Page 40 of We All Live Here
And Gene had said, in his most drawly American accent: “I don’t know, pal. Do you have anything that is a little more flattering for the mature guy?”
And the man with the mustache said: “What did you have in mind?”
And Gene had looked at her and said: “I don’t know. I’ll ask my granddaughter. What do you think would suit me, sweetheart?”
And she had actually thought she might wet herself, because he kept his face completely straight, and put his finger to his mouth like he was actually thinking about it, so she said, “I—I’m not sure. I guess we should ask Mum. She’s better at that kind of thing.”
And then they walked out into the autumn sunlight and she couldn’t stop laughing and Gene was grinning at her like it was the best fun ever. And they had eatenpastel de natawith a revoltingly strong coffee at a tiny coffee shop that made her heart race, then walked through Chinatown and stopped outside a tattoo parlor where Gene told her he had got his third tattoo, which he insisted on showing her, under his T-shirt, which he said had been for Grandma, whom he used to callFrancie, but the guy misheard and wroteFancyinstead. It was all blurred and dark blue on the pale upper arm skin under his sleeve and decidedly un-fancy. “I might have had a drink,” Gene muttered, frowning at it, and then said, “Ah, well, it’s all life, right?”
And they had eaten noodles from a Vietnamese place that had a serving hatch built into the wall, and Gene had shown her all the theaters he had worked in, and told her which stars had been assholes and which ones he had fallen in love with. “Never date an actor, sweetheart,” he said. “We fall in love way too easy.” He still had a piece of noodle on the side of his mouth. And then the tube home, where two people recognized him and Gene posed for pictures again, like some kind of celebrity, and then they had walked up to the house and Gene had put his fingers to his lips likeDon’t tellbut she noticed that it was a quarter past eight and they had missed supper and Mum was freaking out and had yelled, “Where on earth have you both been? Celie, why didn’t you answer your phone? I was about to call the police!” And Celie realized she hadn’t even thought to look at her phone. Not once. And Gene had his palms up and was telling everyone to chill out, which is exactly the thing you say to people to make them go completely nuts. And Truant was growling and there was this bowl of cold lentils on the table and Celie was suddenly really, really happy about the noodles. And it was at that point that Mum had seen the tattoo running up the inside of Celie’s arm.
“Please don’t tell me…” she began, then tailed off. It was as if all the color had leached from her face. “Oh, no.”
“I don’t believe it. Of all the irresponsible things…” Bill began.
“Blame me,” Gene had said, his voice all soft and calm, and Violet’s eyes, staring at Celie’s arm, had grown as wide as saucers.
“But she’s not even eighteen!” Mum was yelling, her hands clutching her hair. “What the hell were you thinking taking my daughter to get a tattoo?”
“Did it hurt?” Violet is at her shoulder, tracing the marks with her finger.
“Come upstairs and I’ll tell you,” Celie says. And they had run off in their socks, leaving Gene with all the shouting and commotion below them. It is there, locked into Celie’s bedroom, that she tells her little sister what she and Gene had agreed not to say downstairs. It is not a real tattoo: it is washable ink, drawn by the tattoo artist as a gift after he remembered Gene from thirty years previously. They had decided it would be funnier not to say. Violet squeals with happiness and turns two somersaults on Celie’s bed. “I want one!” she yells, her feet drumming on the wall. “I want one!”
It is, Celie realizes, as the noises from downstairs finally settle into grumpy recriminations as Gene obviously tells the truth, and her sister disappears to her bedroom to no doubt draw all over herself in biro, the first time Celie has laughed in weeks.
Chapter Thirteen
Lila
From: [email protected]
So how is it going darling? Regent House called again this morning, desperate for three chapters and a synopsis.
ML
Anoushka xx
From: [email protected]
Great! Almost ready to send.
Lila x
Lila has finished the three chapters. They are the most honest, brave, and, in her opinion, best chapters she has ever written. She has poured her very guts into them—the shock, the hurt, the anger, the sense of shame and vulnerability she has carried sinceThe Rebuild’s paperback publication, challenging herself at every turn to write more honestly, to peel back layer upon painful layer, to expose it all, even if it means her own public humiliation. It is brutal, possibly (she thinks in her more satisfied moments) even a little heartrending. It is the bald truth of what it is to be left for someone else, to watch the man you love build a new family without you but in full sight. Her daughters are disguised to the wider public, as before (she calls them simply Child A and Child B), but she has been nakedly honest about herself and Dan. Given his name was in several online gossip columns along with their story (she wishes the literary pages had been as interesting) she cannot see any point in suddenly trying to hide his identity. She has described Marja simply as the Mistress. Why not? It’s what she is. That was her choice.
And, besides, what does she owe them? This is her chance to claw back her narrative, to speak for all the women who have been left, who are trying to keep their remaining family afloat amid a series of catastrophic decisions and choices that were very much not theirs.
She has read her words again and again, editing, refining, printing them out and trying to read them as if she were someone else, looking carefully for too much self-pity, or anything that makes her sound bitter, anything that will enable people to write her off.Other women will get this, she thinks, as she finally puts the three chapters into an email and, with a shiver of trepidation, presses send. Other women will understand and identify. They are who I am doing this for. She tells herself this so often she almost believes it.
Adding to Lila’s sense of giddy anticipation is that Gabriel Malloryhas texted her multiple times in the past week. Sometimes they are just questions about school ephemera, other times more personal. Every time her phone pings she gets a little shot of adrenaline, a second when she sees his name appear.
Lovely to see you today, and looking so incantevole.
According to Google, it means “lovely.”
