The Ward (31 page)

Farrell parks behind a silver Jaguar and pats my knee. ‘Deep breath, Lisa. You can do this. You know you can.’

‘But what if…?’

‘Come on. Let’s get it over with. Don’t worry. Glenn will be half pissed by now anyway.’

The museum-size front door slams opens and Glenn appears on the front step, clutching a half-f glass of whisky. He’s wearing a loose white shirt, the open neck showing off several gold
chains, and he has a thatch of grey chest hair.

‘Kitty-Kat!’ he calls.

Farrell steadies me as I totter up the steps on the too-high heels. Ignoring him completely, Glenn pulls me forward and wraps his arms around me. He stinks of whisky. I don’t like the way
he squeezes my side. It’s too intimate and it’s all I can do not to squirm out of his grasp.

‘How’s my best girl?’ he breathes into my ear.

Meaty arm still wrapped around my waist, he leads me inside. Oh my God. It’s an act of will to keep my mouth from dropping open. We’re in a double-volume hallway, the floor a
gleaming expanse of white marble shot through with veins of shocking pink, the walls painted to look like crumbling plaster. A chandelier the size of a small car hangs from the ceiling, and a
statue of Venus peeks from behind a plant pot spewing silk orchids. An enormous oil painting of a white stag gazing over fields of bright-green countryside dominates one entire wall.

It’s beautiful.

Glenn finally loosens his grip around my waist and steps back to assess me. ‘You’re looking better, Kitty-Kat. Knew you’d bounce back. It’s in the genes, my
girl.’

‘Thanks,’ I whisper. I really
really
don’t want to say the word ‘Dad’. My father may not win any prizes for Dad of the Year, but it still feels like a
betrayal.

Glenn narrows his piggy eyes. ‘Why you still talking like that? You still sick?’

Farrell nods. ‘I told you she wasn’t a hundred per cent, Glenn. She’s still got a touch of laryngitis.’

‘You taken her to a doctor?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, what sort of fucking quack is he?’ He points a ringed finger in Farrell’s face and his heavy gold bracelet jangles. ‘You’d better take her to June’s
doctor, he’ll sort it out. I pay the fucker enough. June!’ he roars.

There’s the skittering of heels on tiles, and June bustles through, looking flushed and exhausted. She’s wearing an apron over a sensible dress. ‘Oh, hello, Katya. Hello,
Josh.’

I make a move to approach her, but she keeps her distance.

‘What’s the name of your doctor?’ Glenn says to her.

Before June can answer, a small black shape suddenly hurtles out of a doorway and rushes towards me, barking hysterically. I take a step back, almost twisting my ankle in the high heels.

‘Selebi!’ Glenn yells, grabbing the dog’s collar and yanking it back so hard that it yelps. ‘What the fuck’s got into you?’

The dog wriggles and wheezes, its flat button eyes fixed on me.

‘Happy birthday, June,’ Farrell says, doing his best to divert attention from the dog.

‘Yes. Happy birthday,’ I echo.

‘Thank you—’

‘Lock your fucking dog up, June, for Christ sake,’ Glenn snaps.

June immediately starts pulling the dog away. It whines and scrapes its claws over the marble, leaving a dribble of pee as it goes.

‘Let’s get you a drink, my girl,’ Glenn says, draping an arm over my shoulder.

The lounge is even more opulent than the hallway. It’s packed with huge puffy white leather couches, a glass-and-gold coffee table, and countless ivory statues, mostly of naked nymphs
holding jugs of water aloft.

‘What do you want, Kitty-Kat?’ Glenn says. ‘Some bubbly for my girl?’

I nod. I’ll have to be careful not to drink too much. I’m not used to alcohol and I need to keep myself in check. Farrell catches my eye and smiles at me. He’s looking way more
relaxed. I’m still worried about June’s frosty reception but for all I know she’s always like that. The knot in my stomach loosens slightly. Maybe it will be okay after all.

Careful not to overbalance on the heels, I approach the mantelpiece. It’s covered with framed photographs of Katya, ranging in age from a fresh-faced and naturally beautiful teen to a
series of recent bikini pics. There’s a single photograph of a small dark woman with Glenn’s piggy eyes, wearing a mortar board and triumphantly holding a degree certificate, who I
assume must be the sister, Marina. Half hidden behind a blown-up shot of Katya posing on a ski slope, there’s a glossy seventies wedding photograph. A younger, thinner Glenn, wearing
sideburns and a purple tux, grins into the shot, his arm wrapped around a slender dark-haired woman. I barely recognise June. She was beautiful once, and happy.

