The Authenticity Project Page 14

  “Have you been up all night, Monica?” he asked. “It looks gorgeous. As do you. And that’s a professional opinion.” Monica’s cheeks reddened even more.

  “I did get up rather early. Go and join Benji in The Library, and put those presents under the tree.”

  A bottle of champagne lounged in an ice bucket on one of the coffee tables, alongside a large platter of smoked salmon blinis. The air was filled with the smell of roasting turkey and the sound of the King’s College choir singing carols. It was one of those days when all plans came together.

  Monica came over, taking off her apron as she sat down. “Right, we’ve got an hour before I need to put the last vegetables on. Shall we open some presents? We could do some now, and some after lunch.”

  Julian who, unlike Monica, was not a fan of delayed gratification, said, “Please can we do mine first?” Not giving them any time to object, he pulled his pile of presents, wrapped in matching paper, from under the tree and handed them round.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t actually buy anything,” he explained. “I just had a rummage around my cottage.”

  Benji, who had been first to rip the paper off his parcel, was looking at the present on his lap openmouthed. “A Sergeant Pepper album. In vinyl. You can’t give this away, Julian. It’ll be worth a fortune,” protested Benji, although he was clinging on to the record as if he couldn’t bear to be parted from it.

  “I’d rather give it to someone who’ll appreciate it properly, dear boy, and I know how much you love the Beatles. They were never really my thing. Too goody-goody. The Sex Pistols. They were right up my alley.”

  He turned to Riley, who was holding up an original Rolling Stones T-shirt in awe. “Well, you’ve been wanting to get your hands on my clothes for ages, young Riley. You can sell it if you like, but I think it’d look rather good on you.”

  The present Julian really wanted to see opened was Monica’s. He watched her carefully peel off the Sellotape, taking an age.

  “Just rip it, dear child!” he told her. She looked slightly shocked.

  “You can’t reuse it if it’s ripped,” she said, as if admonishing an overexcited toddler.

  Finally, she peeled back the paper and gasped. That was the reaction he’d been waiting for. The others gathered around to peer at the present lying in her lap.

  “Julian, it’s beautiful. Far more beautiful than I am,” she said. He’d painted her in oils, partly from memory, and partly from the sketches he’d managed to do surreptitiously during their art classes. It was only a small canvas, showing Monica, chin resting on her hand, with a strand of her hair entwined around her index finger. Like all Julian’s portraits, the brushstrokes were bold and sweeping, almost abstract, and the painting conveyed as much in the details left out as in the ones he’d included. He looked at the real Monica. She seemed as if she were about to cry. In a good way, he assumed.

  “It’s the first thing, apart from our recent Pollock collaboration, I’ve painted for fifteen years,” he said, “so I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty.”

  They were interrupted by a banging on the door. Benji, realizing that it must be Baz and his granny, went to unlock it. Julian put Baz and Mrs. Wu’s gifts on the table next to him in preparation. He had his back to the door, so he didn’t see Baz’s face until he joined them. The others had gone quiet.

  “Is something the matter, Baz?” asked Monica. “Where’s Betty?”

  Julian had a terrible feeling that he knew what was coming next. He could feel Baz’s eyes boring into him as he spoke, but he dared not look at him. Instead, he focused on his shoes. Classic black brogues, beautifully polished. So few people polished their shoes properly these days.

  “Granny hasn’t come out of her room since last night,” he said, in a voice tight with controlled rage.

  “Why not?” asked Benji. “Is she ill?”

  “Maybe you should ask Julian,” Baz replied.

  Julian had a mouthful of blini, but he couldn’t swallow it as his throat seemed to have dried up. He picked up his glass of champagne and took a big gulp.

  “I’m really, really sorry, Baz. I thought she knew. Surely it’s no big deal these days who you fall in love with? It’s not like the sixties when my friend Andy Warhol was the only openly homosexual man I knew. The closet, meanwhile, was bursting with them.”

