Chapter 5
“You’re Elliott and Mary’s daughter?”
I was peering through the cigarette smoke of the dining room in a desperate search for my mother when the mustached man approached me.
I’d been woken by the drunken shrieks of a particularly raucous dinner party—not an uncommon occurrence for me.
My parents were well-known for their good epic parties, thanks to their affluence, courtesy of my grandfather’s prosthetic limb business (now run by my father).
Many nights, I came downstairs to find inebriated guests slapping each other with titanium hands or a hip socket lying on the white tablecloth next to the remains of the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. I barely batted an eyelid.
“Pardon?”
“I said,” he slurred, “are you really Elliott and Mary’s daughter?”
I wondered if the man was vision-impaired.
How could one look at me and not see my father’s strong nose and jaw and my mother’s pale complexion, blue eyes, and large forehead?
The origin of my hair color was a matter of contention between my parents—while my mother was blond and my father’s hair was the darkest brown, they were both of Irish-Catholic heritage, which meant, according to my Aunt Cess, it was a fool’s errand trying to keep the redheads from the door.
The man took a step back, shaking his head.
I understood, even then, what he was thinking.
That I wasn’t beautiful, like my mother with her pale peach complexion, her blond hair shaped into soft rolls or pinned in a neat bouffant that stayed in place no matter the weather.
I also understood that it was a failing of mine.
I understood it, even before I understood why.
“She’s a little young, even for you, Arthur,” Mum said, coming up behind me and twirling me like a ballerina.
Arthur chuckled, suddenly charming. “Touché, Mary.”
Mary, according to everyone you spoke to, always brought the fun. This may have been to do with the fact that she was drunk most of the time, and yet I’ve been drunk once or twice over my lifetime, and I don’t think anyone has accused me of “bringing the fun.”
“To what do I owe this delight, Mabel?”
“Noise woke me up.”
“So you thought you’d come and have a dance?” She twirled me again and I bumped into a circling waiter, spilling a tray of drinks.
“Darn it,” she said, letting me go. “Quick—off to bed. Before your father sees you.”
That was enough to get me moving. Unlike my mother, who could be unpredictable after a few drinks, my father was predictably short-tempered with me at all times, even when I wasn’t found doing something I shouldn’t. I scurried off, darting between the bodies I passed.
I paused at the grand staircase. It was at the center of the house, beneath the chandelier in the foyer, and it was my favorite part.
The staircase, made of rich, polished mahogany, descended as one from the top floor, then split into two at a landing, half sweeping off to the right, the other half to the left.
Every time I came down it, I felt like a princess.
It was the part of the evening when people were too drunk to notice much, which made for terrific people-watching.
It also made it relatively easy to go unnoticed if I tucked myself behind the stairs against the volute.
After several minutes there, I had begun to think I was invisible, so when a woman with a platinum-blond poodle cut appeared and looked me directly in the eye, I gasped.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose.
She was the most glamorous person I’d ever seen. She wore a white silk blouse with a gauzy A-line skirt covered in black butterflies. Her lips, a dramatic red, contrasted sharply with her almost white hair, and left a stain at the end of her slim, white cigarette.
She took a puff, then turned her head to exhale. “Not tired, eh?”
“No.”
“I am.” To my surprise, she sat down beside me on the step. Her gauzy skirt was so full I had to press myself against the banister to make space.
“Must be lonely being the only kid in this big house,” she said.
I nodded. I looked at my feet, but I felt her gaze. “I expect you regret what happened to Kitty now.”
I looked up.
It wasn’t unusual for grown-ups to not make sense at my parents’ parties. It was unusual for their ramblings to include me.
“What do you mean?”
“Susan.”
The woman and I both startled at my father’s voice. He stood at the bottom of the staircase, his shirt unbuttoned, his cheeks red from the wine.
“Go to bed, Mabel,” he said, dismissing me with a flick of his wrist.
I turned and ran up the stairs.
“Why were you talking to her?” I heard him say, when I reached the top. I squatted down, straining to hear.
“Why wouldn’t I talk to her?” Susan said. “She’s your daughter.”
My father made a dismissive noise.
For a moment, I heard nothing but the sound of a few people singing. I thought they might have moved away. Then my father spoke again.
“We don’t talk about Kitty. Certainly not with Mabel.”
My father sounded irritated, but not angry. The way he sounded when he talked to my mother sometimes, before he kissed her. Not the way he ever sounded when he spoke to me.
“Didn’t you sense that there was something … not quite right about her?”
There was a short pause.
“I don’t know, Elliott,” Susan said. “We didn’t talk for long. But she seemed like a normal child to me.”
“A normal child?” He made a noise, like a laugh when you don’t actually find anything funny. I couldn’t see him, but I pictured his contorted face, his intense stare that he locked people in with when he was going to have the last word. “The child is mad, Susan.”
They must have moved away from the stairs because I didn’t hear any more after that. But I remained where I was for a long time, shame staining my skin like a handprint after a slap.
There were two things I liked about my father. Yes, it took me a long while to come up with them, but frankly, he’s lucky to get two.
Firstly, a blind man could tell you my father had lovely hair.
Thick and dark with the slightest wave that everyone said made him look like Cary Grant, including my father.
He tended to his locks with obscene vanity, using specific combs and products and spending an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror in our foyer, admiring himself.
I recall him becoming very upset with my mother when she bought the wrong brand of hair cream from the store. He was partial to Brylcreem.
There was only one other good thing about my father, and that was his socks. The man had an enviable sock collection. Most were purchased from Harrods during visits to London, and they tended to be navy or black or, occasionally, maroon with gray diamonds. Pure wool. The epitome of luxury.
Often, when he sat in his armchair of an evening, his feet on the footstool, I’d see them peeking out of his trouser legs and think, Those are nice socks.
On the days I fantasized about murdering him, I always imagined donating his great fortune to charity because I wasn’t interested in any of it.
Except for his socks, I’d say. I wanted to keep them.
What can I say? They were very nice socks.