Location is Everything

I will tell you exactly where we live, now that everyone has gone to bed and I have a moment to myself.

We live near the lake where Agatha Christie was to have drowned. Her car washed up on the shore, and her husband was a suspect in her murder for days before she turned up, unharmed, with no explanation. Only now her husband's adulter had been revealed.

I live near the moors that supposedly inspired Emily Bronte, the moors so lonely and huanting and wild that it cries out, supposedly from the wind lashing through the trees.

The miles of green land and trees and fresh with fowl, of country hunts and village fairs and tourist carnivals among people that strive to pretend that two world wars never happened.

The sky is grey and the grounds are green and everything is wet.

Two months ago tonight, this exact night, two hours from this time, an old rotting oak tree finally cracked and crashed into the house, into the room my father called "Milady's Conservatory" because it two walls were all glass, looking out into the garden. The oak sent splinters of glass into every brick crevice and crack, and since no one has arranged for the tree shards to be removed, the rain pours freely on the imported Tunisian tiles. We use it for makeshift storage shed--wine bottles, Glennis's art supplies, Father's failed plant mutations, bit of furniture charity shops refuse to collect. The trunk of the tree lies in the middle of all this, rotting. Rathus says he saw the servants having sex behind it once.

If you know what you're doing, you can get to the train station in fifteen minutes by car. You can get to the village in ten. If you don't know what you're doing, you'll never find us.

If you head due east, you will find an inn on a craggy coast, once known for as a smuggler's den and pirate's haunt, immortalized by a gothic writer and suspense filmmaker. The inn is a dump and you can get a piece for a couple quid, but I like the fact that you can smell the salt of the sea, if you're in the right room, at sunset.

An American pop star bought a house near us, and then built his own private chapel to baptize his illegitimate children. His wife tried to put in a heliopad, but Mother put a stop to that.

We're in the middle of nowhere, a medeival countryside connected by privilege and the strained pound, the nexus of sex and death and repressed manners. It's not where I would have chosen for myself at this point, but I know one thing--it's safe. Safer than the most privileged neighborhood, the most sensitive burglar alarm, the most alert task force. You do not come here unless you mean it, unless you mean to deal with people like us. And you are not allowed her, in body or in spirit, unless we mean to deal with you.

An interaction, if you use my family as an example, which is not for the faint-hearted.

Remember Me

I am what they called a lucid dreamer. Some people have those gentle dove-like dreams that lull you to sleep. I have orgiastic fantasy dreams, rock and rolling dreaming, raging dreams that shake me awake, soaked in a cold sweat. It could be because of the drugs, though Glennis was a big cokehead when she was still modeling and seems to sleep fine. I think it's more a matter of temperment. Sometimes I'll have a cup of espresso before bedtime just to see where the voyage ends.

Actually, and rather unfortunately, the voyage usually ends in late morning, with me peering to see if I have more dark circles under my eyes. It's been like this for the last week, ever since I received the postcard.

I had just been preparing to go into the city, eating what was breakfast for me and lunch for Mother and Glennis. I didn't know where Beno was, and I was irritated that Glennis had known about his schedule than I did.

They were still discussing the ridiculous thing about opening the house up to visitors. "We would take reservations, of course," Mother was saying thoughtfully.

I had a sudden vision of thirty Bentley's filled with aristocrats, arriving late because Mother had purposely given them the wrong directions, even if it meant that the complimentary h'or deuvres go cold. "No eating before the guests arrive"--another mantra which I'm convinced is responsible for Glennis's prematurely malnutritioned body (which was incidentally responsible for her modeling career in the 1990's).

And that Father shows up, five days of beard, huge, spilling over his seat, and we can't quite believe that any of us polished socialite types is related to him, even if he is 100% "good English stock." Blood stained blue through centuries of inbreeding. Of course, in Father's case, it's mostly the weed production. His hands are stained black with ash, and he smells of chemicals and vegetation. Most of all, he reeks of smoke.

