Sin Tropez (35 page)

After half an hour, the trio stopped drawing and exchanged doodles. Dr Jacowski had managed to rustle up a quite outstanding picture of the clinic and the greenery that surrounded it. Tara had
drawn an antique table in the dining room at Willowborough, and Philip had gone for a very abstract set of different coloured lines and overlapping circles. The three discussed the pictures for
twenty minutes, without coming to any illuminating conclusions. Just when Tara was congratulating herself on her correct assumption that this was all bullshit, Dr Jacowski announced that that had
just been a warm-up. Now that they’d had a chance to become acquainted with one another, they were to draw portraits – either a self-portrait or a portrait of each other. They had to
sit at separate ends of the room, and without looking in a mirror, at photographs, or at each other, they must draw from memory.

Tara concentrated so hard she quite forgot to be sceptical. After the hour was up Dr Jacowski, who hadn’t drawn anything himself this time around, asked Tara to talk them through her
sketch first. She held up her self-portrait for all to see and grimaced as she heard both men gasp. Her portrait bore a strong resemblance to herself but it had been manipulated to become a
massively distorted representation. Emerging from a scrawny neck that could have belonged to a chicken were not one, but two heads. One of the heads was a simply drawn but perfectly attractive
sullen blonde with Tara’s long, imposing nose and red mouth; the other was a grotesque, enlarged, pock-marked head with squinty, reddened eyes and greasy, lank hair sticking to its forehead.
When nobody said anything, Tara took one more look at her portrait and burst into tears.

Dr Jacowski contemplated the sketch for several minutes, leaning right back in his chair and tilting his head at different angles. Eventually he said, ‘Let us first see what Philip has
come up with and then we’ll discuss both drawings together.’

Tara was astounded when Philip produced his own drawing. Unable to meet her eyes, he gazed down at the floor in front of him while she gawped at the picture. Staring out from the large white
sheet of paper was an extraordinarily lovely woman. She had the same blue eyes as Tara and the same red lips – plumped up to Angelina Jolie proportions. Her complexion had been smoothed out
so that the pimples she was still plagued with, and which she covered painstakingly with concealer each day, were not apparent. But most striking about the picture was the expression that Philip
had drawn on Tara’s face. She was fun-loving and smiling, with a sparkle in her eyes that he had quite literally drawn in with a dash of gold pen. Tara’s tears continued to flow through
the laughter bubbling in her throat.

The session drew to a close and both patients made to leave for the next appointment on their strict timetables. Philip was only a couple of steps out of the door when he turned around.

‘Tara?’

‘Yes?’ she replied, swivelling round instantly to face him.

‘Would you like to come over and listen to some music before supper? I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.’

Tara nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I’d like that.’ She bit her lip.

Philip’s face reddened. ‘Great, it’s Room 31, Staircase 3. Shall we say … 7-ish?’

‘That sounds perfect.’

For the rest of the afternoon Tara barely thought about cocaine, her mind full of Philip, and what she would say to him, and, most importantly, what she should wear. She fingered the two
dazzling dresses she had with her but decided that they would be too much for going to somebody’s room to hang out. Philip seemed shy so she didn’t think it would turn into anything
more than an intimate chat, and anyway, she herself wasn’t up to anything more than that. But it was a very good start.

She picked up a pair of jeans she no longer liked – Abena must have confused them with her Notify pair. They were already extremely holey and thin so she ripped them further across each
thigh. Stepping into what was now a pair of tiny denim hot pants, worn over a pair of grey woollen tights, she surveyed her reflection and noticed happily that all the enforced exercise and riding
had given a bit of definition to her long, thin legs. She added a slouchy, duck-egg blue, long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of chunky-heeled boots. Not bad, she thought, pleased with her enterprise.
She did wish she had something a bit sexier though. Then she pulled off the T-shirt and removed her bra. Pulling the T-shirt back on, she checked that the outline of her breasts was visible and
that her nipples could be made out through the material of the top, but that the effect was subtle and could pass for accidental. Perfect. She applied eyeliner and glossy pink lip gloss for the
first time in months, then she reached for the chocolate brownies she’d baked herself. It was amazing how domestic one became when there were no drugs or alcohol available.

