If This Is Home Read online

  ‘You’re a miracle worker,’ her father says to the photographer. ‘Never known anyone as camera-shy as Beth.’

  ‘She’d do well to listen better if she wants to do this again.’

  Bethany laughs, as does her father. ‘There’s no danger of that,’ he says.

  ‘That’s what they all say,’ the photographer says. ‘Then they get the taste for it. Anyway, we’re done. If there’s any that you like, you can buy them from the office in town.’ She packs her equipment away, muttering to herself. Usually they take the lot, make an album out of it. Not this one, though. Got tickets on herself, the photographer thinks, and turns her back on Beth and her father. She once came third in a nature photography competition; a frog leaping from the waters by the river, caught fortuitously on her husband’s Leica. It is the only one of her photographs on display at home, and over the years she has grown to resent it.

  They watch her walk away, the bag smacking her tiny behind.

  ‘How was Bitchy Beryl?’ he says.

  ‘She told me I was too tall for a carnival queen. And a bit on the scrawny side.’

  Her father cocked his head. ‘You got off lightly. Last year she called that poor girl a scrubber.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Her father didn’t think so. Or her brother. They had to take her into the pavilion for her own safety.’

  ‘That true?’ she says.

  ‘Well, that’s what I heard, at least. Time for a cuppa before the off?’ He offers his arm and she takes it, feeling his misplaced pride as they walk. Her father waves at Hannah, who waves back and takes off her headphones.

  ‘Does she go anywhere without those things on her ears?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘She’ll be stone deaf by the time she’s thirty, you mark my words,’ he says.

  ‘When did you get so old that you started to say stuff like that, Dad?’

  He chuckles and pulls her closer to him. ‘I don’t know. I think it must be a genetic thing. You know, your hair starts falling out, you can’t run about like you used to and suddenly you’re talking like your dad. It’s natural. Nothing I can do about it, love. Best just ignore it.’

  ‘What was that?’ she says and elbows him gently in the ribs.

  ‘You’re not funny, you know,’ he says.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘It’s genetic.’

  *

  Inside, they drink tea as women flit around them, organizing trays of sandwiches, pies and slices of cake. Hannah is telling Bethany’s father about the course she’s going to be taking at Leeds University. They seem to have become closer since Hannah’s work experience at the factory. It makes Bethany a little uncomfortable, but she doesn’t pursue the thought. Hannah explains about the modules and her plans for a business empire that will rival Mike’s own. He laughs politely and says that he doesn’t doubt it for a moment. Bethany just nods, looking out across the room, the activity and her stillness within it.

  Bethany had instigated the first time with Mark. She had it all planned; her father out for the evening, a bottle of wine bought from the off-licence that turned a blind eye, a vegetarian moussaka she’d made. Bethany and Mark had been going out for less than a month and she was in the first queasy blushes of love. He sat at the kitchen table drinking the thin red wine and talking about something or other as she made a salad and tapped her foot to the mix-tape he’d made for her. At that moment, on that evening, she liked the fact that he had slept with someone before, felt sure that he would quell any nerves she might have. In the end he had been the unsure one, the more hesitant. In her bedroom where they would later make love so many times, that first time was gentle and lasted longer than she expected.

  They smoked cigarettes and listened to the Jesus & Mary Chain, their nakedness still a novelty. At half-past ten he dressed and they kissed for a long time before he left. When her father came home she felt sure that he would be able to sense it on her, her changed state. It’s the same feeling she has now, a transparency through which she feels everyone can see the deception she is planning.

  ‘It’s time, Bethany,’ the head of the carnival committee says, his hand needlessly on her shoulders. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  NINE

  Over an entrée of guinea fowl and braised fennel, which none of the men guessed correctly, the conversation became more serious. There was no argument, just a consensus on fiscal strategy and a slight disagreement on the merits of trickle-down economics. I offered little, sitting still, drinking wine, pointlessly closing my eyes. The darkness was choking. I saw Bethany naked; her breasts and buttocks, the slenderness of her thighs; and I felt her hand brush against my leg, the swish as she walked, the scrape of her heels on the floor.

