Don't Get Me Wrong (8 page)

Sweat, leather, rubber, dust—to Harry, Tommy's Gym smelt like home. Ever since that first afternoon—when he'd been handed a skipping rope by a man with gold teeth and skin so minutely tattooed that he shone a kind of luminous blue—Harry knew he belonged. He'd arrived a thin, angry eighteen-year-old. Now, at the age of twenty-six, he was fit, muscular, and in control. He loved everything about boxing—the footwork, the speed of punches, the tactics, the adrenaline. In the ring, his black hair in wet curls, his heart pumping blood, Harry felt on top of the world. Later, he'd find the bruises—black bashes up his forearms, purple patches on his ribs. But at the time, in the thick of it—landing a sequence of jab, cross, uppercut—he felt properly alive.

You don't get much time off as a banker. Especially when you're an associate with ambition. But Harry tried to make it to the gym as often as he could. Leon, who owned it, let him train whenever he wanted—early in the morning before he went to work, or late at night when most of the City slept.

It might have made more sense to find a gym near his flat.
Or somewhere in Nunhead. But Harry never did. Boxing was Tommy's Gym. This was where he wanted to be.

Leon liked Harry. It wasn't just because Harry paid his membership subs on time. Or even because he'd been coming for so long that he seemed like part of the family. Leon liked Harry because Harry knew by instinct who needed help.

It was easy to get into trouble in this part of southeast London. You could go down the wrong road and end up with all your exits barred. Boxing gave you discipline. It showed you another way.

But it was hard to take the first step. Harry, watchful, seemed to know when to say nothing and when to intervene. It wasn't much. Just the odd word. But a thirteen-year-old with a shaved head and hard eyes might look up and see the expression of friendly interest on Harry's face and feel, somehow, that he was in the right place. He'd start training hard. He'd work on his core fitness, his coordination, his stamina. Heart racing, stopping to draw breath, he'd look across the gym and see Harry smiling encouragement. Much later, in the ring, landing a sequence of punches, he'd glance past his opponent and see Harry frowning with concentration, following his every move.

He would watch Harry box—see the intensity of his expression, the accuracy of his blows. He would measure Harry with his eyes. He would see someone determined. Calm. Able to take care of himself.

Not the violence he was used to, maybe. But a fighter nonetheless.

Harry, straightening up, the tight muscles of his shoulders
and arms hidden under an old hoodie, would pick up his sports bag. And he'd look over and nod.

Nothing much, you might say.

But to that boy, that thirteen-year-old, it was everything.

•  •  •

“Of course she had a thing about cats.”

“What kind of thing?

“It might be better to ask,” said her mother, “what kind of cats.”

No wonder you moved to the South of France, thought Kim. Nunhead really wasn't the right setting. The thin September sun, fighting its way through the window above the sink, showed up the chipped yellow paint, the scratched stainless steel, the scuffed lino. But then the light fell on Grace. She turned her face towards the sun like a film star sensing the camera. You could see the sheen of her skin, the intense blue of her eyes. Her white-blond hair was a dazzling halo.

“Lions,” said Grace. She was sitting right on the edge of her chair as if trying to minimize all contact with south London dirt. “Hundreds of them. Wandering round her house. Huge great African lions.”

“Why?”

“She was making a film. Called
Roar
. Took years and years and went wildly over budget. One of the cameramen nearly got killed.”

“Is that what turned you off her?”

Grace frowned.

“You changed your name. You called yourself Tippi for years. And then suddenly you didn't.”

Grace straightened up. “You're imagining things.”

No, thought Kim wearily. I'm remembering things. You wore a green suit and fur coat because of
The Birds
. We had a kitten called Forio because of the horse in
Marnie
. You were obsessed with Tippi Hedren. You were obsessed with Hitchcock blondes. Eva was named after Eva Marie Saint. I was named after Kim Novak. (I should be grateful. We could have been Janet and Doris.)

