The Nature of Cruelty (7 page)

He reaches forward and tugs on the toe of my sock. “I’m going back to my room to add you again. This time don’t be a bitch and just accept it, will you?”

I give him a considering look, then take great pleasure in replying, “Eh, let me see, that would be a no.”

He grins. “Oh, my, are you enjoying this, little Lana?”

I keep my face expressionless when I glance up at him and continuing typing. “Maybe.”

He grabs my iPod, tearing it from the earphones, and begins scrolling through my music. He makes a face of disgust when he starts calling out the artists’ names: “Ani DiFranco, Kate Bush, PJ Harvey, Regina Spektor, Tori Amos. Good God, Lana, is there a single male to be found in this monstrosity of a music collection?”

“Uh, yeah. Keep looking. But I do like a lot of female artists,” I tell him.

“Well, that much is clear. I bet you have a dream to one day go to the Lilith Fair and everything,” he says, all matter-of-fact. It’s actually scary how well he can read me, especially after all our years apart, because yes, I would like to go to the Lilith Fair someday. “Ah, here we are, you’ve got an album of The Frames, which, quite frankly, is just as bad as all the women.”

“The Frames are amazing. Do you know Sasha and I once met Glen Hansard when he was busking on Grafton Street? He was really lovely.”

Robert scoffs at this. “The man looks like he needs a good bath and a haircut. Oh, and a hairbrush.”

“Not everyone cares as much about their appearance as you do. But anyway, if I were to look at
your
music, what gems would I find?”

He holds up his hand, bending down a finger each time he lists off a name. “Mumford & Sons, Kings of Leon, Kasabian…”

“Ugh, I’ll stop you right there. I get it. You like over-hyped indie. Since this is the case, I won’t take your comments on my tastes to heart.”

He gives me a look of mock outrage. “‘Over-hyped indie’? I think not. Although it’s definitely better than quirky female sexism.”

“I am not sexist.”

“You are. You’re a music sexist. That’s the worst kind.” He looks at me in a pleased way that tells me he’s enjoying the argument.

“Okay, fine. I’m a music sexist. You can go now.” I reach over and grab my iPod out of his hand.

He stares at me with fire in his eyes. “Are you going to accept my friendship?”

Man, he really doesn’t give up. “We’ll see.”

Hopping from the bed, he rubs his palms together. “That’s a yes.”

“‘We’ll see’ is not a yes, Rob,” I call after him.

“Yes, it is,” he calls back, walking down the hall to his room. Confident bastard.

Not two minutes later a brand-new friend request pops up. I wonder if there’s only a certain number of times you can add someone before the site blocks you from trying again. Perhaps I should just block him myself right now. However, if I do that it’ll be like he’s won. He knows the idea of him looking through my page freaks me out, and that’s why he’s pushing so hard for this. Well, maybe I should show him that I’m not bothered by it. Does that mean I’ll have won? Jesus, look at me, I’m playing along with his mind games all over again, even though I said I wouldn’t. He just has this way of luring me in.

I need to not care about him, about whatever little judge-y thoughts he might have while looking through my photos, so I squeeze my eyes shut and hit “accept,” praying that I’m making the right decision. Immediately a chat window pops up.

Robert Phillips: Hey, sexy. What are you wearing?

Lana S: Very funny. You just saw me.

Robert Phillips: Fair enough. What colour underwear do you have on?

Lana S: Goodbye, Rob.

Robert Phillips: Spoilsport!

I log off before he has the chance to write me anything else and go into Sasha’s room. I find her lying in bed in a vest top and pyjama pants with her mobile phone held to her ear. She mouths the name “Liz” at me, and I nod. Sasha and her mum try to talk as often as they can. As far as I know, Liz tries the same thing with Robert, but he makes it as difficult for her as he possibly can.

I think he might have some unaddressed hostility towards his mother for breaking up her marriage to Alan. Which is ridiculous, since Liz caught Alan in bed with his secretary, so the divorce is more his fault than hers. Sometimes it’s best not to try to understand the workings of other peoples’ families. I guess you have to be a part of them to fully comprehend them.

Sasha looks hung-over as she fills Liz in on what’s going with her. Mostly work biz. I sit on the other side of the double bed, and she finishes her conversation with her mum.

