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‘All my life. My parents were members, though we didn’t come here much after they moved back to Norfolk when I was about seven.’
Tom and I have been on the waiting list for nineteen years, ever since we first moved to London when I was a medical student at Guy’s Hospital. Actually, we’re stillwaitingto get onto the waiting list proper, which is currently closed: the only way to become a member is to be born to someone who has membership, and then wait for them to die. Full membership is the holy grail.
‘Do your parents still live in Norfolk?’ I ask.
She scoops her yoga mat from the back seat. ‘They died twenty-three years ago,’ she says. ‘Killed in a car crash on their way home from a New Year’s Eve Millennium party. They’d both been drinking, of course. I was in the car, but somehow I walked away with barely a scratch.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘How awful. That must’ve hit you hard.’
‘It hit my brother harder. Adam always felt guilty for not being with us, as if he could have done something. He was six years older than me, so after their deaths he became my legal guardian.’
‘You must be close.’
‘He overdosed on heroin when I was nineteen.’
Her tone is matter-of-fact, without a trace of self-pity. But in this context, Felix makes more sense. You don’t have to be an armchair psychologist to recognise that a child orphaned young will seek out a father figure, especially when she loses her substitute parent just a few years after the initial bereavement.
I know what it’s like to lose a sibling.
Gracie, my sweet Gracie—
No. I refuse to go there.
I’m already aware of Stacey’s personal history, of course. She’s talked about it just enough in the press to have a relatably tragic backstory without seeming to exploit it. But I know it’s important for our new friendship that she tells me herself.
And that friendship suddenly matters to me.
I care about Stacey. This isn’t about the Glass House any more. It hasn’t been since the moment I saw the bruises on her wrist.
This is the second time she’s invited me to join her for yoga at the Hurlingham. The classes here are less physically demanding and more woo-woo ‘spiritual’ than my normal vinyasa power yoga practice, with rather too much third-eye navel-gazing for my taste, but I’m not here to strengthen my core.
‘Nice leggings,’ I comment with a smile as I follow her into the studio.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ she says, slightly embarrassed. ‘I’m a bit tired of being a Lululemon clone.’
The first time we met up for yoga a couple of weeks ago, she admired my athletic wear. I sent her a link to the niche US site in California where I bought them. She must have gone straight home and ordered a pair: I’m flattered more than I care to admit.
After our class, we change and stroll over to the clubhouse brasserie for lunch. The average age of the other diners on a mid-week morning is approximately seventy-three; pearls, blazers and brick-red jeans are the order of the day.
‘Are your parents still alive?’ Stacey says, as we sit down.
Clearly our earlier conversation is still preying on her mind. I don’t usually talk about my parents, even with Tom. I try not to think about them. But I understand the rules of engagement: Stacey has shared something of her family history, which requires me now to share something of mine.
‘My mother died a couple of years ago,’ I say. ‘My father killed himself when I was in my final year of college.’
Not strictly true, of course.
But close enough.
‘How dreadful,’ Stacey says.
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘He beat her. He beat us all. He was a vicious, inadequate man. He spent thousands of pounds on expensive hobbies while Mum went without dinner to pay the electricity bill.’ Ice cubes clink in my glass as I take a sip of water. ‘I used to fantasise about killing him with my bare hands. It was a relief when he did the job himself.’
Stacey tugs at the sleeve of her summer dress. The fabric covers her shoulder now, but I saw the bruises when she was in her yoga clothes.
