The Nature of Cruelty Read online

  “Yeah, I remember. And staring at me while tapping your fingers is not the same thing as calling me.”

  He shrugs and then asks randomly, “Do you remember that one Halloween when you dressed up as a witch?”

  His question brings on a chill. I know exactly which Halloween he’s referring to. I was fifteen, and he was seventeen. Sasha and I were drinking a bottle of cider up in her bedroom while Rob and his friends partied downstairs. Their mum had been gone out to visit relatives. I didn’t get as drunk as Sasha though, and when she passed out I decided it was time for me to go home.

  Making my way down the stairs, I bumped into Robert. Before I could react, he had me pushed up against the wall and started kissing me; his hands felt like they were everywhere all at once, groping at me feverishly. Even so, it was a slow, romantic sort of kiss, his lips pressing tenderly to mine. I didn’t know how to react, so I pushed him away and then saw he was laughing. When I asked him why he did it, he said it was because he felt sorry for me and he thought I should get kissed at least once in my life.

  Pulling myself back to the present, I stare him down and ask sharply, “What about it?”

  “I’m sorry I did that. It was a dickhead thing to do.”

  “Yeah, well, dickheads tend to do dickhead things, so it makes perfect sense, really.”

  He ignores my comment and questions me seriously, “Was that the first time a boy had ever kissed you?”

  It was. I never stopped thinking about it for weeks afterwards. Reliving the moment of hope when his lips touched mine and I thought he might actually like me, and then the sinking feeling of despair when I realised it was all a joke to him.

  I look away now. “I don’t want to talk about this. Tell Sasha I’ll be down in a little while.” I turn away and go to shut the door, but he puts his arm out to stop me. His eyes take me in. “I was a cruel prick to you back then,” he says. “I’m sorry for that.”

  I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve never been able to tell whether or not he’s being genuine, and this instance is no different. I simply nod and start closing the door again. He moves his hand just in time before wood knocks against wood.

  Okay, so far I’ve painted Robert in a fairly unpleasant light. All of the things I’ve said about him are true, and although he doesn’t deserve my sympathy, on some messed-up level I do feel sorry for him. Having Alan Phillips for a father did a bit of a number on both Robert and Sasha. He’s the kind of man who expects achievements from his kids, constantly piling on the pressure. He’s also got a tongue on him like a jack-knife – brutal and cutting.

  I once had to spend days comforting a miserable Sasha after he told her on one of his rare visits that she needed start wearing a dress every now and again. At the time I didn’t get why she would be so upset over such a minor comment, but it wasn’t just one comment, it was a buildup of them over years and years. Not to mention he rarely showed up for her birthdays and other special occasions, so she was insecure as to whether or not he actually loved her at all.

  The same goes for Rob. However, while Sasha internalises her insecurities, Robert makes himself feel better by generally being a wanker. The one thing they share in common, and what they’d both deny if asked, is that they are constantly vying for their father’s approval. I’m half convinced that the only reason Sasha chose the celebrity gossip aspect of journalism for her career was to please Alan. In the same way, Robert works his arse off as a PR specialist at Alan’s agency, hoping to win his father’s esteem.

  Pulling myself from these thoughts, I retrieve my insulin case from my bag, bring it into the en-suite, and close the door. I was diagnosed with diabetes when I was seven, so ever since I was a kid I’ve been focused on taking care of myself and staying healthy. I have to take my insulin shots three times a day before meals and regularly monitor my blood sugar levels (usually several times a day, too). It’s all second nature to me now.

  I try not to get down about it; it’s a chronic, incurable disease, but it’s not like I’m missing a limb or anything. However, it does make my life a little harder than most. Unlike other twenty-two-year-olds, I can’t just go off on a weekend bender and drink myself into an oblivion, because I wouldn’t just get a killer hangover — it could actually kill me. In essence, if I’m not careful I can get sick very easily. It’s taken years for me to perfect the balance needed to stay as healthy as I can.

