“What I don’t understand,” Jamie insisted, “I mean, what I’m trying to say is . . . what the fuck?”
Charlie glanced up from his newspaper and asked, “What the fuck what?”
“Huh?”
“What are you stuck on?” Charlie sighed, lowering the paper completely.
“I just . . . it’s ludicrous, Charles. You know I’m good so why . . . I should have gotten into Macbeth. It’s absolute rubbish they didn’t cast me.”
Seeing that Jamie was simply wanting to air his grievances in monologue form, Charlie went back to his newspaper, nodding and offering monosyllabic answers as Jamie continued, “I mean, you should have seen me in the audition. I was bloody good. And they went and gave it to some prick that’s still in acting school. I mean . . . if you want to act, you don’t go to school for it. You just go.”
“You’ve gone to school for it.”
“I’ve taken classes. There’s a difference. I didn’t pursue a degree in it.”
“So that’s what’s ludicrous? That they cast a kid for the role you deserved? Maybe they just wanted someone younger, or with a different appearance.”
Jamie apparently hadn’t considered this before and tapped his chin in thought, glancing down at the café table with his dark eyes. His long dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and the shadow of scruff was staking its claim on his chin, since had hadn’t shaved since not getting the part. Now that Charlie mentioned it, they had gone for a bloke with lighter brown hair and blue eyes, and who looked a bit anemic . . .
“You must be right,” Jamie nodded, placated.
Again Charlie lowered his newspaper, this time to take a sip of his tea and point out, “Besides, you have a part in a play now, right? That’s the whole reason you’re sleeping with that one girl?”
“No! It’s not the only reason. I really do enjoy her,” Jamie insisted, but Charlie rolled his eyes and went back to his paper. “She’s . . . well, anyways, yeah, her dad pulled some strings. But that’s the really ludicrous play. The play’s about a fucking rhinoceros!”
“A rhinoceros?”
Jamie nodded, “Yeah. Queer, isn’t it? It’s like, the weirdest shit I’ve ever read. Everyone just turns into rhinoceros. I mean, the whole thing makes no sense. I play the best friend of the main guy, and I mean, I’ve got to turn into a rhinoceros. I tell you, any shit gets published these days. Write a play about anything you want, slap it on a piece of paper, and someone will yank it up and make millions off of it.”
“What a high esteem you have for your chosen profession.”
Jamie laughed and shook his head, then insisted through a bite of his scone, “No, I know. But not all of it’s shit. Just some of it.”
“Well you know what Theodore Sturgeon said. ‘Ninety percent of everything is crap,’” Charlie quoted, setting his paper down for good. His tea was getting cold, and he wanted to change the subject because Ionesco was most certainly not within that ninety percent.
It was not every day that James and Charles convened for brunch – in fact, hardly ever. Despite proximity and dependency of seeing each other, the Blythe children were really not all that close, and often tried every excuse possible to bail out on any plans that were made. Jamie had not gotten the part of Macbeth, though, and wanted someone to bitch and moan to about it, and who better than his own younger brother who had once, not so very long ago, been an actor himself, though he had given up the profession for college. He wanted to be a teacher. Jamie scoffed at the idea of his own brother being responsible for the mental welfare of students of any age, but then he had once himself dreamed of being a businessman, and even attained a degree in it, before realizing he actually belonged on the stage.
Despite his inability to fathom the concepts of Theatre of the Absurd, however, Jamie was not a dullard. Once Charlie had put the newspaper down, Jamie set to filling out the crossword, relishing in the fact that Charlie had never been any good at them. The waitress brought their split checks, and to make sure she didn’t get stiffed, Charlie covered the tip.
“You’ll talk to Fran and Nina about Mum and Dad’s anniversary?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie shrugged, waving Charlie off and still focusing on the crossword.
“I mean it, Jamie.”
“Why can’t you call them again?”
Charlie sighed and evaded the question, insisting, “Call them,” before striding out of the café.
