Beautiful Malice (3 page)

5

A
lice turns up for dinner right on time. She is so cheerful and full of energy that as soon as she walks inside and starts talking, I feel better.

“My God,” she says in a low voice, looking around Vivien’s apartment. “This is totally fab. Your parents must be, like, super-trendy.”

“No.” I shake my head. “This isn’t my mom and dad’s place. I live with my aunt. She’s away for the weekend.”

“So it’s just us?”

I nod and Alice jumps into the air and whoops with joy.

“Yay. God, Katherine, I’m so glad. I thought your mother and father were here. I thought this was like some big ‘Come and meet my parents’ thing.” She rolls her eyes. “As if we were getting married or something. Thank
God.”
She kicks her shoes off and starts strolling around the room, looking at things, taking in the view.

I’m all ready to explain to Alice
why
I live with my aunt instead of my parents, something about the reputation and quality of Drummond High compared to the schools back home, which isn’t actually untrue. But she’s far more interested in the actual apartment itself than in how or why I live there.

“It must be fantastic to live like this,” she says, wandering down the hall, peeking into rooms. Her voice is loud and echoes down the hallway. “Have you ever had any parties here? I bet you haven’t, have you? Let’s have one. This’d be the most awesome place. I know heaps of people we could invite.

“Ooh,” she exclaims suddenly. “Look at this!” And she reaches up and grabs a fancy-looking bottle. “Irish whiskey. Yum. I love it. Let’s have some.”

“It’s not mine,” I say. “It’s Vivien’s.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll replace it. Your aunt won’t notice.” And she carries the bottle into the kitchen, finds the glassware, and pours a generous amount into two glasses. “Got any Coke?”

“Sorry.” I shake my head.

“Water will do.” She goes to the tap and fills the glasses with water and hands one to me. I take a tiny sip. The whiskey smells foul and tastes even worse—bitter and dry and very strong—and I know I won’t be able to finish it.

Drinking wasn’t a part of my plan for the evening; I hadn’t even considered it. But Alice’s eagerness to drink makes me realize how out of touch I really am. Not everyone is as terrified of the world as I am—not everyone has been burned.

We take our glasses onto the balcony and look out over the city. It’s mostly Alice who talks, but I’m happy just to listen and enjoy her energy, her joie de vivre. And I’m remembering what it’s like to have fun with someone my own age, reacquainting myself with a different version of me—a younger, happier version—the girl who took it for granted that life could be like this, that it should be like this: free and light and full of joy.

“Hello, world!” Alice leans over the balcony railing and shouts, her voice echoing around us. “Hello,
world!”

She turns back to me and leans against the railing, tilts her head. “When I’m older I’m going to have a place just like this. Only it’s going to be even bigger. Fancier. All my friends will be able to come and stay. And I’m going to have lots of help, too.” She puts her nose in the air and talks in an affected voice. “I’m going to have staff,
dahlink
. Housekeepers. Personal trainers. Butlers. Maids. I’ll even have someone who comes around every night just to pour champagne.”

“Of course,” I agree. “Otherwise, you might break a fingernail. Or get sticky.”

“Quelle horreur!”
She opens her eyes wide with fake alarm, and looks down at her hands. “There is such danger inherent in being occupied with the mundane. I aim to rise above it.”

I laugh. “You’ll need a personal barista, too. To make your coffee in the mornings.”

“And a chef to cook my food.”

“Your very own massage therapist.”

“A hairdresser.”

“A stylist to choose your clothes.”

“A gardener.”

“A chauffeur.”

“Yeah.” She sits down in the seat next to me and sighs dreamily. “I’ll never have to do anything. I won’t always be complaining about doing housework all day every day like my mother. I won’t do
any
. I won’t even have to run my own bath.”

“What if you get sick of it? All those people around you all the time? Maybe you’ll start craving some time alone.”

“Nah,” she says. “Why would I? Being alone is boring. I hate being alone. Hate it. My life isn’t going to be serious and boring. It’s going to be
fun
. A party. A massive, never-ending, lifelong party.”

I think,
Alice is just the type of person I need to be with—she lives for the present and, very conveniently, has an amazing lack of curiosity about the past
.