He sits in his chair, waiting, until he realizes that no one is going to serve him, and then goes to the server and starts piling on the mercifully not-runny scrambled eggs. Conversation dies around him, but he doesn't notice. I can't remember a time in the last ten years that my father hasn't been stoned, but why not? How else to deal with having no purpose, no special skills, no particular ambitions, a social-climbing wife, two disappointing daughter (one slutty and druggie, the other ice queen martyr) and one son, who he barely recognizes, ("Is that the neighbor's boy"" he asked once). All of which would be forgivable, except my father grew up filthy rich, and now is merely wealthy with a lot of white-elephant properties and investments that are sucking us dry.

No wonder he's stoned all the time. No wonder I am too.

It's always a relief when he starts eating; he's a surprisingly delicate eater who concentrates on his food and is very methodical about his portions. With him occupied with the munchies, conversation resumes.

"By the way, Maylis, were you having nightmares again?" Glennis asks.

Nightmares. Again. Like I said, some people--Glennis, Beno, my brother--sleep peacefully through the night. Some drug themselves. Some have sex. Some take hot baths. I try all of the above, and I still have these hallucinatory visions, of echoing canals and dusty, dim alleys, of someone after me, approaching from behind, inevitably...I shake my head at Glennis. "Didn't sleep too well."

Mother shoots me a look-- she blames "the drugs" for everything, from my inability to keep a man to my sleepless nights. I try to distract her. "Who's that postcard from?"

She looks down at the postcard she's holding, as if she'd forgotten it. "I really don't know. But it's not addressed to anyone..."

"What's that on the front."

We all jump a little as Father rumbles from the head of the table, his voice not used to talking. He asks questions like statements; it's very disconcerting. "Well, dear," Mother says, in her formal "dear husband" voice, "it appears to be our home on the front. One of those architectural drawings of the manor they sell in the village."

The little postcard has all our attention now. Especially mine and father's. "Doesn't it say anything?" I ask.

Mother is already bored. "It says--and it's mispelled, by the way--'I will come to you. I hope you remember. T. Mann." She looks at me. "This is probably one of your strange boyfriends, dear. Shall I throw it out?"

I remember reaching for it, looking over a rather fine line drawing of the house, the grounds, the groundskeeper's cottage off to the side. I don't know any Tom Man, and the writing looks unfamiliar, but the message is loud and clear.

I hope you remember
Thomas Mann
Death in Venice.

I am so scared that I don't hear the rest of the conversation about the house. And I don't notice Father staring me, almost lucidly, as I hand the postcard back to Mother to throw out.

That night? Nightmares. Again.

Welcome to the West Wing

Finally got out of the house; went to the pub with Beno and Glennis and some friend of Glennis's. I drank too much and listened to Beno's latest plan to boost our fortunes.

"You want to what?" I asked.

"Open the house to guests."

More guests? "But why, for god's sake? Mother has enough people over at is."

"These are the best guests," Beno said, throwing an arm around Glennis's chair. "These are the guests you can ignore."

I shook my head. "Explain, please."

"We open up the West Wing to tours," Glennis said. "Just for antiquers and architecture enthusiasts."

It's so bloody annoying that she already knew about this. "Look, maybe I don't understand the new Britain," I said, "but do you really think there are enough boring old grannies out there interested in our unused ashtrays to make this sort of thing worthwhile?"

Actually," Beno interrupted, "the foundation gets a lot of requests for public viewings of the house, and your Great-Uncle Max had a surprisingly valuable set of Victorian porcelain."

"So what we would we have to do?" I demanded.

"You? You don't have to do anything. I'll let you know when we set it up."

"But, my word, what if I have to go to the west wing for something?

"Maylis," my sister said, rubbing your head "we'll give you enough time to get everything out." I resist the urge to smack her and get another round for the table.

Beno sips his scotch. "It'll take a few months, and some publicity. Glennis is going to do some ads to be placed in the usual places. It'll be a destination in the summer, or during hunting season."

Glennis tilts her head. "No, not hunting season, please." Glennis hates the idea of hunting.

