—fortyeight—
the faces of janus
ARTHUR WENT OUT of the comfort room and reached the hall when the Cadwyns' butler, Luis, emerged out of nowhere–he nodded politely, his demeanor all but telling him that he'd been waiting for a short while now. Which was odd, to say the least.
"Mr Huxley..."
"Luis." Arthur halted, and frowned at him. "You need something?"
The man pushed up his glasses, then tied his hands altogether by his lower abdomen in such courteous fashion. "I'm sorry for the interruption, sir, but Madam Chairman wish to speak with you."
Arthur held back himself from arching an eyebrow. "Uh–okay? About what? Should I call Paige–"
"No. She wants to see you alone."
"Oh." Arthur blinked, staring at him in more confusion. "Alright. Sure."
Luis nodded and gestured a hand aside. "Right this way, sir."
For some reason, Luis led him to the back end of the mansion where there was a veranda overlooking the garden and the other dimly lit mansions within the Wellton Estates from some distance away. But the darkness around the gallery was harsh, given that the towering gates where the outdoor wall lamps were glued against were situated a couple of meters off from where he was.
Arthur frowned why no one had torched the round stone fire pit placed just a little bit down the side of the veranda. He crossed his arms protectively in an attempt to repel the November cold.
"Well, where's the chairwoman?" he asked.
Luis said, "She'll be here in a minute."
And true enough, Luis left as soon as Isolde rounded from the bend a minute later, her heels clicking against the marble flooring. He couldn't make out her expression much in this light but he could imagine her usual stoic features. Quite frankly, he didn't like the situation at all–whatever it was that she needed him here for.
She didn't even offer to sit in the plush seats. It must be something urgent that her movements appeared like she'd wanted to get straight to the point. "Mr Huxley–"
He nodded gallantly. "Ma'am."
"–I am still trying to get my head around what you said at the hospital that your family, your father in particular, is running a construction firm–"
"That is correct, Ma'am–"
"You do not talk while I am talking."
Arthur twitched his tongue in his cheek, and bobbed his head knightly. "I apologize. I never meant to be rude. Please, carry on." He could've sworn that her eyebrow arched fleetingly before gazing out ahead of the view. Paige was important to him, but this woman was irrefutably difficult.
Isolde let out a breath, now rather irate. Her demeanor was calm and collected, but when she spoke, her tone was quiet but held something violent. "Like I said, you told us that Huxleys are running a construction company. I have been in the business for long, Mr Huxley, and I can say that I have rubbed my elbows against people from prominent families with well-regarded backgrounds; and I cannot help but wonder why your family appear to be shying away from the social circle. I understand if you are not too fond of the public eye. If you want to keep the mystery, you are doing a very good job from staying well out of the media and the elites altogether. But," she paused while staring down at him, her thoughts unreadable on her face. Her indifference was quite evident, despite the lack of brightness around, "Who are you?"
He was calm. At least, he tried to look like one. The question was simple, almost rhetorical. But deep inside, his nerves knotted with themselves, and he'd tried to ignore it, in spite of how dreading it might feel. Not hunching his shoulders, he equalled his eyes to hers. Because one single falter and Isolde might just see right through him.
But just as he was bringing words together inside his head to reply, Isolde slowly walked up right in his face; and he'd tilted his chin up but never shied away from her stares that promised him nothing but all kinds of death.
"I usually do not involve myself into something that does not concern me. But within years of experience in my field, I have seen many faces, Mr Huxley. And I am telling you, most of them do not wear the real one. Faces that want to climb the ladder for respect, money, power; fame, perhaps. Tell me, Mr Huxley, which face are you wearing? The one whose mouth speaks with honor? Or the one who deceives people from the truth?"
Arthur wanted to say something. Anything. But words had escaped him. It wasn't because he couldn't answer the question. He could lie himself out of this one, sure. But how could he possibly reply to a question that he didn't genuinely know the answer to, whether a lie or not?
Who am I?
Isolde crossed her arms against her chest as her eyebrow arched. "Your silence worries me," she muttered ominously, and he'd clenched his jaw at the tone of her voice. "I have every means to find answers, Mr Arthur Huxley. But do not worry, I will let this one go for now. My granddaughter obviously trusts you and I intend to do the same. But once I find something unusual about you not having the best interests at heart–which could damage the family's name, not to mention that could impair my granddaughter's well-being, you will see why no one has taken the liberty to face me again after trying to defy me. Funny how they attempt to overthrow me, only to fall very, very hard." Isolde made a half-turn to leave but looked at him first behind her shoulder; and he was certain that for a fleeting moment, her lips quirked up in the shadow. "I hope you are having a pleasant night."
When he was already alone, he let out a long hiss of breath with his hands propped on his waist. His thoughts were in complete anarchy now, but he fell out of his reverie when his phone suddenly quivered against his leg. Fishing it out, his eyebrows tautened when the number was unrecognizable.
He swiped his thumb and said, "Hello? Who is this?" Static silence filled his ears when the person didn't answer. But he could tell that he or she was listening from the other line. "Hello. Speak up, please. I don't have time for bullshit."
"Arthur."
He stilled.
That voice was afloat at the remotest vestiges of his thoughts. It was misty, hard to grasp. But it was there. And when it had taken the forefront of his consciousness now, a strange rhythm wracked his chest.
"Lola?" he breathed, and so did she.