‘Josh. Help yourself to whisky,’ Glenn says tersely, popping a champagne cork.

Glenn hands me a glass of champagne and I smile the Katya smile I’ve been practising. He clinks his glass against mine. ‘Here’s to you, Kitty-Kat,’ he says.

June enters the lounge, wiping her hands on her apron.

‘Can I get you a drink, June?’ Farrell says.

‘She’s fine,’ Glenn says, draining his own glass and refilling it.

The Katya smile still glued to my face, I hand her the parcel. ‘I hope you like it.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’

‘Well, open it, Juney,’ Glenn says.

She unwraps it carefully, folding the paper as if she’s planning to use it again. She runs the scarf through her fingers and glances at me in confusion.

‘I thought it would suit your colouring,’ I whisper. Dammit. Why hasn’t she said anything? Did I make a mistake? What if she never wears scarves?

Then she finally fixes a smile onto her face. ‘How thoughtful. It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

‘And how’s Gran-Gran?’ Farrell asks June.

‘See for yourself,’ Glenn grumbles, waving his whisky glass at the corner of the room. I’ve been so preoccupied I haven’t noticed the elderly woman hidden behind a white
leather recliner. June scuttles over to her and wheels her towards us. She’s curled in her wheelchair, her hands clawed in her lap, her head drooping to the side like a dying flower. Farrell
nods meaningfully at me, and I step towards her.

‘Look who’s here, Mother,’ June says, adjusting the blanket and smoothing the sparse strands of the old woman’s hair.

A chime rings out.

‘That’ll be Marina. Get the door, Josh,’ Glenn says. Farrell hesitates, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of leaving me alone. ‘Go on, man,’ Glenn snaps.

Farrell shoots me a supportive glance, then hurries out.

‘Hello… Gran-Gran,’ I whisper, bending down to kiss a papery cheek. She smells of lavender and baby powder. She doesn’t react and I’m about to step back when she
suddenly grips my wrist. She looks up at me, watery eyes fixed on my face. ‘Who are you?’ she croaks.

Glenn sighs loudly. ‘It’s Katya, Gran-Gran,’ he says. ‘Your granddaughter.’

‘I’m not your gran, you cunt,’ she says in a clear, lucid voice, and then the life seems to blink out of her eyes again.

June winces, but Glenn merely snorts and takes another slug of whisky. ‘Dementia’s getting worse,’ he says. ‘If that happens to me, shoot me in the fucking head.’
He roars with laughter.

‘Can we have that in writing?’ a gruff woman’s voice says behind me.

I turn around. I recognise the dumpy, short-haired woman immediately from the photograph on the mantelpiece. She’s pregnant – probably six or seven months – and her belly
protrudes in a plain white blouse from under her navy suit jacket. She’s followed by a small, round man who reminds me of a mole. He’s dressed in a dark suit, his short black hair is
slicked to his scalp and he peers myopically through rimless glasses.

Marina kisses Glenn on the cheek – I notice he doesn’t squeeze her waist – does the same to June and with a wince of distaste bends forward to kiss the air next to my cheeks. I
can’t see any trace of Katya in her features whatsoever. The husband scuttles forward. With a lurch I realise I’ve forgotten his name. Calvin? Charles? Then I have it. Clive. Thank God.

‘Lovely to see you, Kat,’ he says to my chest. He moistens his lips with a small pink tongue.

‘That from the accident?’ Marina says, indicating the dressing on my cheek.

‘Yes,’ Farrell says. ‘It’s healing nicely.’

‘You done something to your hair, Kat?’ Marina says.

‘Why do you say that?’ Farrell says.

Marina shrugs. ‘There’s something different about her.’

If you only knew!
Dr Meka pipes in.

‘Well?’ Marina says to me.

‘Not really…’

‘Why are you whispering?’

‘Laryngitis,’ Farrell says. ‘She’s had it since the accident.’

‘Oh well, it’s not as if they expect you to talk in your line of work, is it?’ She gestures impatiently to her husband, whose eyes haven’t left my chest. ‘Clive,
give Mom the present.’

He hands a wrapped box-shape to June. I notice that she’s dropped the scarf onto the coffee table.

‘It’s an external hard drive,’ Marina says. ‘So you can back up your computer.’

‘Oh. What a thoughtful present,’ June says.

‘How long before we bloody eat?’ Glenn says.

‘You can come through to the dining room now. Marina, will you help me in the kitchen?’

Marina sighs. ‘Where’s Primrose?’

‘I gave her the day off. Family funeral.’

‘Fucking darkies. Everyone in the township’s their fucking mother or brother.’ Glenn turns to me and grins as if he expects me to agree. I look down and blush.

