Perfections Read Free Page B

could never talk about it with Paul, and she sure as hell doesn’t have to explain anything to Greta.
    ‘I just need to grab some stuff, then I’m leaving,’ she says, but Greta has her by the elbow and is moving with surprising swiftness into the kitchen where a bottle of Bacardi waits beside two half-filled glasses. She pulls out a chair.
    ‘Here, sit down. Tell me all.’
    ‘Greta, I really don’t want–’
    ‘But you must .’ Her kohl-rimmed eyes are vulture-keen. ‘You cannot keep this inside of you. It is toxic , it will fester . You need to expel it.’
    ‘I already have. Jacqueline and me, we sat up for most of last night–’
    ‘Mein Gott!’ Greta laughs around the curve of her glass, leaving a red smear of lipstick like a fresh-made wound. ‘That frigid little nun? What would Jacqueline know about love, what would Jacqueline know about heartbreak?’
    Shut up , Antoinette wants to say, don’t talk about my sister like that. But guilt pinches her tongue – hasn’t she thought just the same thing herself, too many times to count? What would Jacqueline know?
    ‘Please, Ant.’ Greta takes her hand, traces a nail along the lines of her palm. ‘We are friends, ja?’
    Friends? Antoinette stares. Since when does Greta care if they are friends?
    ‘Come. Tell me what has happened.’
    There’s something different about the woman sitting across from her, an openness to that narrow, artfully made-up face that Antoinette hasn’t seen before. And maybe it’s because of this, and maybe it’s because she really does want a chance to tell her side of the story, to balance out whatever poison Paul has been spilling in Greta’s ear, that Antoinette sits back in her chair and takes a large gulp of rum.
    ‘It wasn’t planned,’ she says. ‘Remember a few months ago, that time I was really sick? I had to miss Jai’s spoken word thing.’
    Greta smirked. ‘I thought that was simply a cover story.’
    No, Antoinette tells her, she wishes. More like a chronic dose of stomach flu, stuck home for a week within stumbling distance of the bathroom and stir crazy after the third day. Paul deserting the flat each morning with his MacBook – love you, Ant, but I can’t work with you filling my space like this – leaving her in the hands of boredom and bedbound curiosity. Easy enough to find the flashdrive where his backups were kept; even easier to sneak a copy onto her laptop.
    ‘Such a betrayal .’ Greta shakes her head.
    ‘I just wanted to read the bloody thing,’ Antoinette says. ‘After all these years, I hadn’t seen even a single sentence.’
    ‘Because he did not want anyone to see this book until it was finished. Not you, not even me.’
    Not even me . Antoinette lets that go, swallows another mouthful of rum instead. ‘I know. But I just wanted to see.’
    Greta leans forward. ‘Tell me, is it very good, his book? What is it about?’
    ‘It’s about . . .’ Antoinette shrugs. ‘It’s kind of an autobiography, I think. Names are changed, sometimes, but you can tell who he’s writing about. Him and me – and you, Greta. Everyone we know is in that book, one way or another. It’s not very flattering, and it’s also . . . it’s not very good.’
    ‘So this is why? Because it doesn’t flatter you?’
    ‘No!’ Antoinette fumbles for the right words. ‘It’s not what it’s about, it’s the way it’s written. The writing itself is just . . . it’s not good.’
    ‘Who are you to decide this?’
    ‘The one paying the bills while he sits on his butt and churns out that crap!’
    ‘Ant!’
    ‘I mean it, Greta, it’s rubbish. No one who doesn’t already know him would have a clue what he’s on about, and even then it’s just petty and pretentious and boring. No wonder he didn’t want me to see it.’
    ‘But he is not finished, it is not fair to judge him now.’
    No, and that’s what Antoinette told herself as she scrolled through the disjointed and rambling mess, the