You met a man on a plane once. Around the time Dad walked out. I remember standing in the kitchen, looking down the hall to where he stood, this stranger in a black cashmere coat, framed by the front door. You leant down and whispered, “Not a word!” Then you said, in a loud voice, “And this is my little sister! People say we look so alike!”

You slipped into fiction so easily. If you got bored with reality, you just played a different part. And you were so good at it. People were often surprised to find you in a tatty London suburb. It was like finding bone china in IKEA. But they just assumed you were eccentric. Or had somehow lost the family fortune.

That sharp ascent through the English social ranks wasn't enough, though. You outgrew the British class system. You looked across to Europe, and then to the US. Becoming Grace Kelly was a stroke of genius. She was the one, after all, who ended up a princess.

“So what are we going to do?” said Grace.

Kim forced herself back to the present. “About what?”

Grace stared at her, wide-eyed. “I thought we were having a council of war.”

You pretend to care. But you don't. Eva's baby is just another drama. You've never really enjoyed being a mother. Eva used to say, They married too young, that's all. They had children before they'd grown up themselves. Which is why, one day, they woke up and looked at each other and thought, Is this all there is? Am I with the right person in the right life? And it frightened them so much they had to rush off and start again before it was all too late. So Dad left and moved in with Jia. And Mum moved to the South of France.

“Your father hasn't helped the situation. Putting the house on the market. But then what can you expect?” Grace shrugged. “He was always so selfish.”

“There's been an offer already.”

“Well, there would be, wouldn't there? London property always sells. Although I won't see a penny of it, of course.”

“Izzie and I are looking for a flat together.”

Grace frowned. “You're not living with Eva? Well, of course I understand that. Babies aren't to everybody's taste. All those wet nappies. And the crying. Half the time, there's nothing wrong with them at all. They just want attention.” She shot Kim a sideways glance. “So go on, then.”

“What?”

Grace looked impatient. “Is it Harry's?”

“I don't know.”

“Hasn't she said?”

“Not to me.”

The last conversation had been the worst. Kim, her back to
Eva as she washed up the supper dishes, had tried to suggest that it wasn't fair on the baby to keep its parentage secret. Surely everyone has the right to know who their father is. And what if there's some kind of genetic disease that needs specialist treatment? Alcoholism? Depression? When she turned round, Eva was looking at her rather sadly. Kim, she said, I know you want everything neat and tidy. But life isn't like that. It's messy and unpredictable and out of control. This is best for me and the baby. I want you to accept that. And Kim, silenced by the expression in Eva's eyes, felt ashamed.

“I thought sisters were supposed to tell each other everything.”

So did I.

“It seems the most likely explanation. That's why she's decided to keep it. At least Harry's doing the honorable thing and paying for her living expenses. God knows we need more men like him, willing to take responsibility for their actions.”

It could be anyone. A one-night stand. Someone married with children. The father of one of her guitar pupils. In her head, Kim saw a disparate group of men turning to face her, like suspects in a police lineup.

And then she saw Harry, smiling.

Grace clasped her hands together, like an angel praying. “They're so right for each other, don't you think? I love the way Harry laughs. Finds everything so amusing. And making a fortune in the City.” She sighed. “We'll just have to hope they get together once the baby's born. Set up home somewhere sweet and unpretentious. Like Chelsea.”

Oh, thought Kim, flooded by silent rage, go back to Nice. Go and stalk some more faded socialites living on memories of past glamour. Because you're not doing any good here. But I can't say it out loud. Because I look at your face—at your fine cheekbones and your blue eyes and your white-blond hair—and all I see is Eva.

“I hope she's not expecting me to rush back when it's born. I'm not really the grandmother type. And I don't have any ties to London anymore.”

Apart from two daughters who live here.