  I lift my T-shirt and pick a fresh spot of skin. I generally inject myself around the same little area on my stomach, but never in the exact same spot twice in a row because that can lead to infections. When I was little I was terrified of needles, but now I’m so used to them that the sting barely even registers.

  Once I’m done, I get out of my nap clothes and put my green Converse back on, along with a light blue cotton dress. I pull my hair back into a plait and then notice a basket sitting in the far corner of the room. When I go over to inspect it, I find that it’s a foot-care hamper.

  People with diabetes have to take particular care of their feet. Sasha knows this and has clearly bought me the hamper so I can keep up my regime while staying here.

  Downstairs, she and Robert are sitting at the table having their food.

  “Hey, Lana, the plastic container is yours,” says Sasha.

  I nod and open it up, finding plain chicken, noodles, and steamed vegetables inside. I put my dinner on a plate and carry it to the table before giving Sasha a small, unexpected hug.

  “What was that for?” she asks in surprise around a mouthful of fried rice.

  “I saw the hamper,” I tell her with a smile. “Thank you for that.”

  She shrugs. “It’s nothing. I know you need it.”

  “What hamper?” Robert questions, his dark brow furrowing.

  “Mind your own business and eat your dinner,” says Sasha.

  Robert shrugs and returns to shovelling food into his mouth.

  “Oh, I forgot to mention,” says Sasha. “Some of the guys are coming over tonight for drinks.”

  “Cool, I’d like to see everyone again.”

  I’ve only ever met Sasha’s London friends once, which was when I visited for the weekend a couple of months ago. Robert had been away in France with Kara at the time. It’s the only reason I agreed to come, because Sasha and Robert share the same group of friends. They remind me a little of the cast of that show Made in Chelsea, without being such caricatures of posh young English people.

  Sasha’s friend Alistair is actually going to be my new boss. When Sasha told him I was coming over and needed a part-time job, he offered to take me on at Baccino’s. He’s only twenty-five, yet he started running the place two years ago when his father, who owns several different Italian restaurants around London, handed the business over to him. The funny thing is, I don’t even think his family are from Italy.

  As if reading my thoughts, Robert grins and says, “I heard you’re going to be working at Alistair’s restaurant. That’s only around the corner from Dad’s offices in Knightsbridge. I go there for lunch all the time.”

  “Fascinating,” I murmur, at the same time worrying that I’m going to be seeing a whole lot more of Robert than I ever planned on. At least it’s only going to be for the summer. I glance up at him to find he’s staring at me. He kind of looks excited at the prospect of seeing me work. Hmm, perhaps he plans on being a difficult customer.

  I turn away from him to talk to Sasha. “So what happened with the pop star today? Did she do anything really crazy?”

  Sasha shakes her head. “Nah, not so much. She did throw the butt of her cigarette at one of the paps in a fit of rage at one point, though. I had to throw together a quick piece dissecting her motivations for acting out. It was kind of depressing. The girl is eighteen and has just been handed all of this fame and fortune on a silver platter. What do they expect her to do, buy a house in the suburbs and start an investment portfolio?”

  Robert points his fork at his sister. “I’ve said it once an
d I’ll say it again — you have far too much empathy for that line of work. Gossip columnists need to be ruthless. They can’t care about the celebrities they’re cutting down with their words. While you, sister, do care. It’s in your nature. Perez Hilton you are not.”

  Wow. I’m surprised Robert even knows the meaning of the word empathy. Then again, he probably just has a grudge against gossip writers. After all, they are his main opposition when he has to deal with a controversy with one of his clients.

  “Not all gossip journalists are black-hearted, hateful human beings, you know,” Sasha argues. “Some of us do write positive stories, too.”

  Robert snorts. “Yeah, positive stories about Hollywood actresses who lose weight after having a baby. Those are the kinds of pieces that really make a difference.”

  Sasha throws her hands down on the table. “That’s enough, Rob. Do you want me to throw you out of here before you’ve even made it through one night?”

  “Fine, fine, I’m shutting up now.” He makes a show of zipping closed his perfectly sculpted lips.

