James Beautiful Malice

Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-25530-6
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten

So. Were you glad, deep down? Were you glad to be rid of her? Your perfect sister? Were you secretly glad when she was killed? Following a horrific tragedy that leaves her once perfect family devastated, Katherine Patterson moves to a new city, starts at a new school, and looks forward to a new life of quiet anonymity. But when Katherine meets the gregarious and beautiful Alice Parrie her resolution to live a solitary life becomes difficult. Katherine is unable resist the flattering attention that Alice pays her and is so charmed by Alice's contagious enthusiasm that the two girls soon become firm friends. Alice's joie de vivre is transformative; it helps Katherine forget her painful past and slowly, tentatively, Katherine allows herself to start enjoying life again. But being friends with Alice is complicated - and as Katherine gets to know her better she discovers that although Alice can be charming and generous she can also be selfish and egocentric. Sometimes, even, Alice is cruel. And when Katherine starts to wonder if Alice is really the kind of person she wants as a friend, she discovers something else about Alice - she doesn't like being cast off. Shocking and utterly absorbing, Rebecca James's strong narrative will grip readers from the very first page. BEAUTIFUL MALICE has become a publishing phenomenon, sparking numerous auctions worldwide, selling to 27 countries, and launching a previously unknown writer into the centre of the international book market.

Rebecca James was born in Sydney, Australia, in 1970. She has worked as a waitress, a kitchen designer, an English teacher in both Indonesia and Japan, a barmaid, and (most memorably) a mini-cab telephone-operator in London. Rebecca lives in Australia with her partner and their four sons.

Autoren/Hrsg.

James, Rebecca

Leseproben

2

Alice insists that we get ready for the party together. She picks me up in her car, a battered old Volkswagen, shortly after lunch on the day of the party and takes me to her place. She lives alone, she tells me as she speeds along, weaving in and out of lanes much faster than any P-plater is officially allowed, in a one-bedroom flat in the inner city. I’m surprised by this, astonished really. I’d imagined that someone like Alice would live in a comfortable house in the suburbs with her devoted parents. I’d imagined her being spoiled, looked after, coddled (just as I used to be) and the fact that she lives alone makes her suddenly seem more interesting, more complicated than I’ve given her credit for. It’s clear that Alice and I have more in common than I’d imagined.

I want to ask her a million questions – Where are her parents? How does she afford a flat? Is she ever afraid? Is she lonely? – but I keep quiet. I have secrets of my own and have learned that asking questions only puts me at risk of being interrogated myself. It is safer not to be too curious about others, safer not to ask.

Her flat is in a square, very ordinary-looking brick block. The stairwell is dark and uninviting, but when we get to her apartment, breathless after jogging up four flights of stairs, she opens the door to a room full of colour and warmth.

The walls are a deep burnt orange and are decorated with large, brightly painted abstract canvases. Two enormous, soft-looking couches are draped with burgundy fabric and covered with colourful, ethnic-looking cushions. Unlit candles cover every horizontal surface.

‘Voilà! My humble abode.’ Alice drags me inside and watches my face expectantly as I look round the room. ‘What do you think? I did it all myself, you know. You should have seen it when I moved in, so boring and plain. It’s amazing what a bit of colour can do to a room, though. A bit of creativity and some bright paint is all you really need.’

‘This is so cool,’ I say. And I can’t help but feel a little envious. Alice’s flat is so funky, so much younger, than the modern, minimalist apartment I live in.

‘Really? You really like it?’

‘Yes,’ I laugh. ‘I really do.’

‘I’m so glad. I want you to like it as much as I do because I plan for us to spend a lot of time together. And I can see us spending a lot of time right here, in this room, talking and talking and talking, sharing our precious secrets deep into the night.’

I’ve heard that charming, powerful people have the knack of making you feel as though you’re the only person in the world and now I know exactly what that means. I’m not quite sure what she does, or how she does it – another person would have come across as overly eager, obsequious even – but when Alice gives me her attention like that, I feel golden, warm with the certainty that I’m fully understood.

For a brief, insane moment, I imagine telling her my secret. I picture it all clearly. Me and Alice in this room; both a little tipsy, both giggly and happy and ever so slightly self-conscious with the feeling you have when you’ve made a new friend, a special friend; I put my hand on her knee so that she is still and quiet, so that she knows I’m about to say something important, and then I tell her. I tell her quickly, without pausing, without meeting her eyes. And when I’ve finished she is warm and forgiving and understanding, as I hoped she’d be. She embraces me. Everything is all right and I am lighter for having told. I am free.

But this is all just a dream. A crazy fantasy. I tell her nothing.

*

I’m wearing my usual costume of jeans and boots and shirt and I’ve brought some make-up with me to apply before we go to the party, but Alice insists that I wear a dress. Her wardrobe is bursting with them, in all sorts of colours and lengths and styles. There must be at least a hundred, and some still have tags. I wonder where she gets the money, how she affords so many clothes, and I’m tempted, once again, to ask.