Checking her reflection one last time, she waltzed out into the corridor and towards Staircase 3. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Nurse Peterson watching her from the office at the
end of the corridor.

Tara knocked firmly on the door of Room 31 and was gratified to see that Philip had also made an effort. He had changed since she’d last seen him and was now wearing a timeless classic:
jeans, a light blue shirt and a very slim-fitting blazer.

‘I like your blazer,’ Tara blurted out immediately.

‘Oh. Thanks, I er, had it cut extra slim, otherwise they tend to look too old-school and stuffy and … anyway, what the hell, you look amazing!’

‘Thanks, it’s just, well … I didn’t really bring any of my nice stuff with me.’ Tara blushed. ‘I made these earlier – do you want some?’ She
handed him the brownies.

‘Oh, you’re lovely!’ Philip laughed and embraced her in a huge bear hug. ‘You’d make someone a fantastic wife,’ he teased.

Tara’s pulse was racing. ‘Well, you need somebody to look after you. Clearly.’

‘Clearly?’ Philip pulled away to look Tara in the eye but left his arms around her waist.

‘Well, you said you’ve nobody to talk to about the things that matter to you … about your mother … your PhD, what you want to do with your life. I could talk about that
kind of thing for ever. Come on – you already know about my dysfunctional family and dire job situation – it’s your turn now!’

Philip released Tara from his embrace and led her into his living room, where he poured her a cup of tea. Schubert was playing softly in the background and the room was dim, lit only by candles
he must have smuggled in.

‘Sorry. I’m not trying to seduce you,’ Philip grinned, ‘I just think it’s a bit more atmospheric like this. The bright light was far too harsh.’

‘Yes, I know, my rooms are the same – sooo clinical.’

She looked around the room, noticing that, like her, Philip hadn’t bothered to decorate it for such a short stay. There were a couple of photographs, though, which had been tossed
irreverently to one corner of the floor. Tara picked them up and looked at them. In one she recognized his father and stepmother and three half-siblings. The other was a plain, mousy woman in her
mid-thirties.

‘Is that your natural mother?’ Tara asked.

‘No,’ Philip threw his head back with an amused chuckle, ‘that’s my girlfriend, Diane.’

Tara dropped the photo, stricken. ‘You haven’t mentioned her before!’

‘It never came up.’ Philip shrugged.

‘Is she quite a bit older than you?’

‘Not really, well, a couple of years older, she’s twenty-nine.’

‘How long have you been seeing her?’

‘Oh Christ, years now. We’ve grown up together – she might as well be my sister.’ He rolled his eyes fondly. ‘She’s studying for her PhD too, but we met when
we were first-year undergrads.’

The track came to an end so Philip switched over to some jazz and turned it up loud, sensing that the atmosphere needed to be lifted. Turning to Tara, he grabbed her hand.

‘Come on let’s dance.’

‘What?’

Tara wrinkled her nose and looked at him as though he were mad, but he wouldn’t give up. He reached for her other hand and pulled her up off the sofa, twirling her round and watching her
spin across the room. With her emotions all over the place from countless penetrating therapy sessions, not to mention Philip’s sudden revelation, Tara felt light-headed, almost as though she
were drunk. She was overcome by an excruciating need for a fat, juicy, invigorating line of coke. As if in a daze, she wiggled halfheartedly to and fro in time to the music, utterly shocked by the
horrifying discovery of Diane.

****

Meanwhile, Tara’s father was struggling with his own addiction. He picked up the empty litre bottle of vodka in front of him and threw it against the pristine white wall
of the guest bedroom at his brother Rupert’s house in Fulham. He’d been about to do it today. He’d finally summoned the strength to make his way to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting
as Tina had suggested. He’d agreed to go and see a doctor and get help from a local NHS clinic. He had thought that Tina would be happy about this; happy that he was finally doing something
about it. But when he’d picked up the phone and called Willowborough there had been no answer. He’d stopped communicating effectively with Tina years ago, but he felt suddenly so alone
and never more in need of her. So he tried her mobile. It rang, and rang, and rang, and he was about to hang up when a cold, male voice answered.

‘Orlando speaking,’ the voice barked.

