Perfections (14 page)

‘Mine,’ he repeats. ‘Not
his
, not anymore.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Antoinette says. ‘I didn’t know.’ She retrieves the second glass of wine, takes a large and decidedly uncivilised gulp. Most of her anger dissipated now, cooled by the lines that crease his brow and drag at the corners of his mouth, by her frank inability to imagine what it’s actually like, being him, that bright new skull crammed with pre-owned memories and hand-me-down thoughts. But still: ‘Please don’t go back there, Loki. It’s too risky.’

‘I’ve no reason to go back.’ He taps at his forehead again, quick staccato pecks so hard they’re audible. ‘There’s nothing else I need from that place, nothing else I want.’

‘Good.’ More wine, a smaller sip this time while she ponders, debates whether or not to bring it up, but what the hell. Pennies and pounds. ‘Why did you shred his jacket?’

Another shrug, his gaze sliding from hers. ‘Why not?’

‘Loki . . .’

‘I don’t know.’

Black hair falling in shards across his face, like bars, like splinters, and now it seems too important a point to set quietly aside. Antoinette pushes, prods, trying to tease an explanation from him until finally–

‘It’s not like I planned it,’ he snaps. Insisting there was no plan, no intentions of any kind until he spied the thing slung across the back of the couch, felt the tug of black leather, worn and warm, at his core. The jacket one of his most beloved possessions – one of
Paul’s
most beloved possessions – and yet he recoiled from the touch of it, from the tentative brush of finger over hide. He didn’t want it anymore, this second skin, this second-
hand
skin, but equally he did not want Paul to have it. And so: the saw-toothed kitchen knife cutting through leather like flesh, catching on the lining, but cutting all the same, and it felt good, cathartic.

‘I felt free of it,’ he finishes. ‘Free of
him
.’

Antoinette refills his glass, tops up her own. ‘I made a right royal mess of things, didn’t I?’

‘Of what?’

‘Of you.’ The wine is sour on her tongue. ‘Whatever it was, however I managed to do it, seems I’ve fucked it all up.’ Her nose tingles, her eyes sting, but damn her to hell before she starts to cry. She just wants her sister to be here, longs to be able to dump the whole mess in Jacqueline’s lap –
look, here, sorry
– and let those elegant, careful fingers pick through the tangles and snarls.

‘Hey,’ Loki says, and, ‘No,’ and then his mouth is pressed to hers, one hand gently cupping her chin as his hair falls forward, curtaining their faces, and
why not
, she thinks. This is why she made him, isn’t it? Her Paul-not-Paul, her beautiful doppelganger with his tongue that tastes of wine and spices warmed sharp in the sun, his silk-smooth cheeks and his hands that now move over her body, that now slide down her back, curving around her hips to pull her close. Half-moan, half-growl, the mewl of her name in his throat, and really: why the hell not?

So she returns his kisses, not precisely eager but willing enough, right arm twisting awkward to return her glass to the bench against which she now finds herself pinned, the weight of him urgent and close, and she opens her mouth to him, moves her tongue in a way she can only hope doesn’t seem half as mechanical as it feels, slips wine-splashed fingers under his shirt to trace the vertebrae that bump beneath his feverish, fish-pale skin.

‘Come on,’ he whispers. A thumb hooked into the waistband of her skirt, pulling her towards the hall, towards the bedroom, and she follows, matching him kiss for fervent kiss because why not, because even if this is not entirely what she wants then it’s certainly just what he needs.

And maybe it’s what she needs as well.

Except.

Except, except, oh, it’s all too much: his lips sliding along the hollows of her throat, sexy and lush and tickling precisely the way she likes it – the way she
should
like it – his fingers unbuttoning her blouse, thumbs circling persuasive over her nipples, hard little nubs pushing keen through the fabric of her bra, and she presses her body against him, runs her hands through his hair as she whispers his name–

Loki Loki Loki

–spurs to her own unbloodied side because she
wants
to want this, she does.

She really does.

Mouth finding hers, he lowers her to the bed, a motion so smooth, so graceful, it feels ludicrous. It feels wrong, she feels wrong, miscast in some fantasy of her own foolish devising, with poor Loki following a script she can read two heartbeats in advance, and ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasps, laughter bursting rough and wild from deep within her belly, unbidden, uncontrolled, and far too violent to tamp back down in any kind of a hurry.

‘What?’ Loki draws back, arousal mixing with confusion in his face. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

Which only makes it worse.

