The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst [67]
"Who are you?" said Gerald.
"Oh, Christ, Dad!" said Catherine, and it was clear she was crying, the last word broke as she raised her voice.
"And are you Cathy's father, then . . ."
Nick got up and went into the hall, with the feeling he must try to curb Gerald's unhelpful sharpness, and an anxious sense of the things Gerald didn't know, that might now have to be named and negotiated. He was half in the dark himself. If someone told you they were OK, was it wrong to believe them? She was standing at the foot of the stairs, gripping the gold chain of her bag in both hands and looking both angry and vulnerable: Nick almost laughed, as you do for a second at the latest catastrophe of a child, and seem to mock it when you mean to reassure it; though he was frightened too. There was quite a chance he'd have to do something. He peered at her, with the frank curiosity allowed in a crisis—it really was childlike, the quick fall; she had only gone out two hours ago. Her mouth quivered, as if with accusation. She was tiny in her high heels. Nick knew the man, he was the minicab driver she'd been friendly with, the one she'd had back to the house when Gerald and Rachel were away, fiftyish, grizzled at the temples, heavy-built, a sweet hint of ganja about him: well, all the Orbis drivers sold the stuff. He was completely and critically different from everything else in the house. Nick said, "Hi!" under his breath, and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"What's happened, darling?" he said.
"Who is this man?" said Gerald.
"I'm called Brentford, since you're asking," the man said slowly. "I brought Cathy home."
"That's really kind of you," said Nick.
"How do you know my daughter?" said Gerald.
"She needs taking care of," said Brentford. "I can't help her tonight, I got a job."
"He's the minicab driver," said Nick.
"Does he need paying?" said Gerald.
"I don't charge her," said Brentford. "She call me when he dump her."
"Is this true?" said Gerald.
"It's really kind of you," said Nick.
Catherine made a little scream of disbelief, and came and took Brentford's arm, but he kept a wary dignity with her too and didn't hold her: he pushed her gently towards Nick, and she leaned against him, wailing but not holding on to him. She was in her own distress, she wasn't seeking solace from Nick, just somewhere to stand; still he put a cautious arm round her. "Is it Russell?" he said. But she couldn't begin to answer.
"What is it, darling?" said Rachel, hurrying downstairs.
Gerald explained, "That bloody little shit's dumped her," clearly saying, through pretended indignation, what he most hoped had happened. "Poor old Puss."
Rachel looked at the three men, and there was a hint of fear in her face, as if Brentford had brought some threat much larger than Catherine's tantrum into the house. "Come upstairs, darling," she said.
Barry Groom had come out into the hall, staring and twitching his head, and so drunk suddenly that there were unconscious delays to his aggression. "Look here, you!" he shouted at Brentford. "I don't know who you are. You fucker!"
Gerald put a hand on his wrist. "It's all right, Barry."
"You keep your hands off her, you . . ."
"Oh, shut up . . . you arsehole!" said Nick, without planning to, and shaken by the sound of his own raised voice.
"Yes, shut up, you wanker!" said Catherine, through her tears.
"Now, now!" said Barry, and then something awful, a sly smile, slid on to his face.
"God, I'm really sorry . . . " said Nick to Brentford.
"Why are we all standing here?" said Gerald.
"Darling, come up," said Rachel.
"Let's finish our port and cigars," said Gerald, turning his back on Brentford.