chapter thirty-eight
The day of the barbeque
'You okay?' said Oliver quietly, his hand on Erika's arm.
Erika felt a surge of irritability. 'Yes. Why? Do I not look okay?'
Was she squinting? It wasn't her fault. The hazy afternoon light was making everything blur. The lack of visibility was affecting her balance too. She kept finding herself tipping forward or backward and having to anchor herself by grabbing the side of the table.
The music in the cabana was up quite loud now, making her head thump. Tiffany was playing 'November Rain', which was significant in some way, something to do with her sordid past; Erika didn't want to know.
'You just seem like you're drinking more than usual,' said Oliver, and for a moment Erika felt outraged, because she was always, always, the most sober person at any party. Often she didn't bother to drink at all - she didn't like the taste of it that much - although the wine tonight seemed very good, very smooth and delicious, probably prohibitively expensive.
'Well, I'm not!' she said.
'Sorry,' said Oliver.
Her outrage melted away, because it wasn't Oliver's fault that his parents were alcoholics.
'I'm fine,' she said, and she inclined her body towards him with the vague idea that she might hug him, even though they were both sitting in separate chairs. She wanted to hug him for his childhood, for the time when he was seven and he couldn't wake up his drunk parents to get out of bed to drive him to school, and he had a maths test that morning, and he sat on the end of their bed and cried with frustration, and now his parents told it as a hilarious story: The time Oliver cried because he missed a maths test. Our little accountant in the making! And each time they told it Oliver obligingly chuckled, except with the saddest eyes you'd ever seen. But as she leaned towards him, Oliver held out his hands as if to catch her from falling, an appalled expression on his face, as if she were about to make a spectacle of herself, and Erika sat back with a little 'tch' sound. She couldn't give her husband a hug but it was fine for Tiffany, at a family barbeque, to casually mention that she used to be a pole dancer, a stripper, no less.
Clementine and Sam were giddy over it. Clementine's face was luminous right now. She'd always been susceptible to excitement. As a teenager Clementine used to get herself worked up when they went to parties together. Certain types of music sent her mad with happiness, as did certain types of cocktails - you could never tell whether the music or the alcohol was making her drunker. More than once Erika, always the designated driver, had had to peel her off some guy, and sometimes those guys had got aggressive, and the next morning Clementine would thank her, and say thank God I didn't sleep with him, and Erika would feel a warm glow of satisfaction, like a best friend in a movie, but of course they weren't like best friends in a movie, were they? What were the precise words she'd overheard? It's like she always wants another piece of me.
The shame rose like bile, and Erika put down her empty wineglass too hard on the table. Tiffany, predictably, picked up the wine bottle to refill it. She must have done waitressing as well as stripping. Maybe she'd been one of those topless waitresses. Why not? Marvellous. How interesting. What fun!
'That's your phone ringing, Vid,' said Tiffany as she poured the wine.
Vid picked up his phone and his face turned sour when he saw the name. 'It is our friend Harry,' he said. 'From next door. It will be the music, you know, offending him. It offends him when anyone is happy.'
'You'd better answer,' said Tiffany.
'He kicked my dog today!' said Vid. 'I don't have to answer him. He's always been on the nasty side, but harming an innocent animal! That was my final straw, you know.'
'Harry didn't really kick the dog, did he?' said Oliver.
'We only suspect it,' said Tiffany. 'No proof.' She picked up the phone. 'Hello, Harry,' she said. 'Are we too loud?'
'Not loud at all,' grumbled Vid. 'It's day time.'
&
nbsp; 'Yes,' said Tiffany into the phone. 'No, that's fine. We'll turn it down. Sorry to disturb you.'
She gave Vid his phone back and turned down the volume on the music.
'Hmmph,' said Vid. 'You should have turned it up.'
'We probably had it a bit too loud,' said Tiffany. 'He's an old man. We have to be respectful.'
'He's not respectful to us,' grumbled Vid. He turned to Clementine. It was obvious he was developing quite the crush on her. 'So, listen, tell me, do you play your cello at weddings? Because my eldest daughter is getting married this spring, you know.'
'I play in a string quartet,' said Clementine. 'We're called Passing Notes. You could book us if you like. Will the food be good?'
'Will the food be good,' repeated Vid with extravagant emphasis. 'Of course the food will be good, the food will be magnificent!'
'That's how Clementine and I met,' said Sam. 'She was playing at my friend's wedding.'
'Ah! Of course!' said Vid, as if he'd been there. 'And you thought: Who is that beautiful cellist!'