‘Oh. I see, well, is my wife there?’ Hugo asked.

‘She’s bathing. Can I pass on a message, Lord Bridges?’

Hugo was sure he detected more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Tell her, tell her I … Oh never mind.’ And he hung up.

He never did make it to that AA meeting. Instead he had shut himself in his room, and he had drunk a bottle of vodka. Now it was finished and he was incensed. Incensed at the way his life had
turned out. He leaned out of the window and surveyed the tree-lined street. His brother had a happy marriage, a loving wife, children, money. He and Tina had only been able to have one child, and
he had been a terrible father – concentrating all of his energy on drink and keeping Willowborough in the family. He’d probably neglected Tina too. It was no wonder she’d turned
to Orlando.

He could fight his demons and get better. But for what? He was too old to get a decent job and provide his family with the comforts he should have given them decades ago. And anyway he had no
family now, not really. Tina had as good as left him, and Tara-Bara was in real trouble. He’d messed her up so much. She’d probably be better off without him. He picked up his pen, took
out a sheet of thick white paper and started to write a suicide note.

Reaching under the bed for his prescription painkillers, he tipped a large handful on to his palm and threw them into his open mouth, attempting to wash them down with some water. He promptly
gagged and regurgitated the lot. He stood, anguished, and staggered to the kitchen, where he found the pestle and mortar and took it back to his room. Crushing the remaining contents of the jar, he
poured the powdered painkiller into his glass of water and drank it down.

After half an hour Lord Bridges was sweating profusely and struggling to breathe. After one hour, with a final sudden jerk, he collapsed backwards on to the bed. Arms and legs spread, eyelids
closed, mouth contorted in pain. His last thought was of Tara-Bara, eyes sparkling with mischief, dancing round Willowborough with Ferdy the Jack Russell in her arms.

Abena was glum as she hopped off the tube at Notting Hill. The flat seemed so empty without Tara in it, and she resolved once more that she must move out. She missed her friend
desperately and felt so guilty over her affair with Bertrand that even he couldn’t cheer her up. Work was miserable too; today she’d edited a 20,000-word document for Olympia only to be
told she’d been given the wrong version and would have to do it again tomorrow. She left the station lost in thought – and ran smack into Sebastian, who was sauntering past on his way
to a date at The Electric.

‘Oh, hi.’ Abena’s hand flew automatically to her head and she smoothed down the tendrils of hair, all sweaty and dishevelled from the hot, sticky tube journey back from work.
Sebastian, who never travelled anywhere by public transport, was perfectly put together in trainers, his beloved well-worn jeans, a white shirt with a tank top over it, and a jaunty leather bomber
jacket that Abena hadn’t seen before. He was tanned a deep caramel colour. God, he was sexy.

‘Hi,’ he replied, far calmer than she was, although Abena thought she could detect a hint of embarrassment. ‘Great to see you! How’s it going?’

‘Yeah, yeah, good. Just yeah, work’s the same – looking around elsewhere actually. Had a great break, went skiing. You?’

‘Nice one,’ he replied. ‘Yeah, I’m not long back myself actually. We got that place in Punta del Este in the end, so we were all there for New Year’s.’

Abena felt a stab of pain as she remembered how he’d invited her to see the year in in Uruguay with his family and him. Of course they’d broken up well before she’d had a
chance to do that.

‘How’s Tara? he asked. ‘Alex has been asking after her.’

‘Oh really? She’s not been doing too good actually, she’s in rehab.’

‘Shit, things get that bad? Where’s she at?

‘Appletons.’

‘Oh yeah? They should be able to sort her out – easy.’

Abena was embarrassed to feel tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She said, too brightly, ‘Yeah I spoke to her last night and things are looking OK for her. She’ll be pleased to
hear about Alex!’ And then, still sounding far sunnier than she felt, ‘Well, good to see you. I’ve got to dash as I’ve got a dinner to go to in a bit and I need to get home
and change.’

‘Yeah, yeah … you take care then. And let me know if you’re having trouble finding something – jobwise. I can hook you up with one of Dad’s mates if you
like.’

‘Yeah thanks, I think I’ll be OK though. I’ve had quite a few offers – just trying to work out which one I should go for.’

Two lies in a row.