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeats, finally, hand pressed to her aching diaphragm. ‘It’s not you–’ Biting off the words,
it’s me
, because she can feel them about to set her off all over again, and trying instead to explain the strange and inescapable sense that it was all staged, each movement of their bodies prearranged, each whisper and sigh placed
just so
, because surely . . . surely he must have felt it too?

‘No.’ Loki shakes his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Taking his hand, because she can’t make it any clearer; there simply aren’t the words. ‘It’s probably just me,’ she says. ‘I’m over-tired, not thinking straight.’ A small lie, she hopes, to ward off the hurt. A small lie, because she fears the larger truth behind it.

Loki squeezes her fingers. ‘You don’t love me.’

‘Of course I do.’ And she does, a fierce and protective love, the force of which surprises even her.

‘But it’s not the same, is it?’

‘The same as what?’

‘The same as how I love you.’

‘Oh, Loki.’ Her voice is thin, exasperated, and she feels him recoil beside her, his hand slip from hers. ‘I do love you, I do, it’s just–’

‘You don’t want me. Not like this.’

Antoinette starts to tell him,
no, that’s not true, maybe I just need more time to get used to things, to get used to you
, but his face is an open wound and she can’t bring herself to salt it any longer. False hope, false promises; Loki doesn’t deserve any of it. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Not like that.’

‘And that isn’t going to change.’

Words like stones in her mouth, cold and heavy and easier to swallow than spit out, but spit them out she does. ‘Probably not. I don’t – no, it won’t.’

Loki sighs. ‘You made me to love you. I can’t
not
love you.’

No accusation in his voice, merely a dull finality that’s somehow even worse, and Antoinette fights the urge to hug him, to wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold him close, because right now he needs that like a hole in his head. Apologising instead,
sorry
and
sorry
and
sorry
, that pathetic dead-mouse word all she can find to offer him, until he shakes his head and crosses a finger over her lips.

‘Stop,’ he says. ‘You didn’t mean to do it.’

‘No, but–’

Stop
, again, pale blue eyes now damp and glimmering, and so she does.

— 11 —

Sev
enth Circle is all but empty when Jacqueline walks through its doors. No clients, no tyre-kickers, just Becca sitting at the little desk at the back of the gallery, tapping away on her iPad. She looks up at the sound of suitcase wheels rumbling over the entrance tiles and her eyes widen. ‘Jacqueline,’ she whispers, glancing at the floating staircase that leads up to Dante’s office. She drops the iPad. Scuttles around the desk with her hands held out in front of her. A gesture not so much of welcome, but of warding. ‘What on earth’s been going on?’

Jacqueline pauses. ‘Didn’t the photos come through?’

‘Oh, they came
through
.’ Becca flicks her hair, a habit that never fails to irritate. The girl wears her hair long, with a heavy fringe that falls over half her face, and bleached within an inch of its life. Her lips are bright red. Glossy as patent leather. ‘I haven’t seen them myself, but–’

‘The prodigal daughter returns!’

Dante stands at the top of the stairs, one hand on hip. There’s nothing good about the expression that tightens his face. Jacqueline waves, a pathetic waggle of fingers that she immediately regrets.

‘Up here,’ her boss snaps. ‘Pronto.’

He disappears into his office and Jacqueline takes a deep breath. ‘Time to face the music, then.’

Becca squeezes her shoulder. ‘He’s been like that all morning.’

Jacqueline forces herself to remain still beneath the girl’s touch. To smile and nod as though everything is fine. Nothing more than she expected. Nothing she can’t handle. She nudges her suitcase with her foot. ‘I’ll leave this down here.’

‘No probs.’ Becca smiles. Her fingernails are painted a dark, bluish purple. Jacqueline watches them curl around the handle of the case. Watches the girl drag it away behind her desk. ‘Good luck,’ Becca mouths.

Jacqueline straightens her back. Beneath her heels, the stairs sound hollow and insubstantial. She tightens her grip on the handrail as she climbs. Dante is at his desk, hunched over his laptop. His finger hooks the air between them, draws her closer.

‘You wanna tell me what this is all about?’

Photos of Ryan Jellicoe’s painting splash across the screen. A distance shot of the entire canvas, plus several close-ups that Dante now cycles through.

‘It’s almost finished,’ Jacqueline says. ‘He wanted to add some more detail to the foliage, I believe. But it’s just about done.’

‘He’s changing the rest as well?’

‘Not all of them. Half a dozen, perhaps. He wants to tease out the narrative, unify the show along those same lines.’