  After the men had finished, Miguel led us back through the restaurant, the space lightening as we walked the slightly inclining corridor. They were in high spirits, drunk now and loudly speculating on what was to happen next. We walked into the casino, its smell of cigars, the atmosphere heavy with the clipping of roulette tables and the shuffle of cards. A jazz band was playing in the corner, and we looked down on them from the top of the staircase. Women were serving the tables dressed as Playboy bunnies; there were cigar girls wandering the floors with trays of Cubans. Everything glittered, sparkled, seemed deeper coloured, more lush even than usual. I told the men we had a gaming table reserved and they followed me down the steps, perhaps relieved that the darkness had cleared.

  ‘I have to confess to being quite impressed, Mr Jones,’ Brooks said as we walked through the casino. ‘The attention to detail is really something.’ He smiled. ‘It’s like the Clermont, but a hundred times the size.’

  ‘I’m glad you approve. We’re rather proud of it ourselves.’

  ‘Isn’t that … ?’ Boulder said, pointing towards a group of men playing backgammon.

  ‘Please, sir, don’t point,’ I said and he held his hand down, momentarily shamed. ‘If you think someone resembles someone you might be familiar with,’ I said, ‘the chances are that they are who you think they are. Which is why they come here: to escape the attention.’

  ‘I’d love to party with him. I’ve always loved his stuff. And his style. You think—’

  ‘I will see what can be arranged,’ I said. ‘But some things are beyond even my control.’

  Boulder tried not to look too disappointed and shot a last furtive glance at the actor. He was one of the better of the lookalikes we employed, and enjoyed his role too much for O’Neil’s liking. But it was undeniable that his presence leant a certain kind of glamour to the otherwise unprepossessing appearances of the residents and their guests. I hurried us along to our table, the men scouring the room for more famous faces.

  *

  Boulder made his excuses and headed for the adjacent roulette table, settling himself down next to a woman in an emerald ballgown with a flower in her hair. The croupier handed over his designated allotment of chips and Boulder heaped $3,000 on black. The rest of us sat at the card table, feeling the baize under our hands, waiting for poker.

  I had become adept at maintaining a solid losing streak at cards. I was not playing to win, but neither was I playing to lose – an even riskier strategy. Instead I’d developed a series of tells and strategies that players of mid-level skill could soon decode. I would win the odd hand, but didn’t go for grand gestures or pull random all-ins.

  O’Neil had introduced me to poker not long after we’d moved in together. We played every Thursday with some of his old friends, six of us drinking beer and talking late into the night. It was an odd kind of education, an introduction to male American culture.

  Before Joe, before my invention of him, I didn’t really have male friends. There were boys that I hung around with but I was never part of a group, always somewhat on the fringes. At home, Dad’s sadness excluded me. He was a quiet man, thoughtful, yet unsharing. He was easy not to love; a wary kind of thinness marked every interaction. When later, as Joe, I came to imagine my p
arents dead, it was the simplest part of the deception.

  Brooks was, unsurprisingly, a canny and sharp player; neither a table bully nor a silent brooder. Miller kept us entertained with his ribald jokes and I settled into the routine demands of raising, calling and folding. The cards were falling in all the right places, but for the most part I just missed out on the pot. I drank a gin and tonic and watched the others count out their chips, smoothing them across the brushed green surface, the dealer flipping cards with rhythmic, soothing regularity from the shoe.

  ‘I knew it was going to be seventeen,’ we heard Boulder say from across the table. ‘I could see it, see the little white ball hop into the seventeen and I just put it all on seventeen, and it came up. Fuck me, it came up.’

