The Complex Read online

  ‘Apparently so,’ Stefan said.

  ‘Yes,’ Fleur said. ‘But, you know, it’s a holiday too.’ She picked up her fork and skewered a small potato on her plate.

  Art leant across Fleur and poured red wine into Gabrielle’s empty glass. He lifted the end of the bottle when her glass was almost full in a practised flourish. ‘Try that. It’s from my personal vineyard.’

  ‘Let me eat something first,’ Gabrielle said. The table had a few different breads, cheeses and slices of cold meat. Someone had roasted new potatoes with garlic and rosemary. There was a bowl of salad. She started filling her plate. ‘Who made dinner?’ Gabrielle said to Fleur.

  ‘We did,’ Polly said. ‘We knew we’d be here before you.’

  ‘She says we did, but in fact she did,’ Art said. ‘And Fleur laid the table.’

  ‘It’s no big deal, Dad,’ Fleur said, shrinking back into her seat.

  ‘Fleur wants to make games,’ Stefan said to Gabrielle as she bit into a buttered bread roll. It was still warm. So good.

  ‘I thought we talked about that,’ Art said to Fleur. To the table, he said, ‘I’m hoping to convince her to join the family business.’

  Fleur shot Stefan a look.

  ‘What school do you go to?’ Gabrielle said to Fleur.

  ‘An expensive one,’ Art said, answering for her. ‘But not for much longer, thank goodness. Absolute fortune.’

  Fleur picked at a piece of leftover bread from her plate and put the crumbs in her mouth.

  The table chatter continued. Gabrielle looked around, glad to be out of the spotlight. She ate some food and tried some of Art’s wine. It was good. She was getting better at knowing what good wine tasted like. She cleared her plate and filled it again. Her glass was full, and she hadn’t seen Art fill it. The table took on the warm glow of good company. Polly seemed lovely and was willing to pay Leo some attention. Give that woman a medal. Stefan kept glancing at Fleur. Art toned his performance down and let everyone get on with it. It was all good.

  After a while Gabrielle realised she had been scratching her side and the front of her legs. Perhaps it was an allergic reaction to something. It was actually pretty annoying. Art had managed to get the conversation back to his vineyard. Leo was watching Art, then looking at Polly, his head going between them like he was at a tennis match.

  ‘Did you bring your racquets, Leo?’ Art leant forward. ‘I’ve been practising.’

  ‘No,’ Leo said. ‘Stefan has though. I bet he’d love to play.’

  Stefan widened his eyes, so Gabrielle said to Leo, ‘You could borrow his things.’ She put some more potatoes on her plate, then took another long sip of Art’s red wine. ‘This is really good.’ She raised her glass to Art.

  ‘I haven’t played since last summer,’ Leo protested.

  ‘I think Stefan might be a bit out of Art’s league,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Don’t take that the wrong way, Art.’

  ‘No,’ Art said. ‘Stefan’s reputation precedes him. I picked my target deliberately.’

  Stefan looked at Fleur, blushing. Art chuckled.

  ‘Dad said there’s a library?’ Stefan said, looking at Gabrielle first, but then at Fleur.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Fleur said, pushing her chair back.

  Stefan looked at Gabrielle, who nodded. He stood and went with Fleur to the basement steps. He looked so grown-up, his blonde hair so incongruous, a constant reminder to her.

  ‘What is Stefan going to do when he finishes Finals?’ Polly said.

  ‘I think he’d like to be a pro tennis player,’ Leo said.

  ‘I saw his name in the Area news,’ Art said. ‘But he’s on the science track too, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Leo said. ‘I think he really wants a break. To travel. He applied to a couple of places, Gaby, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gabrielle said. ‘I don’t know about travelling, though.’

  ‘Who can blame him?’ Art said. ‘What they ask of those kids these days is ridiculous. How can they know what they are good at, what they enjoy? They want human machines. But the problem is, the machines will take their jobs soon, and then what will they do?’

