‘I hear everyone’s raving about the clitoris these days. Might you have a photograph you can—’
‘Oh shut up, you horrible child,’ she said, boxing his shoulder. ‘I’d better re-join the other clucking hens. See you at the church.’ Another kiss, a lingering hug, another wet-eyed smile, and she wafted out.
He slouched into an armchair, closing his eyes. The window was open and he could hear the birds in his mother’s aviary twittering and singing. She’d had the aviary installed just after his father died – before that it’d been a conservatory and before that, a stable; a horrible, blood-soaked stable where his little sister had met her end. It was a large hexagonal structure, painted white, with a little domed roof. It sat near the edge of the croquet lawn, which had once been a huge kennel for all those stinking hounds his father favoured. Everything had changed after he died – the house quickly brightened and lightened, the raincloud having scudded on. All his stuffed owls and badgers and wall-mounted stag heads (those awful glass eyes following you around!) were donated to a gentlemen’s club in Portslade, along with all the dark, ancient portraits of self-satisfied men in white wigs, and soon sixteen pretty, chirruping birds arrived to fill the new aviary – canaries, lovebirds, finches, lorikeets. ‘I choose life,’ Lucille had told him.
Bart took out and re-read the letter he’d received this morning. ‘Mon petit fleur du mal,’ it began. It was an encouraging letter – Étienne approved of the marriage, telling him of wealthy ‘acquaintances’ (never friends – he was only ‘acquainted’ with the rich) who’d done a similar thing in order to protect their reputations or come into their inheritances or both. ‘For some it has been a disaster because they are strangers, very desperate and hurried. But for others it has yielded harmonious results. It will go well with you, I think, because you are, as you say, like frère et soeur, but you must try not to be an arsehole or she will divorce you.’ He ended the letter with his usual affirmations of love and told him to please come and say hello during his visit (Bart and Bettina were headed to Paris for the first stage of their honeymoon) but not at the expense of his time with his new wife, ‘because you will only ever have one honeymoon, but you will always have me.’ But, he added, ‘if you do decide to come and see me, this is what will be waiting for you:’ and overleaf Étienne had sketched an intricate life-size portrait of his erect penis.
The last time Bart visited Paris had been three months ago. It’d been the usual order of business – frantic lovemaking, constant bickering and too much drinking. It was June and hot enough inside the garret to curdle milk within hours of buying it. They went about naked, Étienne sat on the chair sketching Bart as he prepared a simple dinner – he was trying this new technique of focusing on the light reflected off the body, neglecting all else (‘We are made of light, everything is light’) and the finished paintings were multi-layered blobs of white and silver oil paint exploding out of a shape that might be human. They went out only once, to a restaurant, and halfway through the meal, Bart offered to book a night in the Hôtel Plaza Athénée and Étienne was insulted. ‘Well excuse me,’ said Bart, ‘for wanting to sleep in a bed that isn’t crusted with a thousand layers of jism.’ Étienne slammed his glass on the table and stormed off. Bart apologised later in bed, crawling down to kiss the old stains on the sheets, saying, ‘I think this is my favourite patch, because it has earthy undercurrents of garlic,’ and all was forgiven.
A knock at the door and a voice: ‘Are you decent?’ It was Jonathan, Bettina’s brother.
Bart stuffed the letter back in his pocket. ‘Yes.’
Jonathan came in, looking pale and squiffy and more nervous even than Bart himself. But this was his natural state. He wore his suit well, sharp-shouldered and slender as he was. His thick auburn hair was swept back and he’d shaved off his beard and moustache for the occasion. His throat above the tie was shave-grazed and pink, and this, coupled with the blush-red of his jug-handle ears, provided the only colour to his otherwise pallid demeanour. His prosthetic arm lay next to his body as stiff as a pastry roller, a cream kidskin glove covering the false hand.
Bart had once had a crush on Jonathan. A subconscious sort of crush that he never dared express, even within the secret-safe regions of his own skull. Hero worship, he convinced himself, though Jonathan hadn’t been heroic, was in fact socially awkward and had digestive problems which led to uncontrollable cabbagey flatulence. But he was more kind than most boys his age, once even standing up for Bart against the bullying little cunts they played rugby with, and he had the most rippled, perfect body and powerful, bulging thighs. He was a good swimmer (before the war, obviously) and always at the beach. When no one else was around, he’d take his bathing suit off and swim naked. He had a humongous pair of ginger balls and an impressive fat willy, even at the age of fourteen. Bart had had his first erection watching him backstroke through the waves, his sun-bright cock bobbing around in the creamy sea spray.
Jonathan had returned from the war a shivering lettuce of a man, and it was heartbreaking, because he was also a man who insisted on maintaining a cliff-high dignity, hiding his anxiety as it bubbled up lava-like, and affecting a high-chinned, pinch-lipped, bolt-jawed poise. Watching him overcome his jitters was like watching a three-legged ant successfully carry a leaf up an incline – you couldn’t help but root for him. Bettina, in her less self-absorbed moments, worried about him and tried to talk to him, to coax out all his traumas as if they were fleas picked off a dog, easily squashed, but Jonathan was not one to talk about his feelings. Lately, he’d taken to drinking, and though he never allowed himself to get visibly inebriated, he was constantly taking nips from a silver hip flask he kept in his coat pocket. Not that Bart was in a position to judge.
‘Spot of whisky, old chum, old boy?’ said Bart now.
Jonathan nodded thankfully. Bart poured a drink and passed it to him, before realising that he was holding it out towards Jonathan’s prosthetic hand. He let out a shrill giggle and passed it to the other hand, sloshing some of the drink. ‘Bottoms up,’ he said, and they tapped glasses and drank. They stood there a while in aching silence, their eyes on their drinks.
‘So,’ said Bart, finally. ‘Ever plan on walking up the aisle yourself one day?’
‘Well, I’m not exactly a hot prospect at the moment.’
‘You’re rich, aren’t you?’
Jonathan ignored this, furrowing his brow so subtly you could almost miss it.
‘I shall have a word in Bettina’s ear and ask her to aim the bouquet your way.’
A small, tight smile. ‘The motor will be here soon.’ He drained his glass. ‘Thanks for the drink. And – um. Well. Thank you for asking me to be your best man. It was kind of you.’
Bart opened his mouth to protest – what do you mean, kind? It has nothing to do with kindness, you’re a stand-up chap, blah blah blah. What was the point? It was obvious to everyone involved that the only reason he’d asked Jonathan to be his best man was because it would make Bettina happy. Bart patted his arm, thankfully the correct one.
‘Look after my sister, won’t you?’ said Jonathan. ‘She’s not as tough as she makes out.’
‘Oh, I know that. And I will.’
The sound of a car pulling up outside the house and then an insanely loud, jubilant honk of the horn.
Both men turned to look at the whisky decanter, and noticing this, their shared desire, they laughed. They had something in common, after all.
‘Stop the car!’
Bart flung his door open and pushed his head out of it as the car was still moving, his vomit streaking backwards and splattering the flank. Jonathan, in the seat next to him, gripped his shoulder to stop him falling out. As the car lurched to a stop, a pendulum of bile hanging off Bart’s lip violently wobbled and then stretched, landing on the gravel path. He pulled his head back inside and let out a long, wavering groan. Jonathan’s hand still gripped his shoulder.