Chapter Fourteen
For all that having a piano in your front hall is a little irritating, Lila has to admit that the sound of two people playing “Someone to Watch Over Me” as a duet has a definite charm. She has been paused at her desk for twenty minutes now, just listening to the sound of the keys, Penelope Stockbridge’s slightly breathless laughter—the way she apologizes every time she laughs, as if that much naked emotion is something to be embarrassed about. She can’t hear Bill’s response, but his tone is cheerful and reassuring. Lila had never even considered Bill having a relationship with another woman after her mother, but she observes distantly that if it turned out to be Penelope Stockbridge she probably wouldn’t mind.
“Oh, I messed up the left hand. I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t worry. Let’s go again from bar twelve.”
All sound echoes up the central staircase of this house. You can hear conversations from the top floor as the words float upward, so when the front door opens, even if Gene wasn’t bellowing, Hey, I’m back! she would have known immediately it was him. He seems to make twice as much noise as a normal human being, his footsteps heavier, the door slam more emphatic. It is as if he is determined to imprint himself on any environment in which he finds himself. Her heart always sinks when he arrives back. Hey! The piano! Shall I sing along? I once met Ella Fitzgerald, you know. Down in a little bar in Los Feliz…
Gene insists he is going to auditions, but she suspects he is just sitting in the pub, as she never hears him rehearsing anything. When she asks him how the auditions are going he says his agent is sure something will come up soon, and invariably changes the subject.
And something about Gene being in the house always makes it impossible to work. It is as if his presence means she is permanently braced for some kind of explosion, or the sound of something breaking, or even Truant’s incessant protest. She stares at her screen for fifteen minutes, then gets out of her chair with a sigh of resignation.
She is on the first-floor landing heading downstairs to make another mug of tea when the music stops abruptly. She hears Bill’s voice. “Are those my socks?”
Gene’s voice, innocent and surprised: “Uh…I dunno. Are they?”
“You’re wearing my socks!”
“Oh. I guess they got mixed up in the laundry.”
“You know they aren’t yours. You wear those awful cheap white sports ones, and they all have holes. Those are my Falke one-hundred-percent wool ones.”
“Okay, pal, keep your hair on.”
Lila arrives in the hallway and pauses on the last step. Penelope is sitting on a chair beside Bill, her hand on the piano music—she must have been in the middle of turning a page. Gene is standing in a leather jacket and jeans, his shoulders back and his legs slightly apart, a stance he only ever seems to use with Bill. Bill gets up, pushing the piano stool back on the tiled floor so that the wheels squeak.
“This really is too much. You cannot just help yourself to a man’s socks!”
Gene ignores him and switches his attention to Penelope. He bows theatrically, and holds out a huge hand. Penelope, unsure what to do, gives him her tiny slim one.
“Gene Kennedy, as Old Bill here is apparently too rude to introduce us. Delighted to meet you.”
Penelope, as all women do faced with the full force of Gene’s charm, blinks hard and smiles back, fluttering a little. Gene takes slightly too long to release her fingers and a slow pink flush stains her collarbone. “Penelope Stockbridge,” she says.
“I’m Lila’s father.”
This news obviously throws her a little, and she lets out a little “Oh!” of surprise. It certainly throws Bill, who sits down heavily on the piano stool and says crossly, “Do you mind? We’re in the middle of a piano lesson.”
“You’re the one who stopped it, pal. I’m just trying to be polite. Hey, Penelope, do you ever watch television? You may know me from—”
“Just stop helping yourself to my socks! And if you have any others hidden in that hovel you call a room, I’d be grateful if you’d bring them downstairs.”
“They’re just socks, Bill. Jeez. I’ve never heard anyone get their panties in a bunch about a pair of socks before. Here, I’ll trade you one of my Grateful Dead T-shirts if it bothers you that much. Don’t you think a T-shirt would loosen him up a little, Penelope? Lovely to meet you by the way. That’s a very pretty dress. I sure hope you come by again soon.”
Penelope flushes even more deeply, her fingers now unconsciously stroking the base of her throat. Bill sits very still on the piano stool, a tiny vein pulsing in his temple. Gene, having clearly decided he has won this particular battle, waits a moment, beaming, then saunters down to the kitchen. “Oh, hey, Lila! Had a good day, sweetheart?”
Every interaction between her two fathers, Lila has noticed, has lately morphed into a battle situation with a winner and a loser. Gene is the usual victor, a master manipulator at skewing any exchange to his advantage, his weapons natural charm and a visceral awareness of anyone’s weakness. She is not even sure he knows he’s doing it. Bill, who struggles with communication at the best of times, is often reduced to spluttering fury although he’s usually in the right. But she has only limited sympathy because it’s like living with two particularly recalcitrant toddlers. And if she challenges them, they will inevitably deny that there is a problem.
I didn’t do anything. If Bill has an issue it’s nothing to do with me.
Lila, I leave that man (Bill rarely calls him Gene) to do as he wishes. I’m just trying to mind my own business.
Both behave fractionally better in the presence of the girls: it is as if they’re in unspoken competition for their affections, and therefore aware that they shouldn’t be in open conflict in front of them. Gene has clearly won over Violet with their nightly Star Squadron Zero episodes, and has made some headway with Celie since the evening in Soho. But Celie is old enough to understand what Bill has been to them, and inoculated with sixteen years of love from Bill and her grandmother, so is likely to be found sitting with him in what remains of the garden, or playing with the dog near him (she doesn’t talk much) while he chops vegetables for supper.
One unexpected outcome of her two house guests is that Celie tends to come down for supper most evenings instead of claiming she is not hungry and is staying in her room. It is as if their constant bickering is a form of distraction for her, taking her away from her thoughts—or perhaps it simply takes attention away from Celie: instead of relentlessly asking Celie what on earth is wrong, or trying to make sure she eats something, Lila is usually engaged in diplomatic discussions over whether chips can be counted as a vegetable, or whether Bill’s bust of Virginia Woolf makes her look like she just had her arse squeezed behind Walmart.
“You really do play awfully well,” Penelope murmurs to Bill, leaning back in her chair so she can look at him as she speaks. “Your finger positioning is excellent.”
This seems to restore Bill’s good humor. “You’re very kind,” he says, his smile unexpected and sweet. “I have to say I’m rather enjoying the discipline of practicing every day.”
“I wish all my pupils were like you,” she says, and blushes again.
Lila watches them until they notice she’s there, then mutters something about tea and disappears into the kitchen. Everyone , she thinks, absolutely everyone is moving on apart from me .
And then, Something has to give .