"Can't help it, darling," Beno said, firmly. "A lot of people still go out to the country to hunt."

"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said, "but I have to agree with my sister on this one. It's bad enought to have strangers romping through your west wing without worrying about them being armed and dangerous."

He looked at us with frustration. "I would do a lot better for this family if I didn't tell you two what I'm planning," he finally said.

Glennis rubbed his arm. "Don't worry, darling, we still appreciate you."

Can you blame me for drinking until I passed out? Glennis helped me get into bed. I don't remember much by I did manage to steal fags from her coat pocket.

Victorian porcelain. Jesus.

Good Hostessing

Well, I know that the last entry wasn't very nice. But it's so nice to be an anonymous bitch. Again. I don't really know why blogging is better than a diary, but there's this feeling of having really SAID something, rather than have written it. I just hope that my internet connection stays solid. But Beno is obsessive about his email, so it should be good while he's here at least.

I'm not heartless; I always feel bad, too, a little anyway. I mean, I know he's her husband, but she has spent so much of her life just...well, there are no words for it. Perfect, but in an annoying, generous, patient way, like she's just waiting for you to be perfect too. In all my life I've never heard anyone point out one character flaw in Glennis, which makes it worse because that means I'm the only one who gets plain sick of her. And I know she gets sick of me too, but God forbid she ever admit it. She doesn't even get mad, really, she just goes white and leaves the table and spends the next few days looking at you mournfully disapproving kind of way. I really can't bear it when I think about.

I mean, we did the same shit growing up, the usual phases of promiscuity and drug abuse and music-related rebellions and runaway attempts and all that nonsense. We were both half-arsedly educated, overly psychoanalyzed, easily distracted, jaded elitist brats, just like all our friends were. But some how she manages to keep this aura of respectability, of always having her shit together. Big surprise who she gets it from, of course.

I was reading a Vogue article about hostess mistakes that reminded me of this trick that Mother used to play. When we would invite people to the house, she would always tell people the wrong amount of time it took to get out here. Sometimes she would say more, and sometimes less. She would even reference traffic reports. So they would always arrive ridiculously late or early, and be so apologetic for being late or for taking us unawares. And Mother would be so gracious and regal in accepting their apology, much to their exhausted relief. But after a bit, like when she showed them to their rooms, they would notice that while she was completely polite, she was the tiniest, tinest bit cooler than she needed to be, and they would be utterly in her power. She did this every single time, it was like her little power play, a little bit of manipulation she enjoyed for no bloody reason other than she wanted to be bitchy. I don't think the guest ever catch on.

But Glennis and I did. And I think we learned the same lesson. She just hides it better than me, that's all.

Vaquero

Another night of insomnia, which I spent trying to read, mostly a moldy hardcover of Peyton Place that looked like it had been dumped in a bath once or twice. Thank God Beno is home.

I never go for Latin men; I seem to prefer them pretty and corrupt. But Beno always looked good to me, with his perpetual tan and high cheekbones and well, earthy sense of humor. We all like Beno, because before he arrived we were in pretty bad shape, especially our finances. But he loves all that financial economic sort of thing and Dad was happy to be able to stay in the cellar without interruption. When Glennis first brought him home, he was a lot less polished than he is now. His father is some big rancher in Argentina, and they don't get on, which is probably why he's been out here for as long as he has. But he likes his hand-tailored suits and expensive restaurant and those shoes that it takes ten years to make, so he escapes to the city as much as he can.

He poured me a scotch. "How's rehab?"

"It sucks. But I'm clean."

"Should you be drinking this?"

"Oh, fuck off, Beno." I said. "I'm clean of what I was addicted to."

He was grinning at me in that particular way and I felt my face go warm. This is always a sign. Your body can predict the future sometimes.

We did it in a corner in the study, standing up. It was fabulous, it felt so dangerous even though cautious Beno had locked the door and everyone else was in the city. Underneath those damn suits he's got this lovely dirty Latin-macho cowboy thing and I love messing him up.

Afterwards he always takes more time to do his hair than I do. "Beno, my darling, don't you ever think about getting caught?"