  Brooks looked up from his cards and inclined his head towards me. I shook my head. It was not fixed. Whatever he thought, it wasn’t. We took a break from the game and congratulated Boulder on his good fortune. He asked for champagne and it arrived with a wink and solid, satisfying pop. He tipped the waitress a thousand dollars, placing the chip in the cup of her brassiere. She bit her lip and curtsied. Boulder watched her bunny tail disappear into the bustle of the casino. He drained his champagne and another bunny girl refilled it. It was not fixed. He really had caught a lucky break.

  The poker game resolved itself quickly after Boulder’s interjection. Brooks won comfortably after fending off a late charge by one of our companions. He seemed satisfied by the outcome, but was modest in victory. He threw a tip to the dealer and stood.

  ‘I think we need some proper excitement now, Mr Jones. Something to liven things up a little.’

  I nodded and, once the men were gathered, escorted them towards the lifts. Boulder rubbed his hands as we walked.

  *

  In the basement, we were met by two men in top hats, their faces fleshy and moustachioed. Without speaking they parted heavy purple drapes exposing a thickly scented room, the flooring generously carpeted, the walls dressed in sumptuous velvets, the sound system playing old French music hall. We stepped through and were greeted by Rosalita, her tall cheeks rouged, her hair flowing, her breasts spilling out from her corsetry.

  ‘Oh, gentlemen, you have arrived!’ she said. ‘Mr Jones, it is good to see you again!’ She bowed to us all. ‘Well now, sirs, why don’t you make yourselves comfortable? There are some girls who are anxious to meet with you all.’ She winked theatrically and as she turned women began to swarm in from the side entrances. Rosalita showed us to the centre table and the girls stroked our hair, smiled, sat on our laps. Boulder tried to touch one of the girls’ breasts and she slapped him with mock annoyance.

  Just off to our right was a small dais, a not-quite stage, and in turn, one by one, the women disappeared behind its curtains, until we were just men again. Boulder and Miller looked dismayed, Hooper and Brooks confused. A spotlight flickered and then held. There was a pole at the centre of the dais and Rosalita stood in front of it.

  ‘Welcome to my house, gentlemen. Welcome. We have a little show for you now, something to get you in the mood. We do so hope you enjoy it.’

  I had seen the show many times, and applauded as always, but with a sense of relief with every changeover of girl. I had a strong sense that I would blank out again. The apprehension grew as the floorshow continued. When it was over, I looked at the men in both relief and disappointment.

  ‘And now, sirs,’ Rosalita said, taking the dais once again. ‘To the main event.’ The music changed to a kind of bolero.

  ‘In my humble house,’ she continued softly, ‘we have just one simple rule, and that is that everyone’s pleasure should be serviced. Which is why we do things oh-so-slightly differently here. You will not be allowed to select the girl of your choosing tonight. No. Rather they will have free rein to make their own decisions. One by one they will come out, and one by one they will choose which one of you gentlemen they wish to give themselves to. Which one they wish to bestow all of their worldly charms on.’

  Boulder whooped; everyone else was silent. Rosa shot me a little smile. ‘But as madam of this house, I get first refusal. So, gentlemen, I wonder which one of you will be lucky enough to spend some time with me?’

  She rustled her skirts as she walked over to our table. With a gloved hand she stroked Miller’s face, then kissed Boulder lightly on the lips and pressed her bosom into a slightly surprised Brooks. She put her hand on the crotch of Hooper and widened her eyes, then sat on my lap.

  ‘Sorry, gentlemen, but I think this evening is your lucky night, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s—’

  ‘You reject me every time you come here, Mr Jones. Gentlemen, do you think that’s fair?’

  They roared no. No!

  I shrugged and she laughed.

  ‘Well, that’s settled, then. Mr Jones, you’re in for one wild night!’

  She helped me up and I waved goodbye to the men.

  ‘See you on the other side,’ I said. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

  We shut the door behind us and it was cool and silent in the corridor.