“Hey, kid. You want me to plait your hair for you?” she asks past a yawn.

I shrug. “Sure, if you want.”

Sasha loves doing people’s hair, which is odd since she never puts any effort into her own. Though it’s far too short to do much with anyway. She grabs an elastic band from her dresser and then divides my hair into sections before weaving it into a plait.

“Your colour is amazing, Lana. It’s so bright.”

I laugh. “Yeah, unfortunately it’s like a beacon for arseholes. I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten the old ‘does the carpet match the drapes?’ routine.”

She sighs. “Well, that’s men for you.”

“Indeed. Have I ever told you how much your brother irritates me?”

Her hands still. “What’s he done now?”

“Oh, nothing bad. He’s actually being friendly. Sort of. It’s freaking me out.”

“I told him not to hassle you, so perhaps he’s taken my warnings to heart for once.”

“Yeah, perhaps.”

“Though you know what Rob’s like. He’ll always go overboard just to show that he’s not giving in completely. That’s probably why he’s acting extra nice. He’s a perverse little git like that.”

Is that what he’s doing? Being extra friendly to mock the agreement he made with Sasha to be nice?

Sasha finishes up my hair and gives a little tug on the plait once it’s finished. “There, now you’re all beautified.”

“Thanks, Sash. Oh do you mind if I fire up the barbecue out the back? I went food shopping earlier, so I’m going to make us homemade burgers for our Sunday lunch.”

“Sounds good to me. Work away.”

She climbs out of bed and walks over to her closet, rummaging out some shorts and a T-shirt and pulling them on. “Come on, I’ll show you how to use it. Make sure there’s no danger of you setting yourself on fire,” she says with a grin.

I sigh and smile back, following her down to the garden. She instructs me on how to turn it on and makes me practice a few times to ensure I’ve got it right.

A minute later Rob sticks his head out of his bedroom window, calling, “What are you two tossers playing at down there? I’m trying to get an afternoon nap, and all I can hear is your constant nattering.”

“Lana’s going to use the barbecue to make burgers. It’d be a waste not to take advantage of this weather,” says Sasha. “And it’s your own fault you’re tired, since you stayed up half the night making love to that bottle of scotch and slagging off Kara and Gary to poor Alistair, who had the unenviable job of listening to your shit.”

He gives his sister the evil eye and then glances at me. “Burgers are an excellent idea, Lana. I’ll take two.”

“I don’t remember offering you any,” I say, messing around with the knobs. I turn the gas on a little too high, and the flames flare up.

“Jesus,” Sasha exclaims, swiping my hands away from the barbecue. “Maybe you should stick to preparation and I’ll do the cooking, eh?”

I shrug. “Okay, then.”

Robert chuckles down from his window. “I told you you’d gotten
fiery
, Lana.”

Sasha shakes her head and gestures up at Rob with her hands “My brother, ladies and gents, king of the shit jokes.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t goad me, sis,” Robert replies, sucking up what sounds like a big wad of saliva. “I’m in the perfect position to lay a massive spit on your head.”

Sasha grabs a spatula from the side of the barbecue. “Do it, and I’ll come up there and stick this down your throat.”

“Goodness, the violence!” says Robert, feigning shock. “And me only recovering from a terrifying attack.”

“An attack you deserved. If I came home to find a little shit like you shagging my wife, I’d have given you worse than two black eyes.”

“Don’t you mean
husband
, Sash?” Robert counters with a crafty grin.

“Shut up, you know what I mean,” she replies sulkily.

I decide to leave the two of them to their battle of wits and go inside to start on the salad. The kitchen in this house is state-of-the-art, so I’m eager to get to work in it. I’m going to make potato salad with chives and onions, coleslaw, and some mixed leaves with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and chopped walnuts.

A couple of minutes into my preparations, Sasha comes in and gets the meat out of the fridge for the burgers. We stand side by side at the counter, working harmoniously until Robert comes downstairs and begins questioning everything we do. He asks annoying things like, “What are those?” when I take out the chives, and “Why are you chopping up those nuts?” when I start on the walnuts.

He knows all the answers, of course — he’s just trying to get on our nerves.

“Rob, quit acting like an irritating twelve-year-old or we won’t give you anything to eat,” says Sasha nonchalantly as she carries a tray of burgers outside to the grill.