"Yes, all the time. That's why we can't do this again." His voice was serious but his shoulders are practically in half-shrug. He doesn't think Glennis will ever catch on.

"You always say that."

Oh, he was trying to be so stern. He always feels bad afterwards, but it never lasts. And he knows that I know it will never last, even though I really, really think he loves my sister, in his own way. Even then he was wavering, and finally he rolled his eyes. "If you can beat your addictions, I can beat mine, sweetheart."

Dinner was fabulous. I had three helpings of dessert.

Lady of the Bloody Manor Bred

I swear to God, I don't know by what power a tart from Philadelphia can grow up, move here, and suddenly think she's Princess fucking Di, but it is possible, and is unfortunately the story of my life.

Was sitting down to dinner--another of her bloody rules, "eating like a family" even though we loathe each other--when she turns to me and, bloody just as I'm digging into my bloody dessert, says "Don't forget that we promised to go to the XYZ charity next week" and makes dagger eyes at my spoon.

And the whole bloody family and Helen and Father's accountant all turn to stare at me like idiots. But what can I do? Shes right, I have gained weight, and we all know why. "I can always get a colonic by then, Mother." She hates it when I say things like that in front of people, but well, she started it.

And then bloody Glennis, gets involved, God knows why. She makes her purses her lips like Mother's and says with a bloody sympathetic smile "There are healthier ways like that, Em." Unbelievable. I will not be lectured to by my bloody perfect younger sister.

"Yes, but I can't get cocaine like you can," I tell her.

And then they're both staring at me with the same tight, irritated, martyr-ed faces, the ones they had when I told them I was moving home for detoxification purposes, and I just want to smack them silly. I mean it's true, I can't do coke anymore and I know she still does it, but it's also true she does it only occasionally. No extremes with dear Glen.

So I end up leaving the room feeling an absolute whale, thanks to the ice queens, and immediately head to the cellar to sneak some of Dad's stash. In some people's homes, "stealing Dad's stash" an arduous, difficult maneuver, especially if Dad is there. Well, in our home, Dad is always there, and Dad is always stoned. It's just a question of being able to tell how much, so if he's really stoned we can score some of the good stuff. Sometimes he's asleep and we'll raid the place. It's a good way to score some fast pocket cash when you need it, but he's been catching on a lot more lately. And I don't want him coming at me with that umbrella again.

This is why we call him the apothecary, by the way, which is the title of this blog for no apparent reason other than I like the word. But more about Dad later. I'm smoking up and I know it's incredibly counterproductive because I'm just going to get hungry and eat more and bloody well need that colonic to fit into my dress for the night. I never really cared about being thin until it started becoming a real craze, with everybody tan and stick-like at bloody Christmas, and you really do feel like a whale because everyone except you is a size four. Even Mother looks about eight stone. Glennis could bloody shop at Children's Gap. And I don't care--I don't have any aesthetic interpretation as to whether thin is in or unhealthy--except every single decent designer makes their best clothes in size four (or size two American) only.

I tell you, that simply does not account for rehab. No wonder all alcoholics start smoking. It's the only way that you can keep your bloody dress size.

It's funny how I didn't realize this when we used to travel, but now that she's permenantly ensconced in what she believes to the ancestral seat of a noble line, it's bloody inescapable how pretentious Mother is. Which would be fine, except she has spent the last thirty years of her life trying to make up for the fact that she was a commoner and a club hostess before she met Dad, and she was already married, and nobody wanted her to marry to Dad. But she did, and really acts like the Princess Di, I swear, down to the outdated hairstyle. Why couldn't she just be normal and stay cool and American instead of mucking about in Wellingtons, of all things, in the English countryside? Then it wouldn't always be like a bad episode of Upstairs Downstairs around here.