When Alice has finished several glasses of whiskey—I’m still sipping slowly, safely, on my first—she announces that she’s starving and we go inside. She pours herself another drink and offers me one but I hold up my almost full glass and shake my head. Alice frowns.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s all right, I guess.” I smile and take a sip and try not to grimace. I could explain my fear of alcohol, use it as an excuse, but I would only end up sounding like a nagging parent, some kind of freakish puritan.

Alice stares at me for a moment, as if trying to work something out, but then she puts the bottle down and shrugs.

“More for me, then,” she says.

I dish out the curry and take our overflowing bowls to the kitchen table. Alice’s enthusiasm for the food is gratifying.

“Delicious!” she declares, shaking her head in disbelief. “You’re amazing. You could open your own Indian restaurant or something.”

I laugh, but I’m flattered. My mood has improved dramatically. The feeling of gloom that I had after talking to my mother has completely disappeared.

“So.” Alice taps her bowl with the back of her fork. “What shall we do after this?”

“We could play a game. I’ve got Scrabble. And Trivial Pursuit.”

Alice shakes her head. “Boring. I can’t concentrate on Scrabble for more than a second. Too much like homework. What about Pictionary or charades? Something fun.”

“But we need more people for those games.”

Alice is silent for a moment, thoughtful, then she looks at me and smiles. “I know someone who could come over. Entertain us a bit.”

“Really?” I force myself to smile, but I’m disappointed. I’ve been enjoying myself immensely and don’t think we need any entertaining. The fact that Alice wants to invite someone else over makes me feel boring. “At this time of night?”

“It’s nine o’clock on Saturday night! The clubs haven’t even opened yet.”

I shrug. “Who?”

“Robbie.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Who’s Robbie?”

“He’s a friend. He works as a waiter in a really posh restaurant. He’s a total scream. You’ll love him.”

Alice takes out her cell phone and starts to dial before I get the chance to ask any more questions. I listen to her invite him over—her voice confident and deep and flirtatious—and wonder if she has ever felt shy or uncertain. It’s impossible to imagine.

“He’ll be here soon.” She stands up and stretches, rubs her belly contentedly. “This was such a terrific idea, Katie. Awesome food, good company, and so much more fun to come.”

“Katherine,” I say. “I’m not Katie. I’m Katherine.”

Alice tips her head to the side, looks at me quizzically. “But you look like a Katie. You really do. You weren’t always called Katherine, were you? When you were younger? Such a stuffy name for a little girl. Katie is cute. Fun. It suits you.”

“No,” I say. “I’m Katherine. Just Katherine.” I try to keep my voice light and friendly but it comes out sounding harsh, an overreaction. I never used to care what people called me—
Kat, Katie, Kathy, Kate
, I enjoyed them all—but I can’t stand any of the shortened versions of my name anymore. I am Katherine Patterson now, through and through.

A small frown crosses Alice’s brow, and she stares at me, almost coldly, but in a moment her face clears, she shrugs, then smiles and nods. “Sure. Katherine is more distinguished, anyway. Like that old actress, whatsername, you know, they made a movie … Katharine Hepburn. And a longer name suits your air of mystery better.”

“Air of mystery?” I protest, glad to have an excuse to laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, but you have.” Alice leans forward. “Everybody at school wonders about you. So pretty and smart. So quiet and private, but not because you’re shy or scared or anything like that. It’s as if you just don’t want to get involved. As if you’ve—oh, I don’t know, got some kind of big dark secret and you don’t want to make friends with anyone in case they find out what it is. You have
everyone
intrigued and intimidated. Some people even think you’re a snob.”

“A snob? Really? Well, they’re wrong. I’m not.” I stand up and start clearing the table, avoiding Alice’s eyes. The conversation is starting to make me uncomfortable—it’s getting too close to the truth. I do have a secret. A big dark secret, as Alice put it. And though I’m not a snob, it’s true that I don’t want to participate and that I have avoided making friends, for exactly that reason. Clearly I haven’t been as inconspicuous as I’d hoped.