  They’ve always been like this, fighting and squabbling. I guess it’s a sibling thing, though I’ve never been so argumentative with my own sister. Perhaps that’s because of the six-year age gap between us. I once read that siblings who are closer in age fight more. I suppose that means twins are the most likely to fight, since they’re exactly the same age.

  All through dinner Robert watches me like I’m a bloody wound amid shark-infested waters – him being the shark. I notice he took a shower and changed into one of Sasha’s old T-shirts and a pair of her jeans, since he doesn’t have any of his own things here. Sasha’s a good deal thinner than Robert, who has more muscle, so the jeans are a bit tight. But since her stuff is so boyish, you wouldn’t really be able to tell that the clothes belonged to a girl.

  I help with the cleanup when we’re finished eating. Robert makes his best effort to ensure that our bodies brush against one another while we put the clean dishes away as Sasha washes up. Needless to say, his actions confuse me. I’m relieved once it’s all done and I can retreat to my room to call my mum. When I pull my phone out of my bag, I find several missed calls from her. She must have tried ringing while I was taking a nap. When I’m tired I sleep like the dead; there could be a fog horn going off, and I wouldn’t stir an inch.

  I hit the “call” button, and she answers almost immediately.

  “Lana! We’ve been waiting to hear from you. How was your flight?”

  By the echo through the phone, I can tell she has me on loudspeaker and is probably sitting having tea with my gran and sister in the living room while they listen in.

  “Hi, Mum. It was fine. Sasha collected me from the airport and brought me back to the house. It’s a gorgeous place, must have cost a mint.”

  “That’s Alan all over, flashy bastard,” I hear Liz muttering in the background. She spends almost every evening at our house now that Sasha and Robert are no longer living at home.

  “Hi, Liz,” I say, laughing at the cutting tone of voice she always uses when referring to her ex-husband.

  “Hiya, honey. I hope my daughter is treating you well.”

  “She is, as always.” I trail off before saying, “And Robert’s here, too.”

  “What’s he doing there?” my mum butts in, her voice rigid. She knows Robert and I have had our problems, though she doesn’t know the true extent of my mixed feelings for him. She thinks I just can’t stand him; she doesn’t know that I also pity him in my own strange way. She also considers him to be a true brat. Of course, she’d never admit as much to Liz.

  “He and his girlfriend had a fight, and she kicked him out of their apartment. Sasha’s letting him stay here for a couple of days.”

  “I never liked that Kara girl,” says Liz. “They can barely go a week without breaking up.”

  “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?” asks Mum, worried.

  “We’re not teenagers anymore, Mum,” I say, not wanting her to fret over me. “And he’ll only be here a few days.”

  “All the same,” says Liz. “I know what my boy is like, and he’s always enjoyed showing you his bad side, Lana. If he starts back at his old tricks you call me and I’ll put him straight, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I say. “Listen, I’ll call again on Monday after I’ve finished my first shift at the restaurant and let you all know how I get on.”

  “Okay, honey, love you, take care,” says Mum.

  Liz, my sister, and my gran all call their goodbyes, and I hang up the phone. I hear a knock at the front door, which is quickly succeeded by the sound of voices filling the house. Sasha’s and Robert’s friends have arrived. Feeling a little nervous of the company, I make my way downstairs to say hello nonetheless.

  In the living room is Alistair, who’s tall with long dark hair in a ponytail and a slightly quirky dress sense, and his girlfriend Sandra, who’s a pretty blonde. Also present are the fair-haired, blue-eyed brothers, Victor and Jacob. Sasha and Robert have a couple of other friends, but these four are what you’d call the “inner circle.”

  Sasha sees me come into the room and immediately calls out, “Hey, you all remember Lana, yeah?”

  “Of course we do,” says Alistair with a warm smile, coming over to shake my hand. “I’m looking forward to having you join the team at the restaurant.”

  “Well, I’m looking forward to joining,” I reply politely.