  Gabrielle ate the last potato on her plate and sat back, full. Her good mood had faded. Polly asked Leo about his job and Leo gave her a neat summary of his misery. Building maintenance, software, slum demolition. She was sick of hearing it. Art was letting them talk, glancing at Gabrielle every now and then with a raised eyebrow. His amused detachment was one of the things she most liked about him. It made this situation endurable. She had never thought Art and Leo would meet. Art had made this happen.

  She rubbed the back of her legs again. She was afraid she was leaving blood stains on the chair.

  Gabrielle quietly pushed her chair back and mouthed to Art, ‘Toilet?’

  ‘Towards the front door,’ Art said. ‘On the left. Shall I show you?’

  ‘I can find it,’ she said.

  Leo and Polly were deep in conversation and neither looked up. Leo’s face was bright as he went into great detail about building schematics. It was embarrassing. Polly was listening sweetly. Gabrielle had never had that much patience, not even when they had first met.

  The intimacy of the table had distracted her from the scale of the building. Outside it was dark. She watched herself reflected in the glass wall as she walked. She had wanted space. Well, here was space. It was dizzying. The bathroom was on the left. Inside, she pulled her jeans down and twisted to see the back of her legs. There was an intense red rash. No bleeding. A tingling around her torso reminded her to lift her yellow blouse. She was now itching under her arms too. The rash was on both sides of her stomach and ran up her body. Fuck.

  When she came out of the toilet, Art was waiting.

  ‘You’ve been scratching all evening,’ he said. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘I’ll cope.’

  ‘That bad? Your body is having a mild reaction. It’s flushing the old drugs out.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel mild.’

  Art pulled a small orange pill bottle from his trouser pocket. ‘I have a gift for you.’

  ‘You look like some weird hippy city drug dealer,’ she said, looking again at his bare feet. ‘And I don’t like not knowing what’s in them.’

  ‘I know you don’t. These are slightly different. You’ve trusted me this far. These are easier on your body, more of a relaxant. I upped the cannabis element. For your break.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like a holiday, Art, it really doesn’t. This was a terrible idea.’

  He held the bottle out and she looked down the hall towards the kitchen. Nobody could see them.

  ‘Are you experimenting on me?’ she said.

  ‘Do you want to stop?’

  Gabrielle had a flash of memory. The conference room. Her lungs feeling like they were being crushed.

  ‘Christ, Art, I am trusting you.’

  ‘I know. It’s only for the week.’

  She took the bottle and looked at the label. It was blank, like all the others.

  ‘I need to come off them,’ she said.

  ‘Okay.’

  Art stroked her cheek gently with the back of his hand. She looked towards the kitchen again.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Art said. ‘They’re pretty into each other.’

  ‘I had another dizzy spell earlier.’

  ‘Gabrielle. It’s been a terrible time for you. Now you have a week away. Tomorrow, you can go for a walk, take it all in. It’s beautiful here. Those tablets will help. When we get back, I’ll mix a batch that will let you stop without symptoms. Okay?’

  She was glad he knew what he was doing. She felt weary of everything.

  ‘I have to crash,’ she said.

  ‘Good idea. Listen – can I beat Leo at tennis, do you think?’

&
nbsp; She laughed at that. ‘No.’

  ‘If I do beat him, what will you give me?’

  ‘You won’t beat him.’

  ‘Such confidence in your husband. I like that. Come on.’ He gestured for her to take his arm. ‘Let’s go and see how he is getting on with Polly.’

  She put her arm through his and he led her back to the dinner table. She could feel the new pill bottle held snug in her jeans pocket.

  MONDAY

  Leo: Match

  Leo heard the repeating dull thwok of the machine in his dream. The submarine was tilting upwards, the commander’s furious red face screaming orders. He woke.

  ‘What is that noise?’ Gabrielle said, her head under the duvet.

  It came every couple of seconds, regular, like a sprinkler perhaps, although it was too slow for that. His phone said seven forty-five. The battery was almost gone, so something was wrong with the house tech. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up. It was odd, because the car was charging happily. He made a mental note to check later and talk to Art about it. He had so enjoyed Polly’s company, and the wine, of course, he hadn’t covered the basics.

