White Bodies(47)

“That’s what I meant,” I say. “That’s Felix . . .”

He says, “Good thing too,” and returns to the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, wrapping clean bowls up in cling film.

I watch him at his work, thinking, It’s okay to be odd, Felix. I’m not going to condemn you right now. At least, not until I’ve checked the memory stick again.





23


It’s Tuesday morning and I’m in charge of the bookshop while Daphne is promoting herself in Copenhagen. It’s strange and quiet when she’s away because, even when she isn’t talking, she generally makes her presence felt—bashing her keyboard, drinking her coffee, tapping her feet on the floorboards. The unusual, slightly creepy silence allows me to get a few tasks done—I sort out the new books, and I phone Mum, who’s now up-to-date, and says, “I’m not sure about this wedding. We don’t really know him, not properly. . . .” But she agrees to come to London to shop together for her wedding outfit. Then I go online and, despite my resolution to avoid Controlling Men, I check out the site. The members are talking about Joe Mayhew and Bea Santos—several people reckoning that he’ll try to have the murder charge reduced to manslaughter, pleading diminished responsibility. “He’ll say he was depressed, that mental illness meant he wasn’t responsible for his actions,” writes someone called Lemon-and-Lime. “He’ll be on suicide watch now—the coward’s way out.” I agree. I want him to go to court, and I want him to be convicted of murder.

I’m scrolling down, reading, when our bell jangles, signaling the arrival of a customer, and I’m surprised to see Lucas. My nonchalant half smile is supposed to suggest that I’m intrigued that someone as urbane as him has troubled himself to come to Willesden. And I’m leaning my chin on the back of my hand, hoping that my body language indicates that my work here is an amusing sideline, not a financial necessity. Possibly, though, I’m wasting my efforts.

He says: “I’m stopping by to inspect your architecture collection.”

“You could have gone to Central London. To Waterstones or Hatchards or something.”

“But then I wouldn’t have had a chance to see you. And look what I’ve brought.”

He has a paper carrier bag with two salads inside, in cardboard boxes, with little bamboo forks. “Pea and mint with feta cheese,” he says. “Tilda said that lunch might be a problem for you—with your boss away.”

“I’d brought a cheese-and-Marmite sandwich, but your salad looks nicer.”

I fetch him a chair from the back office, and we sit and eat, and he says: “So, now you have a chance to ask me about my idiosyncratic brother—I could tell at dinner last night that you were dying to get the full story—all that digging you did, asking about our childhoods.”

I feel suddenly nervous—like he’s been sent by Tilda or Felix to trick me. But he’s eating his salad in a way that I’d call hearty, and looking at me with a straight, unbothered eye.

He’s right, of course, I’m desperate for more information. All week my mind has been flipping between two extreme modes—one minute I’m filled with alarm at Tilda’s letter, and the evidence that Felix really is a danger. Those bruises, that thrown vase. And then I think of good Felix, weird-but-nice Felix, in-love Felix. Now I have Lucas to talk to. Clearheaded, easygoing Lucas.

“I just want to know that my sister is safe.” I’ve decided to be blunt. “What is his relationship history like? He told me about Francesca, the journalist.”

“Why do you think Tilda may not be safe?” He doesn’t look at me now but at his food, moving it around with his fork, and I get the impression that he has, after all, had a pointed conversation with Tilda and Felix about me. That he’s been sent by them.

“I don’t know . . . Felix is a strong character. Everything has to be done his way.”

“You’re right to think he’s pretty dominating, I guess. And that’s the reason that we don’t always get along. You saw what he was like with a simple thing like squid—he just couldn’t allow me to cook it my way—he had to take over.”

“And you let him. . . .”

“That’s the easiest way to deal with my brother—to let him take control.”

“I have to ask the obvious question.”

“What happens when you challenge him?”

“Yes . . . not that I see Tilda challenging him ever.”

He puts his salad box on the counter and faces me directly, like he’s saying, Enough about food, now for the serious stuff. “Well, he can go into deep, black moods. A lot of anger . . . just below the surface, even over small things. When we were kids it could be anything—one time I went into the tree house without his permission, and moved his things around. . . . He was totally pissed, for weeks. Weeks! And he cut up my soccer jersey with scissors, my favorite shirt.” He smiles, like it’s a fond memory, not a horrible one.

“What happened with Francesca? How did she deal with the moods?”

He frowns. “Poor Francesca. She was so in love . . . which isn’t unusual by the way. Women do fall for him, repeatedly. He was always the better-looking brother—he has a certain charisma I guess.”