  The routine was the same, everyone playing their own parts, whether consciously or not. Once Hooper’s girl had made her long and agonizing decision, another girl would walk through the door dressed – who knew? – like a schoolgirl, or a streetwalker, or one of those girls who looked like both. And she would act out the same charade for Miller. The man would laugh and yelp, applaud the decision, and would look back to his comrades and raise his eyebrows – ‘Hell, this might be just too much for me to handle, guys, know what I mean?’ – and laugh again. But the laugh and the look would not be noticed: all the remaining men’s thoughts would, by then, be on the next girl.

  *

  In the office it was dark and silent, the only illumination a computer terminal and a standard lamp emitting a queasy half-light. It was a large room, with two leather sofas, some bookshelves, a dresser at which Rosa immediately began pawing away her make-up, and a large map of the world above the computer desk. To its right was a coffee machine. I poured us a mug each, placed one beside her, then collapsed into a sofa.

  I was too tired to speak, but the coffee was strong and good; Rosa got it imported from a town not far from where she was born in Puerto Rico. I lit a cigarette and placed the pack next to her, then moved to the old boom box by the computer. Rosa and I always listened to the same radio station, a dusty complication of consonants which only played records by old mariachi bands. Willie Dawson was the disc jockey, and he didn’t talk too much. ‘Trumpet sounds better than any voice, my flock,’ he’d say, ‘I believe in the word of the trumpet!’

  ‘This bunch seems even worse than usual,’ Rosa said, a cigarette dangling at the corner of her mouth. ‘I told Harry to mind the guy in three.’ She lit the cigarette with a box of matches.

  ‘Why three?’

  ‘I seen guys like him before.’

  ‘He’s just another asshole.’

  ‘You don’t see things the way I do. Remember that guy, what’s his name?’

  ‘Gardner.’

  ‘I still have nightmares about him,’ she said. Rosa sat down next to me on the leather cushions. She tapped my leg.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘You say that every week.’

  ‘Because you’re tired every week. You run, you drink, you run, you drink. There must be more, no?’

  ‘There’s always more,’ I said and smiled. ‘You know O’Neil and Edith are fucking, right?’

  A beam of smoke emerged from each nostril; she stayed silent.

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ I said.

  ‘Because it wasn’t any of your business, Joey. And they look happy, no? Don’t they?’

  I looked at my coffee mug.

  ‘I know I should be happy for them, but …’

  ‘But you’re an asshole, so you can’t.’

  She smiled and I smiled back. She kissed me on the cheek. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

 
; ‘No, not really. It just feels like … like everything’s coming to a head.’

  ‘Things fall apart,’ she said with a shrug. ‘People, too. You’re just going to have to deal with it when the time comes.’

  She put her hand on mine and squeezed it. Her eyes were outlined in heavy silver, and her cheeks were still too rouged for the brightness of the room.

  ‘Coffee’s good,’ I said.

  ‘It’s always good. The coffee is the one thing round here I do recommend.’ She wrapped both hands around her mug as though she was cold. She blew on it, then took a long sip.

  ‘How long’ve you got left? Can’t be long now.’

  ‘I don’t know. O’Neil says he’s going to stay on here with Edith. Set up some company or something.’

  ‘Will you stay too?’ she said.

  ‘I can’t imagine for one moment staying here any longer than I have to. It’s like …’ I realized that I was going to say ‘home’ and paused. ‘I love O’Neil. But he said—’

  ‘He’s in love, Joe. Things don’t ever work out the way you plan them. You know that. And you must have known that this would come along some time, no?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’

  Willie mentioned a hoedown at a local bar then played another record.

  ‘He’s a good man, O’Neil.’

  Her voice was serious. She’d always had a thing for big guys, she once told me, and O’Neil was just the kind of bear she’d love to be held by. The intercom buzzed.

  ‘Room two ESL.’ Harry’s voice.

  I looked at my watch. ‘Quick one.’

  ‘Never quick enough,’ Rosa said.

  ‘Who’s in two?’

  Rosa checked her notepad. It was Miller. I finished my coffee and looked at the huge wall map. It had coloured markers pressed into different cities. There was a new one, a stub placed in the north-west of England. Rosa saw me look at it.