Dante rakes a hand over his crew cut. ‘This is completely fucked, Jacks.’

‘I don’t think it will take that long to–’

‘It’s got nothing to do with time.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s this fucking
response to tragedy
bullshit.’ His fingers bob air quotes, savage stabbing gestures that match his tone. ‘This isn’t the show I commissioned. I want the dead city, the dystopia. I want the bloody
grunt
, not this bleeding-heart, back-to-nature crap.’

‘That’s not what he’s trying to say–’

‘I don’t want to hear it. I sent you up there to hustle his arse,
not
to give him editorial notes and
not
to change the whole damn show.’

‘I didn’t–’

‘
Jacqueline was the best
.’ Dante reads off the screen. ‘
Please thank her for me. I wouldn’t have come up with it if she wasn’t here
.’

Jacqueline winces. ‘Ryan said that?’

‘Ryan said that.’

‘I don’t know why he would, honestly. I didn’t tell him to change anything; he came up with it all on his own.’

‘Whatever, Jacks.’ Dante flaps a dismissive hand.

‘I’m serious. He wouldn’t even let me see the canvas until–’

‘Leave it. Just come up with a fix.’

‘A fix?”’

‘We have to spin this to the punters somehow.’ He looks through the images again. His nose wrinkles with disdain. ‘I mean, look at this shit. Is that a fucking
parrot
sitting on that lamp post?’

Jacqueline leans closer. Squints at the red and green splodge of paint Dante is pointing at. ‘I think you’re worrying about nothing. These photos don’t really capture the work. Once you see it in person . . .’

He straightens, suddenly. ‘Don’t tell me what I will and won’t see. I’ve been doing this a long time, babe, and I
know
from photos. Point blank, this is
not
the show I thought I was getting. This is the very
opposite
of the show I thought I was getting, and there’s squat I can do about it now.’

His teeth grind together. The muscles on each side of his jaw twitch. Jacqueline says nothing. There are no words she can offer which won’t be mangled and spurned and thrown right back at her feet. She wishes she could see the entire email Ryan sent. Wishes she knew precisely what it was he said about her.

Dante rubs a hand over his scalp again. ‘Look, you might as well go home.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Becca’s got a handle on things. You weren’t meant to be here today anyhow.’

‘I thought I could catch up on the accounts. Now that I
am
here, it seems silly to just–’

‘I think Becca got those done yesterday.’

‘Oh.’ Becca.
Becca
did the accounts. ‘I wasn’t aware she knew how.’

‘It’s not rocket science, babe.’ Her boss sits down at his desk and starts tapping away at the keyboard. ‘Didn’t know how long you’d be flitting about up there, did we? Bills gotta be paid, yeah?’

‘Perhaps I should go over everything,’ she offers. ‘Just to make sure she–’

‘Jesus!’ His head snaps up. ‘Territorial much? Becca did the accounts and I checked them; it’s not the end of the goddamn world. Go home and get some sleep. Looks like you could use it.’

Jacqueline straightens. ‘All right, then. An afternoon off would be good, actually. It’s been a long week.’

‘Take tomorrow as well, yeah?’ Dante turns back to his screen. ‘Becca’s on for a full day; no need for you to come in as well.’

‘Really? Don’t you think–’

His iPhone rings, the klaxon call of an old rotary-dial phone. Her boss plucks the thing from his pocket and swears. Taps the screen and holds it to his ear. ‘Susie-Q, I was just thinking about you.’

Susan Keyes, the money behind Seventh Circle. Behind Segue, the sister gallery Dante is angling to open by the end of the year, as well. He catches Jacqueline’s eye. Jerks his head towards the open office door.
Monday
, he mouths, before turning his shoulder against her. ‘No, my lovely, it’s all in hand. I’m literally looking at the proofs as we speak.’

Jacqueline backs out of the office. Closes the door behind her and walks down the stairs to where Becca waits with eyes wide and inquisitive.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Are you working this weekend?’ Jacqueline asks.

‘Only Saturday,’ the girl says brightly. ‘Dante’s going to man the ship himself on Sunday. It’s nice of him to give you a few days off after your trip – sounds like it was all pretty arduous.’

Jacqueline can’t tell whether or not she’s being sarcastic. She opens her bag and retrieves her collection of CabCharge receipts, neatly held together with a paperclip. ‘I didn’t get a chance to give these to Dante.’