  ‘Leo?’

  ‘I’ll take a look,’ he said.

  He stood and tapped the window so that the glass cleared. He did it again, just to see it go opaque, then again. Impressive detail. The light was bright and led to the pointed rustle of Gabrielle going deeper under the duvet. The pool water was still and looked cold in the morning shade. The grass had dew on it. The sculptures, on their odd, thin stands, were still guarding the house, but without sunlight looked rather dull. He thought of them as crystals rather than stones. He’d walked around them in the dark, after dinner. Fascinating things. When they had arrived, the sun was on them and they caught the light wonderfully, colouring the grass. Now, the sun only lit the very top of the grass bank and the fence of the tennis court. A yellow ball appeared, hitting the wire and falling out of sight.

  Thwok. Pause. Ball. Thwok. Pause. Ball. Thwok.

  ‘Leo!’

  Her tone stung, even from under the duvet. Then Art came into view through the fence wearing a white tennis shirt. The sound had stopped.

  ‘It’s a ball machine,’ he said. ‘Art’s practising.’

  ‘It’s driving me mad.’ Her face was out now, staring at the ceiling. She looked pale. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly eight.’

  Leo watched as Art collected the balls in a basket and disappeared again.

  ‘He still wants to play that damn match,’ Leo said.

  ‘He wants to prove something. I’m not really sure what.’

  ‘That he’s the big man.’

  The duvet rustled again, then the shower started. He looked down at his naked body. His black chest hair had scuffs of grey, his stomach had swollen well beyond what he was comfortable with, his feet were hairy. A gangly, pot-bellied troll. Benign though. Harmless.

  The shower stopped. She was always quick.

  ‘Your turn,’ she said, revived. He turned, sucking his stomach in a little, but not so much it was obvious. It didn’t matter because she wasn’t looking at him – instead she was crouched by her open suitcase on the floor, one hand rifling through clothes, the other rubbing her hair vigorously with a towel. He admired her body. Strong and supremely functional.

  ‘Decent shower?’ he said.

  ‘Magical.’ She looked around the room, still crouching naked, looking for something. Absentmindedly she said, ‘When are you playing him?’

  ‘It looks like he’s ready now. But I need breakfast. And I’ll make sure he knows it’s a friendly.’

  The ball machine started again.

  ‘Friendly,’ she said. ‘Not sure about that. Well, perhaps he’ll exhaust himself.’

  The shower was excellent and when he came out Gabrielle was gone. He didn’t have his tennis clothes, so had to dig out his khaki shorts from his suitcase, as well as the plain white t-shirt he sometimes wore as a vest. It was creased, but fine. He snapped it hard to make it more presentable. The shorts were tight on his waist. He had running shoes, but for comfort, not actually running in. He put them on without socks. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to do too much changing of direction. He didn’t fancy a sprained ankle or twisted knee.

  In the kitchen he found some leftover bread in the bread bin and put some toast on. He found himself a clean plate, butter and a knife. While he was staring at the toaster, Polly breezed in, hair up, wearing black leggings and a pink fleece top.

  ‘Morning, darling,’ she called, heading across the room to the sofa by the front window. Leo unthinkingly scanned for Gaby, but she wasn’t around. Perhaps she had gone for a walk. The sofa was actually quite a long way away. Polly bent to pick something up, a book, and he felt caught between admiring her body and looking at the butter knife. She came back to the kitchen table with the cover of the book hidden.

  ‘Amazing view,’ she said.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he said. The morning sun on the mountain trees was spectacular, now that he was looking. A living painting.

  Polly put her book on the table and came next to him, checking the kettle for water and filling it at the sink. He got another hint of the perfume she had worn last night. The book looked like some sort of popular thriller.

  ‘Sleep well?’ he said.

  ‘Lots of dreams. It must be the new bed. Or the air. Where is your darling boy?’

  ‘He hasn’t surfaced. But I need his racquet.’

  ‘You’re going to play,’ she said.

  ‘You sound disappointed. Yes, I guess so. Why?’