But Alice laughs. “Hey, don’t be upset. Come on. I’m only teasing. It’s really cool to be mysterious like that. I like it. You’re aloof. And I’m probably just jealous. I wish I was a bit more mysterious myself.” She puts her hand on her chest and closes her eyes. “A mysterious woman with a tragic past.”

I’m amazed at how close Alice has come to hitting on the truth. I feel exposed and uncomfortable and have to fight an urge to run away and hide. I need to keep my secret safe. I’m scared that Alice is going to continue with this conversation, interrogate me until she knows everything, but instead she shrugs, looks around the room, and shakes her head.

“God, this place is awesome. We absolutely
have
to throw a party.” She takes the plates from my hands. “You cooked. I’ll clean up. Sit down. Have another”—she looks at my glass and shakes her head—“milli-sip or two of your drink.”

Alice fills the sink with hot, soapy water, starts washing, then comes back to the table to chat some more, tell me another story. There is a knock on the door.

“It’s Robbie!” Alice claps her hands together happily and rushes down the hallway.

I hear her greet someone, giggle, and exclaim. I hear the deep rumble of his response. And then he is in the kitchen.

He is tall and blond and very good-looking in an athletic, wholesome way. He grins at me and, unexpectedly, holds out his hand.

“Katherine. Hi. I’m Robbie.”

“Hi.”

His handshake is warm and dry and firm. His smile is spontaneous and open, and for the first time in what feels like a hundred years I feel the mild but unmistakable pull of attraction. I feel myself start to blush. I turn away and pretend to fuss with the dishes, still piled messily beside the sink.

“I’ll just finish these. It’ll only take a minute.”

“No. No.” Alice takes me by the shoulders and pulls me away from the sink. “I’ll do them later. Promise. Let’s just have some fun.”

There is a lot of curry left over, and Alice insists that Robbie try some.

“Is that okay?” He looks at me apologetically as she serves him up an enormous bowlful.

“It’s fine. Honest,” I say, and I mean it. I made far too much. Enough for six.

Alice asks Robbie if he’d like to “partake of an alcoholic beverage” but he shakes his head, says something about soccer practice, and pours himself a glass of water instead. He watches Alice pour herself another drink.

“Whiskey?” he says. “That’s a bit hard-core, isn’t it?”

“Yep.” She winks suggestively. “Hard-core. Just like me.”

The three of us go back outside onto the balcony, and Robbie starts eating enthusiastically. I feel a little shy with him at first, but he is so friendly and so nice about my cooking, and his conversation is so amusing, that it doesn’t take long for me to warm to him. Robbie is twenty and he works at some upmarket restaurant as a waiter, and in no time at all I’m laughing freely at his stories about all the obnoxious customers he has to deal with.

When it gets too cold, we move inside and sit around on the floor in the living room. All the whiskey Alice has drunk is starting to show. Her cheeks are flushed. Her voice is slurred, and she is speaking a little too loudly, interrupting Robbie to finish his stories for him. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, just smiles indulgently when she interrupts and lets her talk.

He loves her
, I decide.
The way he looks at her, the way he was available on such short notice so late on a Saturday night. He’s completely in love with her
.

Alice gets up and goes to the shelves to poke through Vivien’s CD collection.

“My God!” she says. “I should have brought my iPod. This is all so
old
. So nineteen-eighties!” But she eventually chooses a Prince album and slides the disc into the player.

“My mom loves this song,” Alice tells us. “She dances to it all the time. You should see her dance, Katherine. She’s unbelievable. She looks like some kind of movie star. She just looks so amazingly beautiful when she dances.” And she turns the volume up and starts swinging her hips seductively from side to side.

Alice is smiling, her eyes closed, and I can’t help but wonder at this unexpected admission of admiration and affection for her mother. The few times I’ve heard Alice talk about her parents, she has been dismissive, scornful, almost as if she hated them.

Robbie and I both stay seated and watch Alice dance. She’s a good dancer, smooth and sexy, and Robbie stares up at her, smiling. He looks completely smitten and I think how nice it would be to be loved like that, how exciting to have someone interested in me romantically. And for the first time since Rachel died, since Will, I allow myself to imagine that one day I might have someone like Robbie to love. Someone handsome and smart and kind. Someone who will love me, too—despite who I am and what I’ve done.