She Did

Just saw the American reality show, and Glennis definitely slept with that guy. He's exactly the type she would go for before she got married: limp and all wet. The show itself is awful, the typical overacting and ridiculous conflicts, and because its American its ridiculously overproduced and overedited. Nonetheless, I am posting a link here, but mostly to show off my newfound html powers. The premise is to get a bunch of spoiled brats out in cowboy country and embarass them as much as possible. A noble premise, and I can hardly believe that people signed on for this. There's some mention of "giving to charity" but it's very apparent that these kids are just hoping to be the next Hilton, even if it means washing their hair with water from a bucket.

Didn't sleep again last night, made some green tea which doesn't help with insomnia, but does help with the headaches. Am seriously thinking of plundering Pop's stash in the cellar, but I have to be careful. Dad is a horticulturist of sorts and has so many bloody plants that I can't tell them apart. The good stuff is locked away, so might have to make do with what I can find in the freezer. He gets pretty mad if I mess up his collection. Once he chased me out of there with an umbrella. He almost got me a couple times, which is pretty impressive considering how fat he's become.

Glennis is painting again and Beno is in the city. I swear Beno is as bored out here as I am, but he pretends he enjoys it. I think he likes pretending he's lord of the manor, especially since Pop could give a fuck what happens around here. I asked for some tea and Helen said there wasn't any milk because we didn't extend our credit at the store, or some nonsense like that. Having nothing better to do, I set about trying to fix it, but you wouldn't believe what a production that was without Beno. Mother was too busy getting ready for some charity event and didn't know which store or which credit. Pop was clueless as usual and irritated that I'd even bothered him. I decided to give Helen some cash so she could send someone for milk and other groceries, but I didn't have any notes and had to go pillaging through purses and wallets to find it. Can someone explain how we have ten bedrooms and no milk OR cash??

Insomnia

My name is Maylis Adams. Obviously, that's not my real name, but it's close enough

I have insomnia, which is what I get for trying to go to bed at 11 PM. But what else do you do when you come home to the bloody country? Acres of green and absolutely nothing to do in it. I don't know if it's good or bad that the whole family is home, but they seemed to have finally learned to stop asking me if I'm alright. I'm alright. And if I wasn't, I wouldn't tell them.

The problem, I think, is just plain boredom. And there's a lot of history of bored, useless individuals in our family, something I'm reminded by with the millions of photographs everywhere. (You can dress them in antique frames, Mother, but they are still just dead people I'm supposed to remember, but can't). I think boredom runs in our family. My analyst says it's actually depression, and that both depression and lethargy are anger turned inwards. Therapists blame everything on anger; sometimes I think Dr. M tries to goad me into getting angry, just so she could say she told me so. But if I tell her this, she'll say it's a symptom of my distrust. Sometimes therapists are so predictable.

The truth is, I really can't afford to admit I'm angry. I don't really have anything to be angry about. I grew up with plenty of money and privilege in the bastion of the Empire. I went to boarding school with other rich brats like myself and did the usual underage partying in Mykonos (before it became the Planet Hollywood nightmare it is today) and slept around and smoked too much and even had the requisite near-overdose, followed by discreet rehab. I don't have to really work, and every time I've tried, I'm miserable at it, but I can't keep up the lifestyle I've gotten used to without working. So I stay home, because I really don't see the point of traveling all the way to the city to some trendy private club full of tourists and pretending I'm having a good time being chatted up by Japanese industrialists.

If I sound like a bitch, that's the beauty of blogging. Nobody lets you talk about this stuff in real life; you can't admit to being bored and miserable if you're rich and live in a big house, just like you can't admit to faking your orgasm. (It used to be such an honorable thing to do, but now even girls look at you in horror if you admit you have trouble with them. As if you're somehow responsible for your lovers' ineptitude).

A friend of ours--well, my sister Glennis knows him--went to America to star in some reality television show. I don't know what, but I think it involves flaunting his title and trying to earn some Hugh Grant points with the Septs. He's a Hon. anyway, and about the most inbred thing you've ever met, but harmless. I have a feeling that Glennis slept with him, but she'll never admit it. Anyway, I think it's on satellite tonight. I bet if I watch it I can tell if she did.

That's all from the country. The bloody country sucks.