  Everyone had gone silent, having put two and two together and made four.

  “Granny hasn’t quite caught up with the modern trend. She’s not exactly woke. She’s been wailing for hours about how her life will have been in vain. What’s the point in having worked her fingers to the bone setting up a business for her descendants to inherit if she wasn’t going to have any? She’s beside herself.” Baz sat down and put his head in his hands. Julian thought he preferred him angry to desolate.

  “What about your parents, Baz? Are they OK?” asked Benji, reaching for his hand. Baz snatched it away, as if his grandmother might be watching.

  “They’re surprisingly sanguine about it. I think they’ve known all along.”

  “I’m not trying to excuse my letting the proverbial cat out of the bag, dear boy, but isn’t it better to have these things out in the open? Isn’t it a relief? Secrets can make you sick. I should know,” said Julian.

  “It was not your secret to tell, Julian! I would have told her in my own way, in my own time. Or not at all. Honesty is not always the best policy. Sometimes we have secrets for a reason—to protect the people we love. Would it have been so very terrible if Granny had gone to her grave believing that my Chinese wife and I would take over the restaurant and fill it with little baby Wus?”

  “But, I—” said Julian, before Baz interrupted.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Julian. And, by the way, I don’t believe for one minute that you were a friend of Andy Warhol. Or Marianne Faithfull. Or Princess bloody Margaret. You’re one big fake, sitting there in your ridiculous checked skirt. Why don’t you go back to your rubbish dump and stay out of my business?” And, with that, he stood up and walked out.

  In the stunned silence he left behind him, you could have heard a pine needle drop onto the polished oak floor.

  THIRTY

  Riley

  Riley could never have imagined that the tiny, warmhearted, and good-natured Baz could get so angry. He’d turned the full force of his rage on Julian, who’d seemed to shrink back into his seat, like a desiccated fly trapped in a web. Since Riley had known Julian, he’d grown in stature, becoming more and more confident and exuberant. In the space of a few minutes, all that had gone.

  Riley looked at Benji, a clear case of collateral damage. He looked horrified and terrified in equal measure. The sound of the door banging behind Baz reverberated through the café for several seconds. Then Benji spoke, in an uncharacteristically small voice.

  “Do you think I should go after him? What do I do?”

  “I think you need to leave him for a while, to work things out and talk to his family,” said Monica.

  “What if his family hate me? What if they won’t let him see me anymore?”

  “You know, it doesn’t sound like they have a problem with you. It doesn’t even sound as if his parents have a problem with Baz being gay. This is 2018, for God’s sake. His granny just needs to come to terms with the whole dynastical thing,” said Riley. “Anyhow, they can’t not let him see you. You’re both grown-ups. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I should leave,” said Julian, who sounded every year of his age. “Before I cause any more trouble.”

  “Julian,” said Monica as she turned to him, looking fierce, palm forward, like a traffic officer halting oncoming cars, “stay right there. Baz didn’t mean what he said. He was just lashing out. This is not your fault. You weren’t to know. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “I really didn’t,” said Julian. “As soon
as I realized I’d said the wrong thing, I backtracked. I thought I’d gotten away with it.”

  “Things may all work out for the best in the end. Benji, wouldn’t it be nice if you didn’t have to worry about Baz’s family finding out all the time? If you could walk past the restaurant hand in hand? Move in together, even. You may decide, one day, that Julian’s done you both an enormous favor. Oh, Christ. The roast potatoes!”

  Monica dashed off to the kitchen, and Julian reached into his bag, pulling out a dusty bottle of port.

  “I bought this for after lunch, but perhaps a good glug of it now would be classed as medicinal,” he said, pouring a large slug into Benji’s and Riley’s glasses, followed by his own.

  Riley didn’t like conflict; he wasn’t used to it. Was everything always so complicated over here, or was it just the circle he’d landed in?