‘I’ll make sure he gets them.’ Becca takes the receipts from her. Flicks them between her fingers. ‘So, you have any plans?’

‘Plans?’

‘For your time off?’

Jacqueline shakes her head. All she wants to do is go home and stand beneath a scalding-hot shower for several million hours. Sleep in her own bed for a few million more. Recover herself from the mess and sweat-slicked confusion that was Brisbane. That was Ryan Jellicoe. Recover and regroup. A few solitary days on her own, without the need to even speak to anyone, not even–

Ant. She’d almost forgotten about her sister in the spare room.

‘Jacks? Are you okay?’

Becca is reaching for her again. Dark nails inch close to her wrist.

‘Don’t call me that,’ Jacqueline snaps.

The girl snatches back her hand. Her red mouth rounds to a near perfect circle.

Jacqueline swallows. ‘Sorry.’

‘I was only trying to be friendly.’ Her tone is far from it now.

‘I know. I’m tired and . . . I’m sorry, honestly.’

The girl nods and walks back to her desk. Tosses the CabCharge receipts on top. ‘So, we’ll see you next week, then.’ She brings Jacqueline’s suitcase around, taking small, delicate steps in her spiked heels. ‘Don’t forget this.’

‘Thanks.’ Jacqueline grips the handle tightly. ‘Tell Dante not to worry about the Ryan Jellicoe show. Whatever he needs fixed, I’ll handle it.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Becca says.

Jacqueline wheels her case through the gallery doors. Pauses to wave a polite goodbye. The girl returns a thin smile, the press of her lips as cold and hard as the glass that slides shut in front of Jacqueline’s face.

Her apartment is a mess. Boxes stacked in the corners of the living room. Clothes draped like discarded skins over furniture. Dirty dishes, most of them glasses, crowd the sink and kitchen bench, which makes Jacqueline wonder at the vast depths her sister’s sorrow needs for drowning. To be fair, she can’t wholly blame Ant for the state of the place. If her sister knew Jacqueline was coming home early, then she would have tidied. Would have insisted on picking Jacqueline up at the airport. Would, no doubt, have wanted to talk the entire drive home – the kind of rambling, broken-hearted babble Jacqueline was not yet prepared to face.

A messy apartment is a small price to pay for solitude.

For a few precious hours in which to gather herself before becoming – again, always, still – Big Sister.

She tugs her suitcase towards the bedroom, planning to unpack before tackling the kitchen. Only in the hall does she register the muted spatter of water coming from the bathroom. Jacqueline’s stomach sinks. Ant is supposed to be working day shifts all this week and yet here she is, treating herself to a mid-afternoon shower. Goodness knows what time she managed to drag herself out of bed. A wisp of steam curls beneath the door.

‘Fine,’ Jacqueline mutters. ‘That’s just fine.’

Her bedroom appears to have been recently occupied by an invading army. The bed is unmade, the doona sloughed halfway off the mattress. A near-empty wine glass perches close to the edge of the side table. In front of the wardrobe, a suitcase gapes like some huge, stomach-slit beast, spilling a tangle of clothes and boots over the floor. It looks like her sister’s room always did when they both lived with their mother.

Except this is
not
her sister’s room.

Jacqueline feels intensely, absurdly violated. She leaves her own small case outside in the hall and returns to the kitchen. Fills the kettle and opens the fridge to check for milk. The smell of stale curry is sickening. Wrinkling her nose, she extracts the half-dozen or so takeaway containers that have been crammed onto the shelves. One of the lids must be loose as too late she notices the thin trail of yellow sauce following her to the rubbish bin.

‘Damn it, Ant!’ Her eyes prickle. She bites the inside of her cheek, hard. Draws herself along the pain as though it is a lifeline.

Down the other end of the apartment, the bathroom door opens.

Jacqueline braces herself. Forces fresh air into her lungs. ‘It’s only me,’ she calls. Her voice is strong and calm. ‘Everything wrapped up earlier than expected.’

No answer beyond the heavy fall of footsteps and the closing of a second door. The door to the
spare
room, where her sister should have been staying all along. Should she have made that clear? Should she have needed to? Jacqueline runs water from the kitchen tap. Waits for it to heat and then foams the dishcloth with detergent. The spilled curry turns the cloth a bright yellow. Not the sort of stain that will rinse out and so, once the floor is clean, she throws it into the bin with the containers. Locates the plug beneath an unrinsed cereal bowl. Starts to fill the sink with suds and steam.

Behind her, a throat is cleared.