“He’s embroiled her in much trouble.”
“Also, not news,” I mutter, thinking back to the loss of her trust fund, and God only knows what else. God, and our lawyers as of next week.
As my drink appears in front of me, I lift it to my lips.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Van says, standing and placing his glass down.
“Are you all right?” He’s in a weird mood. Then he often is these days.
“Yes, of course.” As he passes, his hand clasps my shoulder tight. “I have some thinking to do. And you, my friend, have something a little more physical to look forward to.” I stiffen at the implication in his words as he bends, bringing his mouth to my ear. “I saw Griffin lead Holland out into the gardens.”
No.
Just no.
Room after room blurs, people and faces grotesque caricatures as my mind swims from scenario to scenario.
Holland behind a sofa.
Over a picnic table.
Taunting me from behind closed doors.
Because she’s not in the fucking gardens, that’s for sure.
I will fucking kill him, I think as sweat sticks my shirt to my back. And probably shake the living daylights out of her.
Which won’t happen because this is all one big mistake—a figment of Van’s vodka-fuelled imagination. I hope. I round a corner, my hands balled into fists as I resist the urge to hit the wall. To pound it until my knuckles bleed. To give my mind something else to focus on.
“Hey, man. You okay?”
I blink, coming back to the hallway and the man in front of me. And his strange company.
“Dylan. Yes.” I rouse myself, trying to focus on the next blockbuster Batman, the wheelchair, and the elderly woman dressed in a pink jumpsuit. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
“You look like you wish you were miles away,” the old woman says, her blue eyes penetrating.
“No, not at all,” I answer, the words almost rote. Drawling and arctic. A product of my station. My breeding. My fucked head. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Holland, have you?” I direct my words to the taller of the pair, though possibly the less sober.
“Hey, Juney. Did we see her on our race?”
“Buggered if I know,” she says, twisting her gaze to him. “I was too busy hanging on for dear life when you spun me ’round those corners.”
“You were yelling for me to go faster,” he retorts like a child. A large, multimillion-dollar earning child.
“Aye, ye have to grab excitement where ye can get it at my time of life.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” I make as though to pass when another thought occurs to me. “What about Griffin. Have you seen him?”
“Was that him in the tartan trews?” the old woman asks with a moue of distaste.
“Yes, that’s him.” I hadn’t seen anyone else dressed in such a ridiculous way.
“That one wouldn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.”
The film star snickers. “This is his grace, the Duke of Dalforth, June.”
“Aye, and I’m sure he’s got an arse, too.”
“I’ve got a few of them,” I mutter, “because Griffin is my brother.”
He is until I strangle him.
“I know that look. Do ye believe in reincarnation?”
By this point, I think I must have steam coming out of my ears.
“Take a leaf out of my book, laddie. When you get to the pearly gates, ask Saint Peter if you can come back as a wee birdie. I know I’ll be asking to because, when I come back, I have a long list of people I plan to shit on.”
“June, you crack me up,” Dylan says, beginning to laugh.
“I think it must be almost cake time,” she orders, circling her finger in an order to about-turn.
“And Griffin?” I ask, instantly regretting it.
“The bathroom nearest the kitchen,” June says. “I thought to myself when they went in together, his boaby can’t be as big as all that. He can’t have needed that woman to help him hold it. Don’t pull that face,” she warns suddenly. “Grind your teeth, and you’ll end up with dentures like me.”
“Thank you, June.” My words sound surprisingly calm as I pivot on my heel.
“Something is rotten in the state of brotherhood.” I hear her call.
“Cool,” her pilot answers. “A literary pun.”
“It’s from Hamlet, aye?”
“Yep.”
“Is that the one where the wife goes doolally?”
As I turn the corner, I hear no more.
I find the kitchen and shortly afterwards, find the bathroom. Mainly due to the short queue of people waiting outside.
“Come on!” An elderly man in a white dinner jacket knocks politely on the door. “I need to shake the dew off the lily.” He turns to the person next to him. “These old legs aren’t what they used to be. I can’t go out to the posh porta loos they have in the garden.”
Portable loos. She wouldn’t, would she?
I shake the ridiculousness from my head.
“Have you been waiting long?” I find myself asking.
“Long enough.” The elderly man pulls a face.
I step around him, bringing myself level with the door.
“Fuck, you’re such a dirty little bitch, aren’t you?”
If I’m not mistaken, I’ve found at least one-half of my missing party.
“Yes! Yes!” comes the voice of the female contingent.
American, yes. But Holland? I can’t quite tell.
“You’re my dirty little bitch, aren’t you? Say it!”
“I’m your dirty little bitch!”
“Someone is having a good time,” the old man says.
“Yeah, a dirty little bitch.” Someone snickers as I raise my fist and begin hammering on the door.
“Say it again!” Griffin demands.
“I’m your—”
“Griffin!” I bellow. “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down and tear off your fucking head!” With the side of my fist, I begin to hammer while imagining the block of wood is his head. “Open the door!”
And if that’s Holland in there, at least blood will wash easier from tile.
I can almost see the headline—
Under my fists, the door falls open, and I fall in and almost on top of Griffin. I kick the door closed behind me to a chorus of disappointment, flicking on the lock. Before I quite understand what I’m doing, I have my feckless, treacherous, half-undressed shit of a brother by the neck and pressed up against the opposite wall.
“Al? What the fuck?” He begins to splutter, but I have no time for him, my eyes sweeping the room for—
A blue dress hangs over the top of the shower door, a pair of slender legs the only things visible through the glass. Through my rage, through the red mist that descends, my fist meets with the meat of my brother’s stomach without a word.
“Oof!” Griffin bows forward, his hand reaching out for the vanity. Unsatisfied, I pull my arm back and aim for his face.
“You fucker!” he yells, but I’ve already whipped around, reached for the dress and pulled it down to find, standing in the shower cubicle, arms crossed her chest, an near naked not-Holland.