“Mother, what do you think about this?” Mr. Blythe asked, passing a travel magazine to his wife. With their twenty-fifth anniversary just around the corner, they were trying to select a location for a second honeymoon. It seemed they had been most everywhere they could possibly want to go, so Mr. Blythe was trying to get creative, checking out magazines with “alternative destinations.” Thus far, nothing had really fit the bill.
Mrs. Blythe adjusted the bifocals on her nose and looked closer, then shook her head and shoved the magazine back, “No, no, I have no desire to go kayaking with a bunch of sweaty Italians.
“You wouldn’t be with Italians, my love, you would be with me.”
“But you know I hate Italy. Really, it’s a shame James looks as Italian as he does. I feel like that was God’s cruel joke on me. I married a blond man for a reason, but then James and Francesca . . . well, at least she has the sense to dye her hair.”
“If you speak like that, Mother, the children are going to think you favor Charles and Nina.”
“Oh, but I do,” Mrs. Blythe laughed, leaving it completely ambiguous whether she were serious or not.
“Well I suppose it’s all right. I think I rather favor James and Frannie.”
Mrs. Blythe laughed and slapped his arm, “Why, Harold, James isn’t even yours!”
“But no one knows that,” Mr. Blythe argued, giving her a pointed look. “He’s a man, isn’t he? I’ve always sort of wondered about Charles . . . do you think he’s queer?”
“You suggest that! No, I think as his mother I would know. He is simply too intelligent and complex for you understand. However, I do wonder about Francesca. She wants to live with that girl, you know.”
“The American? Does she?”
“Yes, she rang me yesterday to ask if we might help them get an apartment together.”
“No, she’s not like that. They’re just young girls and friends. You remember how you were with your girl friends.”
“That is true . . . still, I would feel better about things if Francesca would find a man already. It has been a long time.”
“Perhaps Nina could help her. Nina doesn’t seem to have any problems with the boys . . .”
“What precisely are you suggesting about my baby?” Mrs. Blythe snapped, her eyes jumping from her home décor catalogue to land on her husband’s round face.
He grinned and leaned over to kiss her cheek, “Only that she is as charmed as you were at that age, my darling.”
“Well that’s the worst thing you could possibly say,” Mrs. Blythe insisted, crossing her legs sharply and clamping the magazine shut. “I do hope she doesn’t wind up pregnant any time soon. I have no desire to be a grandmother at my age.”
“Do you think we should intervene?”
“Well are you really sure she’s having sex? I mean, we do know so little about those children . . .”
Mr. Blythe shrugged, which was apparently contagious because then Mrs. Blythe shrugged and pulled up a new magazine.
“It is so nice having none of the children here,” Mrs. Blythe commented after a moment. “We can finally be honest and state things as they are.”
“If you say so dear.”
“Do you think Nina’s feelings would be hurt horribly if we asked her to move out?”
“I don’t know, though she is only seventeen tomorrow. Perhaps it’s a bit early. She might move in with a boy.”
Mrs. Blythe nodded, “That is very true. Did you say it’s her birthday tomorrow? Have we bought her anything yet?” Mr. Blythe shook his head. “Oh. Well I suppose I ought to go shopping. I’ll see you at supper.”
She strode briskly from the room, ignoring Mr. Blythe’s mutterings, “Any reason to go shopping . . .”
Nina sighed and batted away Kensington’s hand, “I told you already, I can’t. I’m going out with my sister.”
“Well what about after that?”
“I’m probably crashing at her place,” Nina shrugged, recrossing her legs so she could lean a bit further away from Kensington and his hyperactive fingers. He had been tugging at her waist all day, but if the dirty things he was whispering in her ear were supposed to excite her, it was an all-around failure. He paid special attention to her uniform skirt in these instructions, but she found the word ‘skirt’ rather common sounding. It was a harsh word. It required him to hiss, click, and then tsk in her ear, all just to say one single word, and that annoyed her. She didn’t like anyone touching her ears, much less heavy breathing into them.
He was pouting, so Nina tapped him on the nose and insisted, “Honestly, Kensi, we’ve got all weekend. I can spare a night out to go with my sister.”
“Do you want to?”