‘I have a bit of a clothing habit.’ She grins.

‘Really?’ I joke. ‘I would never have known.’

Alice reaches into the wardrobe and starts pulling out dresses. She tosses them on the bed. ‘Here. Choose one. I haven’t even worn most of these.’ She holds up a blue one. ‘You like?’

The dress is pretty but I’ve already spotted the one I’d really like to wear. It’s red and patterned in paisley, a wrap-around dress with a tie-waist, made from some kind of stretch material. It looks like something my mother might have worn in the 1970s and would go nicely with the long boots I’m wearing.

Alice is watching me. She laughs and picks up the red dress. ‘This one?’

I nod.

‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’ She presses it against herself and looks in the mirror. ‘Expensive too. It’s a Pakbelle and Kanon. You have good taste.’

‘It’s beautiful. Why don’t you wear it? It’s still got the tag on it, you’ve never even worn it. You were probably saving it.’

‘Nup. I’m wearing something else. Something special.’ Alice holds it up in front of me. ‘Try it on.’

The dress fits perfectly, and as I suspected, goes well with my boots. The red flatters my dark skin and hair, and I smile at Alice happily in the reflection of the mirror. I’m excited now, glad that I agreed to come.

Alice goes to the kitchen and takes a bottle from her fridge. It’s champagne. It’s pink.

‘Yum,’ she says, kissing the bottle. ‘My one true love. And hey, as of yesterday, I’m actually legal.’

She opens the bottle, aiming the cork at the ceiling, and, without asking if I want any, pours us both a glass. She takes hers into the bathroom to shower and dress, and when she’s gone I lift my glass and take a tiny sip. I haven’t had alcohol since the night my family was destroyed. Not a drop. But then, I haven’t enjoyed myself with a friend since then, either, and so I tip the glass up to my mouth again and let myself enjoy the feel of the bubbles against my lips, on my tongue. I let another small mouthful slide down my throat and imagine that I can feel the effect immediately, the alcohol rushing through my veins, making my lips tingle, my head light. The champagne is sweet and easy to drink, like a cordial, and I have to force myself not to swallow it all too quickly.

I savour each mouthful, enjoying the way my body relaxes more and more as I drink. When the glass is empty I am happier, lighter, more carefree – a normal seventeen-year-old – and I plonk myself down on Alice’s colourful sofa and giggle at nothing at all. And I’m still just sitting there, smiling, enjoying the comfortable heaviness of my body in the chair, when Alice returns to the room.

‘Wow. Alice. You look …’ I shrug, unable to find an adequate word. ‘You look stunning!’

She lifts her arms and spins on her toes. ‘Why thank you, Miss Katherine,’ she says.

Alice is beautiful; strikingly beautiful. She is tall, with generous breasts and long, shapely legs and her face is a picture of perfection: her eyes a deep and glorious blue, her skin golden and luminous.

I’m not exactly ugly, but beside Alice I feel completely unremarkable.

While we’re waiting for our taxi Alice takes our empty glasses to the kitchen and refills them with champagne. As I stand up to get my glass, my head spins a little. It’s not an unpleasant feeling – in fact I feel easy and loose and relaxed. And this feeling, this light-headed happiness, this sense that the world is a benign and friendly place is suddenly very familiar and I realise just how much this feeling scares me. It’s the trick alcohol plays with your mind – convincing you to let your guard down, to trust the world to look after you – but I know that this feeling of safety is only a dangerous illusion. Alcohol encourages you to take risks that you wouldn’t usually; alcohol means you make stupid choices. And more than anyone, I know how devastating the consequences of a single bad choice can be. I live with them every day.

I accept the glass but I only pretend to sip on it, barely letting the liquid wet my lips, and when the taxi arrives I tip the rest of it down the sink.

Alice has hired the ballroom at the top of the Lion Hotel. It is huge and grand, with enormous timber windows and magnificent views of the city. There are white balloons, white tablecloths, a band. There are caterers polishing champagne glasses, and platters of expensive-looking finger food. And because it’s a private party nobody asks us for ID when Alice gets us both a glass of champagne.

‘This is fantastic.’ I look at Alice curiously. ‘Did your mum and dad do all this for you?’

‘No.’ Alice snorts dismissively. ‘They wouldn’t know how to host a barbecue, let alone something like this.’

‘Do they live in Sydney?’ I ask.

‘Who?’ She frowns.

‘Your parents.’

‘No. No they don’t, thank God. They live up north.’

I wonder how Alice can afford to live in Sydney, how she pays her rent. I had assumed that her parents supported her, but it now seems unlikely.

‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘It’s very nice of you to put on a big party like this for your friends. I don’t think I could ever be so generous. I’d rather spend the money on myself. A world trip or something cool like that.’

‘Generous? You reckon?’ Alice shrugs. ‘Not really. I love parties. Particularly when they’re all about me. I couldn’t think of anything better. And, anyway,...