  The three of them sat in silence, drinking the viscous, blood-colored port, too stunned by recent events to talk. After fifteen minutes or so, which felt like hours, Monica called out that lunch was ready.

  Luckily, the change of location from The Library to lunch table effected a change in mood. They pulled their crackers and each donned a paper hat, and gradually some of the bonhomie from earlier in the day seeped back into the proceedings. All four of them seemed determined to forget, at least for the time being, the incident.

  “Monica, this food is amazing. You are amazing,” said Riley, squeezing her knee under the table. Then, unable to resist the urge, he ran his fingers up her thigh. Monica flushed and choked on a Brussels sprout; he wasn’t sure if that was the result of the compliment or the physical contact. He moved his hand a little higher.

  “Arrgghh!” he yelled, as Monica stabbed him in the hand with her fork.

  “What’s the matter, Riley?” Benji asked.

  “Cramp,” he replied.

  Riley watched his friends eat. Monica cut up each portion of food precisely and chewed each mouthful for ages before swallowing. Julian had arranged his plate like an abstract artwork. Every now and again he would, midmouthful, close his eyes and smile as if savoring every flavor. Benji, meanwhile, pushed his food around in a rather melancholy way, barely eating a thing.

  They took turns reading out the terrible jokes from the crackers, drank more wine, more quickly than was wise, and the day seemed to be getting back on track. They would deal with the whole Baz situation later.

  Riley helped Monica clear all the plates away from the table. They loaded them into the dishwasher. Or, rather, Riley loaded things into the dishwasher, then Monica took them out and put them somewhere different. She had, she said, a system. Then Riley picked up Monica, sat her on the kitchen counter, and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her tight. She smelled of black currants and cloves. The kiss, the wine, and the heady emotion of the day made him feel dizzy.

  He pulled Monica’s hair out of her ponytail and combed his fingers through it. He curled her hair around his fingers, gently tugging her head back, then kissed the damp, salty hollow at the base of her neck. Monica wound her legs around his back, pulling him closer. He loved traveling. He loved London. He loved Christmas. And he was starting to think that he loved Monica.

  “Get a room!” shouted Benji, and Riley turned to see Benji and Julian standing in the doorway, grinning. Julian was holding a gravy boat, and Benji a bowl of leftover sprouts.

  “But not until we’ve had pudding!” added Julian.

  * * *

  • • •

  MONICA PLACED THE Christmas pudding in the center of the table and they all stood around it. Julian poured brandy over the top and Riley struck a match and set it alight, but not before burning his fingers.

  “That’s what happens when you play with fire, Riley,” said Monica, raising an eyebrow suggestively. He wondered how long it would be before Julian and Benji left.

  “Oh, bring us some figgy pudding!” sang Benji. Riley put his arm round Monica’s waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  Then the door opened. Riley realized that none of them had locked it again after Baz had left. He turned around expecting to see Baz or Mrs. Wu. But it was neither of them.

  “Merry Christmas, everyone!” a tall, dark-haired man said in a voice that seemed to fill the space and reverberate off the walls. “I just love it when a plan comes together!”

  It was Hazard.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Hazard

  It was three days before Christmas. The beach was awash with newcomers, including at least three honeymooning couples who peppered every sentence with the words my husband and my wife and tried to outdo one another with their public displays of affection. Hazard was having tea at Lucky Mother with Daphne, Rita, and Neil. They’d started this peculiarly English ritual a couple of weeks previously and found it a comforting reminder of home, although Hazard couldn’t remember the last time he’d had afternoon tea in London. He’d been more likely to tuck into Lucozade and ketamine in the afternoon than tea and cake. Rita had even taught Barbara how to make scones, which they ate warm with coconut jam. If only they had clotted cream it would be perfect.

  Neil was showing them the tattoo he’d had done during his last trip to Koh Samui. It was some writing in Thai, winding around his left ankle bone.

  “What does it say?” asked Hazard.