“It's so shockingly rude these days. No courtesy. No one says good morning or holds the door open for you. So different from the Côte d'Azur. Although they do try to take advantage even there, you know. You have to be very firm. A gentleman came up to me on the Promenade des Anglais the other day and said, Would you do me the great honor of having lunch with me, madame, and I said no thank you, and he said, But I will be devastated if you don't accept,
accablé de chagrin
, and I said, ‘
Monsieur, je suis trop pressée
.' Too busy. Perhaps I shouldn't have let him down so gently. I should have said, That's an outrageous suggestion. You're a perfect stranger. I don't go off and have lunch with just anybody.”

That's not what I remember.

“But it's all gone from London, you know, that old-fashioned courtesy. No manners at all. Men spitting in the street. Young women lolling about, drunk, with their skirts up to their armpits. Although, from what I hear, it's no better in the country. All those four-by-fours and sex parties. People with titles behaving
outrageously. Only the other day I heard about a politician hosting S and M in his gazebo.”

•  •  •

There was something about Eva's pregnancy that pushed hostilities between Kim and Harry to the next level.

“What are you doing?”

It was Sunday afternoon. Kim had wandered into the kitchen to find Harry leaning back against the sink and Eva sitting at the kitchen table. Both were holding bottles of beer.

Harry looked surprised. “Talking to Eva?”

“You're drinking beer!”

“I know. It's allowed. I'm over eighteen.”

“Not you! Eva! She shouldn't be drinking!”

Eva's eyes were big with alarm. “Kim—”

Kim ignored her. “It's bad for her health. Bad for the baby.”

“Kim—”

“You know,” said Harry, “some people don't agree. There are experts who believe that the odd glass of wine does no harm at all.”

“Which experts?”

Harry looked vague. “I don't know. I'm sure I read it somewhere.”

“You read it somewhere. Or maybe saw it on the telly? Well my information is a little more reliable. I went with Eva to her prenatal appointment last week, and the midwife reminded her that you must not drink in pregnancy.”

“Kim—”

“At all. Ever. Not the odd glass. Not the occasional treat. Not even a bottle of beer.”

“All I can say,” said Harry, “is thank God you're here.”

Kim stared at him with disbelief. “It's not funny! Why can't you just admit for once that you've got it wrong? Is that so hard?”

Eva bowed her head. Her shoulders were shaking. Oh no, thought Kim, I didn't mean to make her cry. I never meant to make her cry. But Harry's behaving like a child. Being completely irresponsible.

“You're always so emotional,” said Harry. “Are you sure it's good for you?”

Eva looked up, her face awash with tears. “Kim, please stop.”

“I'm not angry with you. It's Harry who . . .” Kim trailed off. Eva wasn't crying. Eva was laughing.

“Kimmy, I'm sorry,” said Eva. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. “You're absolutely right about drinking and pregnancy. And I'm very grateful that you're so fierce and roaring like a lion to protect me.” She smiled. “But there's no need. I was getting really fed up with orange juice, and lemonade, and elderflower cordial with fizzy water, and Harry said, Why don't you try something different? So that's what I'm doing. This beer hasn't got any alcohol in it. We thought we might try some alcohol-free wine, too. There's some that's meant to taste like champagne.”

Kim felt herself growing hotter. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“I did try.”

Kim stared at the floor.

When Kim eventually did look up, Eva and Harry were both peering at her like anxious parents whose toddler has just had a tantrum. Kim wanted to say, Why do you always do this? Why do you always gang up on me? But that would just have made her sound whiny and immature.

Harry said, “Sorry. You were only trying to look after her.”

But this, for all she knew, was yet another trap—a big pit in the jungle, loosely covered with branches, just waiting for her to fall in. She so badly wanted to shout at him for laughing at her.

But all I've got left in this situation, she thought miserably, are the last thin shreds of my dignity.

A few weeks later, it happened again. When Kim found out that Eva was intending to visit Sieben Linden—an ecovillage in Germany—at the end of November, she was appalled. “But you'll be huge!”

“It's my last chance. After that, I'll have the baby. And getting around will be so much harder.”

“You'll be eight months pregnant! No one travels when they're eight months pregnant!”

Harry said, “I'll go with her.”