I struggle to think. But I’m certain that I haven’t had a period in months. It would have been awkward in bed with Mick; I would have had to explain when he tried to make love to me—and I would remember. “How did I fail to notice? How could I be so hopeless?”

Philippa pulls me toward her, wraps her arms around me. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. Anyway, maybe you’re
not
pregnant, maybe it’s just a false alarm. Stress can totally make you miss a period. I’ve read that. Somewhere.”

“But I haven’t been particularly stressed.”

“But what about Alice? Your exams?”

“Oh God, I wish. But I don’t think so. I’ve been happy, Philippa, not stressed,” I say. And suddenly it occurs to me how many strange changes have taken place with my body lately, how odd I’ve felt. “That’s why my bras are all suddenly too small. Even my jeans are getting tight.”

“Maybe you’re just putting on weight?” She tries to tease me, but the joke falls flat.

“No.” I shake my head. “What am I going to do? Oh, Philippa, poor Mick, what’s he going to think?”

“Poor
Mick?
Don’t be stupid. He’s not a child. He knows about the birds and the bees. Poor
you
, you’re the one with watermelon breasts.” Her eyes grow wide as she looks at my chest. She puts her hand over her mouth to cover her grin. “They have become pretty enormous, actually. Now that I’ve noticed.”

I look down, cup a breast in each of my hands, and lift them. They’re heavy, full, tender.

“Jesus. Haven’t they? Why on earth didn’t I realize?”

“Too busy bonking your brains out?”

“Obviously.”

I lean over the sink. Stare at myself in the mirror. My skin is pale, but except for that I don’t look different. There is nothing different about the shape of my face, my eyes. It seems impossible that I could have a new life growing within me without it showing in my face, without me even knowing. Without me giving my consent. I shake my head.

“A baby,” I say, shaking my head. “Philippa. It’s just too … how could … I’m not even eighteen.”

She nods, serious again. “You’re still a teenager.”

“What will I do?”

“I don’t know, Katherine.” She shrugs, looks solemn.

I look down at my belly, spread my fingers over it. It’s impossible to fathom. A new life. Inside me.

Suddenly Philippa grabs my arm, talks in an excited rush. “Do you think you might keep it? If you are? It’d be pretty cool in lots of ways, if you think about it. It’d be so, so,
so
cute, and so totally beautiful and bright. And Mick would be an awesome dad. And I’d be an aunt. I’d babysit for you. Honest. I’d do lots; I’d help you as much as I could. I’d be the absolute best aunt in the universe. You’d still be able to go to college. Mom and Dad would help, they love little babies. And your parents, too, they’d help, wouldn’t they?”

The thought of my parents makes me groan. I cover my face with my hands. “Philippa! Stop.
Please
. Don’t talk like that. I’m not even sure yet. And I have to tell Mick first. I can’t make decisions like this now.”

“No. Of course not. Sorry.” She is quiet for a minute and then she says, “Let’s go and buy a test. There’s a drugstore on the way back to Mick’s place.”

I nod and turn away from her toward the sink. Philippa’s right, of course; I should buy a test on the way home, find out as soon as possible, talk to Mick. But this is something I need to do alone. Not with someone else there, not with an audience. I keep my eyes on my hands as I wash them again and wonder how I can tell her that I don’t want her with me without hurting her feelings. But when I look up, it’s as if once again, she’s read my mind.

“Look,” she says. “Why don’t you just head on back to Mick’s? Get a test on the way. I’ll keep Mick here a little longer, and we’ll finish our breakfast. You can do the test, and when he comes home you can talk to him about it. If you need to.” She smiles. “I don’t think you need me there.”

I smile gratefully. “Yes, that’d be good. Thanks.”

“But you will let me know, won’t you?” she asks. “Whatever happens.”

We return to the table and tell Mick that I’m sick and am going to head home. He’s concerned, and says that he’ll come with me. But Philippa and I persuade him to stay.

“It’s only a three-minute walk,” I laugh. “This is probably just some stupid bug. I’ll be okay on my own.”

He looks worried as I wave to him from the café door. I smile as reassuringly as I can and start walking. It’s good to be outside in the fresh air, out of the stuffy atmosphere of the café, which smells too strongly of coffee and bacon. Normally these are smells that make me hungry, but today they are overwhelming, nauseating.

I’ve little doubt that I’m pregnant. Everything adds up—and I’m certain now that I haven’t had a period since I first slept with Mick. And though we’ve been pretty careful, using condoms most of the time, we have been careless once or twice.

I go into the pharmacy and search the aisles for a test. I’ve never had to buy one before and am not quite sure where they’re kept or what to look for, so I wander blindly for a moment until a girl approaches and asks if she can help.

“Yes. Um, pregnancy tests?”