“Go out with her? No, not particularly . . . it’s the right thing to do, though, isn’t it? I mean, she’s my sister, and she sounded pretty excited about it on the phone. It’s just one night. And besides, I think she’ll be paying for all my drinks.”
“All the more reason to come visit me afterwards! Drunk sex is the best kind!”
Nina rolled her eyes, “Look, I’ve really got to go. I have to figure out what I’m going to wear and I don’t think I have anything, so I’m probably going to have to go shopping . . .”
“Oh your life is just downright shitty, isn’t it?” he laughed. He kissed her on the mouth, forcing his tongue between her teeth, then kissed her again on the cheek before bounding off for field hockey practice. Nina waited until he was gone to wipe the spit off her cheek. He meant well, but he was an awful kisser.
What to wear clubbing . . . Nina had never been before. Maybe she should have asked Kensington to go shopping with her. But really, he had bad taste in fashion. He would probably just tell her to buy whatever covered the least. None of her male friends would be any help, but her female friends . . . were severely lacking in number.
But she didn’t need a girlfriend’s opinion. Slinging her Gucci over her shoulder, Nina went to hail a cab.
Tegan was late for work, and found herself sprinting down the street to the bakery-café. She dodged two cars and a stroller, but then slammed bodily into the blond boy exiting her place of work –who, of course, was none other than Charles Blythe. He helped her to her feet, made sure she was all right, then continued on his way.
James saw her step into the café, decided she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, and promptly called Kate so he could remember how much he loved his girlfriend. Because he did. He really and truly loved her.
Tegan tossed her things into the office, then clapped her hands and asked the heavyset woman sitting at the desk, “Am I baking today?”
“You ask that . . . when do I have you waitress? Never! You’re a terrible waitress but an excellent baker and you can’t wake up early enough to waitress anyways. Stupid girl, why do you even bother asking?” the woman exploded in annoyance, shaking her head and waving her hands frantically in the air.
Tegan laughed and patted the woman’s head as though she were a dog, “That is why, Ms. Havers.” She then slipped off her rings, yanked her favorite apron off the hook –a yellow one with small pastel flowers and hearts all over it—and went to survey the list of orders hanging on the wall waiting for her.
The way the bakery was constructed, a large glassless window took up most of the wall behind the counter, meaning anyone perusing the pastries in the glass display case, or ordering a cappuchino or tea, could also watch the goings on of the kitchen. Initially, it had made Tegan feel like a fish in a bowl since customers would stand there, watching her wrestle with mounds of cookie dough or carefully frost a dozen cupcakes. She had learned to see her job as half baking, half performance art, though, and now rather enjoyed the interest others took in what to many was a behind-the-scenes job. Still, though, she much preferred late afternoons and evenings, when the staff present would reduce to two, three at most, and Ms. Havers would have gone home, and the café would be quiet except for a couple tables. She hated working mornings and wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been Friday. Everyone in the world needed cookies and cakes and scones for their Fridays, or maybe didn’t want to press their time on Saturday, hence why all three of the main bakers were present: a 50-something Frenchwoman Chantel who liked to twitter to herself in her native language, a German man in his late 30s named Josef who looked and acted like he were twenty years older, and Tegan. Ms. Havers claimed the reason her pastries were among the best in England was because she didn’t employ a single British baker. She herself was Swedish and declared that the British didn’t know anything about cooking or baking. So she hired a Frenchwoman, a German baker, and the child of an American caterer. Business was booming, so perhaps she knew what she was talking about.
Tegan set to work while Josef chuckled, “You are being watched, birdie.”
“And it’s a rainy day in London,” Tegan laughed. “Tell us something new.” However, she glanced over to see whom he meant: the dark-haired man sitting at the table by the window, his eyes trained on her.
“Something new . . . you are looking a bit fatter, Tegan. Are you sleeping with that Frenchman?” Chantel interrupted. She was so demure and softspoken when it came to anything except Tegan’s social life. Tegan laughed and scolded Chantel for calling her fat and insisted they had no time for such gossip, they had orders to fill. Josef and Chantel laughed at her blush.
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