I make a move to follow June and Marina, but Farrell grips my arm and shakes his head. There’s a loud insistent beeping sound. Farrell fumbles in his pocket and pulls out his phone.

Glenn glares at him. ‘Turn that bloody thing off.’

Farrell stares at it in confusion. ‘I thought I had turned it off.’

June hesitates at the door; for a second our eyes lock. That same look of confusion flashes over her face. ‘Clive?’ she says, her eyes still on me. ‘Would you mind wheeling
Gran-Gran into the dining room?’

Farrell pockets his phone and pats my bum. ‘You’re doing great,’ he murmurs in my ear.

Like the rest of the house, the dining room is stunning. The table could easily seat twenty and is laid with crystal glasses, piled with wine bottles and strewn with more silk-flower
arrangements. There’s a hotel-style buffet set out on an enormous sideboard; serving platters are laden with vegetables, a slab of beef Wellington and the largest pork roast I’ve ever
seen.

Glenn pours me a glass of red wine, fills his own glass and passes the bottle to Farrell. ‘Make yourself useful, Josh.’

Farrell’s phone trills again.

‘I told you to turn that bloody thing off,’ Glenn snaps. ‘Where are your fucking manners?’

Farrell kills the call, but it rings again immediately. I don’t like the way he’s staring at the screen. ‘I’ll just be a second,’ he says, leaving the room.

‘Go on, Kat. You go first,’ Glenn says, earning me a spiteful glance from Marina.

I pick up my plate and head to the buffet. I don’t know where to start, and I don’t know how I’ll even manage to swallow a single bite. I take a couple of potatoes, a slice of
pork and a portion of beef Wellington and wobble back to the table.

Everyone is staring at me.

‘When did you start eating meat again?’ Marina snipes.

Oh God. Oh shit. ‘Um…’

Farrell returns just in time. He stares at my plate. The blood runs out of the pastry casing and pools around the potatoes. ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he says. ‘Low blood
pressure. Kay has to up her iron intake.’

‘But I thought you were going to do that PETA shoot?’ Marina says. She’s like a dog with a bone. ‘They’re not going to like that, are they?’

‘Katya’s health must come before any of that animal-rights shit,’ Glenn says.

I sit down, hoping to God that I don’t look as flustered as I feel.

‘June! Get my girl here some of that crackling,’ Glenn slurs.

‘No, it’s fine,’ I say.

‘You used to love crackling when you were a girl,’ Glenn says.

I do my best to smile at him. The smell of the beef is starting to make me feel sick again. I take a sip of wine, wipe my sodden palms on the dress.

‘Who was that on the phone, Josh?’ Glenn says.

Farrell shrugs. ‘Persistent editor. Needs some mock-ups for next week’s layout.’

Glenn grunts, instantly disinterested. ‘June? I’ll have some of the beef and make sure you pile on the potatoes.’

June hands him a plate and he takes it from her without a word of thanks. No one seems to think that it’s strange that, although it’s her birthday, she’s the one who’s
waiting on him.

‘Where’s the gravy? You know I like gravy.’

‘Sorry.’

She heads back to the sideboard. Glenn glances at me and rolls his eyes. I don’t know how to react to this. It’s clearly a father–daughter moment. I drop my gaze and start
cutting into the beef.

‘Mom, why didn’t you make any cauliflower cheese?’ Marina grumbles.

Clive tops up his wine glass and leers at me. I’m trying to avoid looking at him.

‘So tell us what happened, Kat,’ Marina says. ‘The accident.’

‘She’d rather not,’ Farrell says.

‘Can’t she speak for herself anymore?’

‘I can’t really remember much, to be honest,’ I mumble, almost forgetting to whisper.

‘We don’t want to go over that again,’ Glenn says. ‘Clive. How are my stocks doing?’

Clive almost chokes on a mouthful of food in his eagerness to answer. ‘Great. Great, Glenn.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

Talking with his mouth full, Glenn launches into a monologue about some poor senior manager he’s fired for what sounds to me like absolutely no reason. June hasn’t sat down to eat
yet; she’s now cutting Gran-Gran’s food into tiny pieces. The old lady picks up her fork and stares at it. Then she chucks it onto the floor. I bend down to pick it up.

‘Can I help?’ I whisper to June.

She looks at me as if I’ve sprouted another head.

‘Your mother’s fine,’ Glenn slurs. ‘She knows how to deal with that senile old relic.’

‘Dad,’ Marina says. ‘Don’t say that about Gran-Gran.’

‘Why not? That’s what she is. Not as if she can understand, is it?’