Brad arrived at his mother’s nursing home in the late afternoon. He had called Lorraine’s number four times but received no reply. He decided he would try once more before he left. He didn’t know why he wanted to see her; he was not infatuated or in love with her, but he couldn’t shake off the memory of how gentle he had felt towards her, how good it had been to hold her in his arms.
Mrs Thorburn was seated by the windows overlooking the elegant gardens. The nursing home was ludicrously expensive, with two or three nursing staff to every resident. She was reading Vogue, the arthritic hands with their perfectly manicured nails gliding over the pages, pausing to tap a particular photograph and then ripping off a yellow sticker from a pad and carefully applying it to a page. She still bought lavish clothes — sometimes an entire collection — which were delivered to the home.
Brad watched her for a few more minutes. Everything about her was immaculate: her wig, false eyelashes and pale powdered skin drawn tightly over the high cheekbones. The many face-lifts had given her a surreal look so she could, at a distance, be taken for a thirty-year-old woman; only at close-up did one see the stretched, taut, ageing skin. He called her name softly as he approached and bent to kiss her cheek. As always she averted her face.
‘Watch out for my hair, darling.’
He drew up a chair, sitting to one side. She shut the magazine and held it out as if to an unseen butler. Brad took it and pushed it into the side of her wheelchair.
‘How are you?’
‘Dreadful. How do you expect me to be?’
Her perfect lips, dark crimson, with smears across her over-large, over-white false teeth, grimaced in a sneering smile. ‘I hear you’re selling the house? I always hated it. Will we get a good price?’
‘I should think so.’
‘Where are you going to live?’
‘South of France.’
‘Always loved Cannes but it’s not what it used to be. Your father took me there often in the early days but we had problems with the staff, probably because he was fucking them.’
Brad smiled at the way she dropped in the word ‘fucking’ as if to shock, but he was used to it. She could swear better than any man he’d ever met and he felt something akin to fondness for her, which surprised him. She suddenly pointed one frail, red-nailed finger to the gardens. ‘They’re putting in a new border and a fountain. I just hope it’s not some awful cherub pissing. I hate those little penises spurting water. I’m always surprised how many people choose them, very distasteful, nasty things, penises — uncircumcised ones in particular. I made sure you were circumcised — much more attractive, especially if you’re being sucked off.’ She gave a shrill laugh, and placed her hands over her lips like a naughty schoolgirl, her diamonds glinting in the sunlight.
‘Do you remember that big topaz ring? It had diamonds all round it, very large, set in platinum,’ he said quietly, surprised at even bringing the subject up.
‘Hard to forget. Your father would always give me something extravagant when he was screwing somebody else. The more expensive it was the higher the chance of it being a close friend. The topaz was good quality and they were rose diamonds, excellent carat. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’
‘Ah, my darling, there’s always a reason. I suppose it was one of the items Steven stole or sold or whatever they wish to call it. Well, it was a beautiful ring but too ostentatious for my taste.’ She turned to face Brad, her eyes even at eighty still china blue.
‘Why did he have so many other women? My father. It’s always struck me as odd. You must have loved each other at one time?’
‘Love never came into it, sweetheart.’ He wanted to hold her clawlike hand but she was turning to one of the other wealthy inmates, waving like royalty. ‘That was why he hated me so much and tried to hurt me in every way possible. He hated me because I could not find him attractive. I married him for his money. I told him but I don’t think he believed me.’
‘Is that true?’
She turned back to face him, her blue eyes like ice chips. ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know and I have to go.’ He stood up. She waved again across the elegant room and murmured that it was tea-time. ‘Will you write to Steven?’ he asked.
‘He’s dead to me. I can’t bring myself to write or make any contact. He does not exist. I’ve already changed my will. You’ll get everything.’
He touched her shoulder. ‘I’ll write, and then, as soon as I’m settled, you’ll come visit me.’
‘That would be very pleasant, dear.’ Both knew the other was lying; there would be no visits. There was no antagonism or reprimand in her bright eyes. She held out her hand and he kissed it gently. How often had he smelt that sweet floral perfume? How many times had he as a child wanted this woman to hold him and kiss him? He felt it even now: he wanted some sign that she cared for him. But she gave none, dismissing him by withdrawing her hand.
He walked away across the polished wood floor, then turned back, half hoping she would still be watching him. But she was already flicking through the pages of Vogue again, positioning a yellow sticker on a long cream evening gown worn by a doe-eyed model.
She hadn’t worn an evening gown for more than thirty years but she hadn’t wept for much longer. Tears ruined her make-up, made her false eyelashes unstick. It had taken many long years of practice not to weep. She could recall the last time she had cried herself to exhaustion. It had been when she had found her husband in bed with her closest friend. The two of them naked, moaning with orgasmic pleasure. She had never had an orgasm in her entire life; she was frigid; she was, as her husband had called her, the ‘Ice Maiden’. Only little Steven had broken through to her heart. Only Steven had known how to love her, seemed to know intuitively the fear she had of allowing herself to be loved. He had known how to kiss her without pawing or fumbling. Only Steven knew how delicate she was — and now even he had betrayed her. He had been as brutal as every man she had ever encountered. Sitting trapped in her wheelchair, she remembered his slim, delicate body, his sweet, tender kisses, his perfect circumcised penis that she had loved to kiss awake and then to rub his semen over her skin, because it was better than any expensive creams. They had discussed its therapeutic powers endlessly, lying together in her overheated bedroom. She had never believed that what they were doing was wrong — it was only natural. She bore no blame for what he had subsequently done: that was nothing to do with her. The women were whores, just like the bitches her husband had brought home. They had meant nothing to her, and she refused to feel any remorse for the women her beloved son had killed. She started to sing softly to herself, snatches of a song she’d sung in a chorus someplace a long time ago.
but she could no longer recall all the lyrics.