'Sam,' said Clementine.
Tiffany watched Sam and Clementine look at each other, their faces flushed, their pupils dilated. It would be a kindness. A public service. She could see exactly where their sex life was at. They were tired parents of young kids. They thought it was all over and it wasn't, they didn't need an affair or a mid-life crisis, it was all still in them, they were still attracted to each other, they just needed a little electric shock to the system, a little stimulus, maybe some sex toys, some good-quality soft porn. She could be their good-quality soft porn.
Tiffany caught Vid's eye. He raised an eyebrow. He was loving this, of course he was. He moved his chin just subtly. It meant: Go on. Blow their nice little suburban minds.
Sam stood behind Clementine and pushed her shoulders so she sat. His eyes locked onto Tiffany's. He was her favourite sort of customer. Appreciative, friendly, he wasn't taking it too seriously but he was taking it seriously enough. He'd tip generously and gratefully.
He really wanted to see his wife get a lap dance. Of course he did. The man was only human. Tiffany looked at Clementine, who was so weak with laughter (and desire, Tiffany knew it, even if Clementine didn't) she could barely sit up straight in her chair.
Tiffany wasn't going to do it, not properly, not in the backyard with kids around, but as a joke, for the fun of it, she moved, slowly, in time to the freaking concerto (oh yes, you can do a lap dance to a cello concerto, no problem at all), almost in parody of herself, except not quite, because she still had her professional pride, and she'd been one of the best in the business; it was never just about the money, it was about making a connection, a human connection, and playing it with just the right amount of theatricality, reality, poetry.
Vid wolf-whistled.
Clementine smacked her hand over her eyes and peeked between her fingers.
There was a tremendous crash of crockery and an extraordinary scream that tore straight through the night: 'Clementine!'
chapter forty-five
'Hope you feel better soon,' said the police officer as Oliver stood at the front door to wave her and her partner off.
'Thank you,' said Oliver with maybe excessive gratitude, because the police officer flicked him a look as if she'd missed something. It was just that he was genuinely touched by her taking the time to comment upon his health. Did his gratitude seem suspicious? Guilty? He'd never been one of those people who felt guilty when they saw a police car drive by. His conscience was generally clear. Most people drove ten kilometres over the speed limit while he made a practice of driving five kilometres under.
The police had been there following up on Harry's death. They were having trouble tracking down his next of kin. Oliver wished he could be more helpful. He admitted that his conversations with Harry had never crossed over into the personal. They'd chatted about the weather and the garden and that abandoned car in the street. He'd felt, rightly or wrongly, that Harry wouldn't have appreciated personal questions.
The police wanted to confirm again when he had last seen Harry and he was able to give them an exact date: the day before the barbeque. He said that Harry had seemed in good health. He didn't mention anything about Harry complaining about Vid's dog. It didn't seem relevant. He didn't want to paint Harry in a bad light.
'You seem very sure about that date,' said the nice policewoman.
'Well, yes,' said Oliver. 'It's because the day after that there was ... an incident. Next door.'
She raised her eyebrows and he gave her the details, briefly, because to his surprise he found he got strangely breathless as he talked about it. The policewoman made no comment. Perhaps she already knew. There was a police report on file, after all.
Of course, the police would see no connection, no cross-reference between Harry's death and the barbeque, but as Oliver closed the door and went back into the kitchen to boil the jug to make himself a hot lemon and honey drink, he found himself thinking of those two minutes.
He estimated it had been about two minutes. Two minutes of self-pity. Two minutes that might have changed everything, because if he'd been out there, he would have seen what was going on. He reckoned there was a good chance he would have seen.
Come on now. That was a stretch. Melodramatic. Putting himself centre stage. 'You're not responsible for the whole world, Oliver,' his mother had once said to him, in a moment of sobriety or drunkenness, it had always been hard to tell the difference.
Oliver switched on the electric kettle.
But it was not a stretch because what had happened at the barbeque had crashed like a meteorite through their lives, and if he hadn't been so distracted, if life had continued in its normal, predictable way, surely he would have noticed much sooner that Harry hadn't been around, and he might have banged on his door weeks earlier.
Harry would probably still be dead, but he wouldn't have been dead for quite so unforgivably, tragically long.
Or he might even have saved him.
The kettle bubbled and hissed and Oliver remembered how he'd stood in that luxurious little bathroom at the back of the cabana, letting the hot water run and run pointlessly over his hands while he stared at his own sad stupid face.
chapter forty-six
The day of the barbeque
Oliver stood in the cabana bathroom washing his hands. It was a fancy, soft-lit, scented bathroom. The light fitting was an imitation chandelier, all glittery glimmer. If his mother were here at this barbeque and at the nasty stage of her inexorable progress towards inebriation she would whisper, 'So tacky!' loudly in Oliver's ear, loud enough that he'd be terrified someone would overhear.
He let the water run needlessly over his hands. He was delaying the moment when he'd have to go back outside again. Frankly, he'd had enough. He liked everyone here well enough, it was just that socialising was a mental and physical effort that left him exhausted and drained, and it wasn't a good sort of tiredness, like when the lactic acid built up in his muscles after a solid work-out.
He heard laughing outside. Vid's big booming laugh. Oliver pasted a smile on his face in preparation, ready to share the joke. Ha ha. Good one. Whatever it was. He probably wouldn't really find it funny.