  “It says stillness and peace,” replied Neil. Judging by Barbara’s rather shocked face as she looked to see what they were admiring, Hazard suspected it didn’t say that at all. He winked at Barbara and put his finger to his lips. What Neil didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  “What are we doing for Christmas lunch, Barbara?” asked Daphne. “Are we having turkey?”

  “Chicken,” replied Barbara. “Not the skinny chickens from here. I have fat, fat chickens coming from Samui. Everything fatter in Samui. Even tourists fatter in Samui.” She blew out her cheeks and mimed fatness with her arms, while her guests basked in the unintended compliment.

  Hazard felt a sudden yearning for London. For turkey with chestnut stuffing, roast potatoes, and sprouts. For cold weather and Christmas carols. For double-decker buses, traffic pollution, and overcrowded tube trains. For the BBC, the speaking clock, and Kebab Kid on the New King’s Road. And that’s when he knew.

  He was going home.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE ONLY FLIGHT Hazard could get a seat on was the one no one else wanted: flying overnight on Christmas Eve and arriving in Heathrow on Christmas morning. The plane was terribly festive, with the cabin staff doling out free champagne and twice as many drinks as usual. Everyone was getting merrily drunk. Except for Hazard, who tried to keep his eyes straight ahead, glued to the film playing on his screen, ignoring the snap of metal caps on bottles being unscrewed and the pop of champagne corks. Would he ever be able to hear the sound of a cork being released without feeling a visceral yearning? he wondered.

  The airport and the streets were spookily deserted. It felt a bit like being in a zombie apocalypse film, but a lot merrier and without hosts of shabbily dressed undead. The people who were around were filled with love for their fellow man and tended to be wearing comedy hats and festive sweaters.

  Hazard had managed to share one of the few available taxis as far as Fulham Broadway, where he jumped out, greeting the cold air like an old friend and heaving his rucksack onto his back. It felt like a lifetime since he was last here, when he was a completely different person. He hadn’t told his parents he was back yet. He didn’t want to disrupt all their plans and, anyhow, he could do with a few days to acclimatize before he started the long slog of building bridges.

  He walked down the Fulham Road toward his apartment. He could see Monica’s Café ahead of him. He was dying to know what had happened since he sent Riley off with The Authenticity Project. He realized it’d become rather an unhealthy obsession—something to take his
mind off his desperate desire to get out of his head. He knew that it was highly unlikely that Monica would have met Julian, let alone Riley; it was just a story that had been playing in his fevered imagination.

  As he reached the café, he couldn’t resist looking inside. It looked like a tableau from a Christmas card—all candles, holly, and ivy and a table groaning with the remains of a Christmas feast. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks, because there, just as he’d imagined it, were Monica and Riley, hugging. And an old man in an extraordinary two-tone tartan ensemble who couldn’t be anyone other than Julian Jessop.

  He was a genius! What an amazing bit of social engineering, a fabulous random act of kindness come good. Hazard couldn’t wait to meet Monica and Julian properly, to introduce himself as a key player in the drama and to discuss how this had all come about. He pushed on the door and walked in, feeling like a conquering hero.

  The reaction wasn’t quite what he’d been expecting. Monica, Julian, and the fourth chap, a tall redhead, just looked at him blankly. Riley, meanwhile, looked a bit like a rabbit caught in headlights. Horrified, even.

  “I’m Hazard!” he clarified. “You obviously found the book, then, Riley!”

  “You’re the man who sent the postcard,” said Monica, who was looking at him, not with gratitude, as he’d imagined she would, but with suspicion and distaste. “You’d better explain what’s going on.”

  Something told Hazard, just a little too late, that this wasn’t such a great idea after all.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Monica

  Monica was shattered after all the running around, the emotional roller coaster, and too much alcohol, but she couldn’t remember being happier. She was high on goodwill, friendship, and—thanks to her steamy snogging session in the kitchen with Riley—pheromones. She’d even managed not to think about the health and safety ramifications of making out on a professional kitchen work surface.