“I’m bored,” he whines, being purposefully aggravating. “Give me something to do.”

“You can go and set the table in the gazebo if you like,” she suggests before disappearing out the back door.

Robert grins, all teeth, and goes to collect some knives and forks. The drawer for them is right beneath where I’m standing, so I quickly scoot out of the way. His grin widens. “I’m not the big bad wolf, little red. You don’t have to back away from me like I’m going to bite you, you know.”

I swallow and mutter, “Better to be safe than sorry.”

He gathers the cutlery, chuckling softly. “And even if I did,” he continues, “I’ve been told that my bites are quite…agreeable.”

“Just go and set the table,” I say, trying not to look directly at him. He has this presence that always seems to surround me, like he’s ten people instead of one.

I watch as he gives me a knowing smile and then saunters outside with the cutlery and plates. Once all the salad is ready, I run upstairs to check my blood sugar and take my insulin. When I come back down, I carry the salad bowls over to the fancy wooden gazebo where Robert is sitting, tapping away on his phone.

Sasha carries over a tray with the burgers, and we all dig in. I can only manage one, but the twins both eat two each. We put the leftovers in the fridge, and then Sasha and I grab a big blanket to lie on the grass and soak up a few rays, our bellies full to the brim.

Slipping off my flats, I lie down on the soft blanket, stretch out my legs, and close my eyes. Sasha does the same while slipping on a pair of sunglasses. I’ve got typically pale Irish skin, so, unlike the twins, I burn rather than tan. It’s a good thing I put on my factor 50 this morning before I went to the shops.

Robert’s still sitting in the gazebo, having what appears to be a heated business discussion over the phone. That’s what I’d hate about being in his line of work — you have to always be “on,” as they say. There’s no downtime, not really. Sasha’s job is the same; she could be called in to work at any time of the day. Her phone is frequently abuzz with people calling her about possible stories.

I hear Robert finish up with his phone call and I haven’t even opened my eyes, yet I can sense him getting closer. Then I hear him sit down on the other end of the blanket by our feet. I squint one eye open to find him lying down and soaking up the sun just like we are.

“Trouble with a client?” Sasha asks him.

He keeps his eyes shut as he answers her, “Nothing too big. It’s all sorted now. I’m sick of that cunt Jimmy calling me on a Sunday. I told him I don’t work on weekends, but he always seems to have some emergency that needs sorting. The man is no better than a simpleton.”

I’m guessing Jimmy is another employee at Alan’s agency. I don’t envy him having to work alongside Robert, as he’s not exactly the patient sort.

Sasha laughs and leans up on her elbows to look down at Robert. “If that’s the case, then you can tell Jimmy I said he’s awesome. I admire anyone who can rub you up the wrong way like that.”

Robert taps me on the ankle. “See how she bullies me. First Kara, and now my own sister. Why do women take such enjoyment in my misery?” His tone is playful, one end of his mouth tilted up.

I don’t say anything, too caught up in how he touches me so familiarly.

“Well, I can’t speak for Kara,” says Sash. “But I can tell you that you deserve all the grief Jimmy gives you, since you go out of your way to be trouble for everyone else.”

Robert smiles happily, as though he takes what Sasha said as a compliment. “Well, now, that’s just not true.”

Sasha snorts in disagreement and lies back down on the blanket.

“Speaking of Jimmy,” Robert goes on, “do you remember meeting him at Dad’s Christmas party last year?”

“Was he the bald one or the fat one?”

“Bald as a plum.”

“Yeah, I remember. He was the spitting image of Ross Kemp.”

Robert chuckles. “In that case, have you ever found Ross Kemp attractive?”

“God, no,” Sasha answers with a shudder.

“I thought not. That doesn’t bode well for poor Jimmy. When I mentioned to him I was staying with my sister for a couple of days, the man almost fell out of his chair with excitement.”

Sasha gives Robert a look and sighs. “Brother, please get to the point.”

“How do you know he almost fell out of his chair if he was on the phone?” I ask.

Robert glances at me in amusement. “I have impeccable hearing. Anyway, poor bald as a plum Jimmy managed to contain his erection long enough to ask me if you were free next weekend and if he could perchance have your number.”

“You can tell him I’ll be very busy and that no, he cannot perchance have my number. And please, no more talk of erections. I just ate.”