  “Hi, Lana,” says Sandra, giving me a kiss on either cheek. “Wow, your hair looks gorgeous, and I love that dress on you.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  I’ve always found these people a little intimidating. They’re just so level-headed and career-oriented for their ages. Most of my friends back home who are in their early twenties haven’t got a clue what they want to do with their lives.

  I exchange hellos with Victor and Jacob after Sandra has finished being all complimentary, in that way when you can’t whether or not it’s real or fake. Jacob seems to like what he sees when he takes in my appearance, though. I remember him flirting with me a small bit on my last visit, but nothing ever came of it.

  “Hey, pretty Irish girl. I was wondering when I was going to see you again,” he says, giving me a peck on the cheek. Look at me, getting all the kisses tonight.

  “Yeah, I haven’t been over since the last time we met. I’m staying for the summer now.”

  He nods happily as Sasha brings in a bottle of white wine and begins pouring everyone a glass.

  “You having a drink, kid?” she asks, glancing at me sideways.

  “Nah, I probably shouldn’t,” I answer, noticing Robert paying attention to our conversation.

  There are a whole variety of things that can be hard on my diabetes, and alcohol is one of them. Even when I do drink, I can’t have much more than two glasses at a time. And I get drunk really easily since my body isn’t used to it.

  “Oh, go on, Lana, have a drink. It’ll loosen you up,” says Robert, eyeing me speculatively.

  I shake my head and reply, “I don’t drink much.”

  “Let tonight be the exception, then.”

  “Rob,” says Sasha in warning.

  “What? I was only encouraging her to have a glass of wine. I was hardly offering her crack.”

  “And she said she doesn’t want one, so leave her alone.”

  “She’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need you to speak for her,” he bites back.

  Feeling uncomfortable that I’ve caused them to snap at each other, I interject, “Maybe I’ll just have one very small glass, then.”

  Robert grins at me approvingly.

  “Are you sure?” Sasha asks. “He’s an arse. Don’t let him bully you.”

  “It’s fine. I should have one to celebrate my first night in London anyway.”

  “That’s the spirit,” says Robert, handing me a glass and grabbing the bottle from his sister. I hold it as he pours a little too much in, and when he’s
finished, I have a sip. Sasha takes the bottle back from him and goes to pour some for Sandra and Alistair.

  “It’s Chardonnay. What do you think?” Robert asks, stepping closer. His nearness causes a little rush of anxiety to go through me.

  I stare up into his eyes for a second, and he seems genuinely interested in what I have to say. “It’s nice. It doesn’t have the burn of cheap wine, anyway. That’s about as far as my knowledge goes,” I answer, wondering why he’s giving me his attention when his friends are around.

  He laughs. “Well, that’s good to know. You really are a little country bumpkin, aren’t you, Lana?” Even though his words are kind of insulting, his tone isn’t. It’s soft, tender almost. This is definitely uncharted territory for us.

  “I’d rather be a country bumpkin than a city snob,” I answer, keeping my voice cheerful.

  He gives a low chuckle. “Oh, so I’m the city snob, am I?”

  I take another sip of the wine; it really is a nice one. “I don’t know…are you?”

  Slowly, a smile spreads across his mouth. “I really like the grown-up Lana. She’s still kind of shy, but she’s got sass.”

  “I can’t believe you just said I’ve got sass. You’ve gotten cheesy in your old age, Rob.”

  “What?” He grins. “You are sassy these days. You used to be so touchy. I could never have any fun with you or you’d run away in a sulk.”

  “Well, I’m not sixteen anymore,” I say, colder now. All of a sudden I can’t stand how he refers to his bullying as “having fun.” Yeah, having a bit of fun making me miserable.

  He frowns at me as I walk away from him and go to sit with Sasha and Sandra, who are chatting in the dining room. A couple of minutes go by before there’s another knock at the door. Seeing that nobody’s making a move to go and answer it, I decide to take it upon myself to do so.

  When I do, I find a really good-looking woman with shiny plum-coloured hair standing on the porch step. An equally good-looking man is with her. He’s tall and built like a rugby player. He steps in past me and drops two stuffed suitcases in the hallway at the foot of the stairs.