A part of me expects her to be shocked, to give me a lecture on safe sex and contraception, but she doesn’t hesitate or make any visible reaction to my request. “Sure,” she says. “They’re over here.” And she’s politely neutral as she explains the differences among the tests and takes me to the checkout, where she places the package in a brown paper bag. But I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking. We’re about the same age, and I imagine that she’s feeling glad not to be me, glad not to have this problem, smug and superior and safe.

I’m about to step outside when someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Tut tut, Katherine.” The voice comes loudly from behind me and I feel the color drain from my face as she steps in front of me and I realize who it is. “What on earth would Helen think?” Alice says.

I clutch my bag close to my chest. I feel strangely intimidated—scared, even—and I have to fight a sudden urge to run. There is no warmth in her expression, and it’s hard to believe, facing her like this, that we were ever friends.

Alice eyes the package and nods. “Been a naughty girl, have we?”

I’m about to speak—to deny, explain, justify—but decide against it. I owe Alice nothing. My personal life is no longer any of her business. I shrug and step past her, but as I do, she puts her hand on my shoulder. She’s leaning toward me, her face uncomfortably close to mine.

“Don’t think you’re going to get away with it,” she says, her voice a vicious, low hum. “I know people like you think that people like me are dispensable. I know that. But you’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

“Rid
of you?” I attempt a laugh, but the sound is hollow, unconvincing. “Is this some kind of threat? Are you actually following me?”

She only smiles.

“Leave me alone, Alice,” I say, forcing myself to look her in the eyes. “Leave me alone or I’ll—”

“What?” She lifts her eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of surprise. “You’ll call the police? Huh? Is that it? Is that what you’ll do?”

“Well, yes, I will. If you’re going to behave like a lunatic, then I’m going to treat you like one.”

“Oh, yes, of course you will. But I already know that. You see, I
know
you. I know you better than you think. But I haven’t actually
done
anything, really, have I? There’s nothing to tell the police, is there? You can’t shift the blame this time.” And she smiles sweetly, tilts her head to the side, and makes her voice falsely innocent. “And we’re friends, anyway, aren’t we? Friends forever?” I hear the mockery in her tone.

I shake my head and try again to step past her. “Go away, Alice,” I say. “Just go away. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. You need some kind of help. You need to see someone. You’re sick.”

“Maybe I am,” she agrees, laughing, as I walk quickly away. “Or maybe it’s you, Katherine,” she calls. “Did you ever consider that? Maybe it’s you who’s sick.”

I stride ahead and will myself not to look back, not until I’m about to turn onto Mick’s street. I stop and look behind me. I don’t see her at first and I start to panic, scared that she is hiding, still following me, but then I see her. She is standing in front of the drugstore. She is talking to a tall, good-looking man—flirting, no doubt—and seems completely preoccupied.

It’s probably an absurd precaution, but I suddenly don’t want her to know where I’m staying and so I turn the corner and run as quickly as I can up the road toward Mick’s apartment. I fumble the key into the lock, my hands shaking, and slam the door behind me. Once inside, I’m immediately calmed—it is all so familiar and ordinary, shabby and comfortable—and I can’t help but giggle at the sense of hysteria I’d had only moments before. It reminds me of when I was a child and scared of being alone in the dark. I’d always run, panicked and terrified, back to wherever my parents were—the light, the warmth, the safety of company—and be immediately comforted. Like the dark, Alice can’t really hurt me. Not if I don’t let her. She may be full of shadow and mystery and hidden depths, but she has no real power. Not really.

I go to the bathroom and stand in front of the mirror. I’m breathing quickly from my run, and my face is pale. I look awful. My stomach is knotted with anxiety, and it takes me a moment to remember that I have something bigger than Alice to worry about. Something real. Something serious. Something that may affect me and Mick for the rest of our lives. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with Alice.

I open the package and pee on the test stick as instructed on the packet. I place the test on the bathroom counter without looking at it. I go to the living room and pace, back and forth, back and forth, until I hope enough time has passed. I return to the bathroom and pick up the white plastic stick. There are two very clear and parallel pink lines.

I check the instructions again. Two lines is a positive result. I’m pregnant.

I toss the test away from me—as if it is burning hot, or dangerous—and watch it clatter onto the tile floor. It lands faceup, the two pink lines strong and definite, taunting me. Although I’d been quite certain that it would be positive, the reality of the test is terrifying. I can feel my heart pounding, taste shock and fear in my mouth. Suddenly I cannot move, can no longer stand, and I collapse onto the floor and sit, knees drawn up, head pressed down on top of them. I sit there, motionless, my head full of visions of a ruined future, until I hear a key in the lock, footsteps, Mick’s voice calling my name. And soon he’s in the bathroom with his arms around me, asking me if I’m all right.

I don’t look up or say a word—it would be too much to speak, too hard to look Mick in the eye right now—but I reach out and point toward the test stick.

“What?” he says. I hear him picking it up. And then he is back, sitting on the floor in front of me.

“You’re pregnant?” He sounds surprised, but not as devastated as I’d imagined. Not angry.