  ‘Well, with Art’s games, once you start to play, you’ve already lost.’

  The toaster popped. Not sure what to make of Polly’s statement, Leo put the slices of toast on his plate and buttered them.

  ‘It looks so sad,’ Polly said, wrinkling her nose at his plate.

  ‘I like peanut butter. But, to be honest, I’m not hungry.’

  He took the plate and sat at the head of the table.

  ‘I enjoyed myself last night,’ he said, watching her put the kettle back. She glanced at him.

  ‘Me too,’ she said, making her tea. Leo didn’t think she sounded that enthused. She dropped a spoon in the sink with a clatter. Perhaps he had misread things.

  ‘How can Art drink so much and be up so early?’ Leo said.

  ‘Art doesn’t really drink. A glass over the evening, yes, but he prefers to fill other people’s glasses.

  She took a banana from a bag on the counter and peeled it.

  ‘Are you going to win?’ she said.

  ‘It’s just a friendly.’

  Polly brought a fork and the bare fruit to Leo’s plate, broke the banana in half, put a piece on each slice of toast and pushed the fork into one of them.

  ‘Mash it,’ she said. ‘For energy.’

  He smiled at her, but she was straight-faced.

  ‘It’s not a friendly,’ she said.

  Turning away, the material of her leggings brushed his arm. Again, he found himself guiltily watching her round, soft bottom. The hairs on his arms had risen at the unexpected contact. He shifted in his seat, feeling his shorts tighten. He wished he had tracksuit trousers. He imagined unzipping her pink top and discovering her heavy, bare breasts. He mashed his banana. It was physical attraction, perfectly natural. No need to feel bad. Perhaps it would help him through the week.

  He started eating and thought about Stefan, still asleep. How the hell had Art suckered him into this game?

  ‘Coffee,’ Polly said, putting a cup next to him. ‘A legal stimulant.’

  ‘Legal?’

  Art’s voice cut through them from the poolside door. ‘Leo!’

  ‘I’m eating breakfast,’ he called back.

  ‘The court is fantastic!’
/>   He ate one slice quickly then sipped the coffee. He was rushing and burnt his tongue. His lips tingled. He got a glass of water and sipped that. He wanted to put his tongue in the water but couldn’t bring himself to with Polly watching. He stood, picked up the water and the plate with the remaining toast, and noticed Polly looking, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘I’ll take it with me,’ he said.

  ‘Good luck.’

  He went to go towards the court.

  ‘Leo,’ Polly said.

  He looked back at her, dumbly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Racquet.’

  He put everything back on the table and hurried to Stefan’s room. There was no answer when he knocked. Fleur’s door opposite was closed too. A small, antique dresser sat against the corridor end with a long silver-framed mirror propped up on it. He knocked again, then went quietly in.

  There was a lump in the bed, though it was hard to tell if it was duvet or human with the windows dark. No movement. Stefan’s tennis bag was on the floor near the bathroom door. Leo unzipped the bag and pulled out the yellow racquet Stefan preferred with the computer game stickers. It was lighter than his own. He knew Stefan liked his strings tighter than he did, but this wasn’t a time to worry about that.

  The form in the bed moved.

  ‘It’s just me,’ Leo said.

  ‘M’kay.’

  Closing the door behind him, Leo caught himself in the corridor mirror and grimaced. He looked like a complete amateur.

  ‘Are you up for this?’ he whispered at himself. They nodded at each other. ‘Right.’

  Leo could see Art walking towards the house again, wearing all white – shorts, collared tennis shirt, white socks and tennis shoes. Leo picked up his plate and glass and went to meet him.

  ‘There you are. I thought you were bottling it.’ Art looked at Leo’s plate. ‘Still having breakfast?’

  ‘Energy,’ Leo said, then nodded at Art’s shirt. ‘You’re dressed for centre court.’

  ‘Why not?’ Art said. ‘Clothes matter.’

  Art led Leo along the back of the house to the car park, where there were steps leading up to the court. Leo noticed how small their car looked compared to Art’s Mercedes quasi-truck.