"Yeah, it's me. I'm glad you haven't changed your number." Her voice was still the same as he remembered. There was an air of confidence in it, but tonight, she sounded more subtle with her words.
Arthur scowled. "What d'you want?"
She let out a shaky breath and simply said, "I'm sorry. I know I've been awful to you. But I'm not calling to have a fight with you. I'm currently in Bradbury right now." She halted just as her words made him dug his nails in his palm. "I want to see you."
He chuckled sardonically. "And why d'you think should I listen to you?"
"Arthur, I–I got pregnant."
Without looking in the mirror, he was certain his features twitched. Even though he was telling himself he'd moved on and that he was utterly into Paige this time, he couldn't deny it to himself that Lola still held a significant part of his life. Just not like the way it was before.
"Should I care?"
Lola suddenly sobbed, and he'd immediately regretted his behavior. "I'm so lost right now. I just need someone to talk to and I was thinking that despite my mistakes, you'd allow me to see you. I always thought that no one understands me better than you do."
In the end, Arthur couldn't do much but to stifle a sigh with a deep scowl. "Fine."
"I miss you."
He clenched his jaw. Anger? Sure. But part of it might be attributed to the fact that he felt the same. So, reluctantly, he said, "I miss you, too. So where are we gonna meet, then?"
"What?"
Arthur stiffened. It was the sound of a girl. But he was sure it didn't come from the phone. Lola was saying something about where she was, but he could barely hear her. He stared by the blind curve, the wall right before one would reach the gallery, and swallowed the lump lodging in his throat. He waited if Paige would appear out of the dark.
"Nothing," another voice said. It was Owen. "Let's just go. It used to be so calm here. Now it feels eerie."
His shoulders had only relaxed when their footfalls finally faded from his earshot. Silently thanking that Paige hadn't caught him, he riveted his attention back to Lola.
"You okay?" she asked, probably hearing the way he'd exhaled.
Arthur scratched his eyebrow. "Yeah. So, your place, you said...?"
﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Arthur tapped his knuckles against the table.
"Are you ready to place your order, sir?" The waiter smiled politely when he shook his head.
Arthur watched the guy leaving before letting out an annoyed sigh. His shift was about to start in thirty or so, and Isolde was already supposed to be here. Remembering her words perfectly well, he wondered what she'd say to him this time. It seemed important because one of her minions had called him, saying that they'd meet at this fancy café some meters off from the amusement park. Which was a good thing, considering that he had work there after this. It sounded urgent and it was the Isolde Cadwyn so he was being cooperative.
He slipped out of his 'fancy' iron chair and backhanded the waiter who'd approached him, signalling him that he'd go out for a smoke. Leaning his back against the side wall of the establishment which gave him the narrow view of the alley, he lit up a cigarette and made a long drag.
Huffing, he gave the butt of his cig several flicks to get rid of the burnt tobacco, all the while thinking about Paige, and then Lola, and money. The only means that he thought would cure his father. He'd been thinking enough of this. He would do anything for his dad. Ever since his mother left, he always had this fear of being abandoned. But more so at the fact that he feared for his beloved father.
He was trying. Really tried to seek for ways to fund his dad's chemo, all of what he needed, Robin's education, rent and other expenses, his own tuition for Hackett, and all other previous debts he still had to pay.
The first time he knew Archer, he thought he'd be the one who could help them out of the shithole they'd fallen into. But instead, he made things worse when he admitted he was his fucking half-brother.
Why would he swallow his pride if he could do other things to make the money himself? Besides, he could never ever forget about what her mother did. Or the consequences of what she did.
When she upped and left, he had to help his father in providing for themselves since she'd stopped sending them money afterwards. And even if she did, he would have none of it. That would be out of mercy. Insulting.
But then his father insisted he was too young to work. And what little money he could rack up from being a simple dishwasher at some diner back in Rockstring, it wasn't enough to cover for all the bills.
So, when Arthur's school required a higher amount up until he reached high school, they eventually settled for a smaller house, while his father got himself into farming. It was fairly good but only for a short while. When the season wasn't being very generous to the fields, infesting their crops with pests, things spiralled downhill.
Jude had borrowed a considerable amount from a loaning company then to buy a piece of land in Sheldon where he could start farming. What he knew to be a way to make their living situation better only made things worse. Because the interest was whopping as time went on where his father couldn't compensate for it, eventually pushing him to sell their tiny house and slept on the streets and public comfort rooms for awhile.
It was his uncle who'd found them on the streets one day. When he knew about their situation, he immediately offered to let them stay in his place until they could recover. But when they did stay there came Arthur's another nightmare. Her wife and their son, twice older than him. He was fourteen at the time.
"Nothing's for free, Arthur," she'd said to him, her wrists glued against her hips as she arched an eyebrow at him. She was telling him about doing the dishes first, his cousin's laundry, and cleaning the house before he could even eat. He never told his father about it. They were quite a relative when his father wasn't at work.
But when his uncle's son and his friends made fun of him in high school, he did nothing. Not because he was a wimp. It was all for his father.
"No, he'll do it," Kier said, his uncle's bastard of a son. "That's what he does. Look," he beckoned his minions to near them, and Kier stepped out a foot, "Lick it."
Arthur flickered his eyes at him in surprise.
Kier shrugged before glancing down at his sneaker. "I said lick it off."
"You heard him, dude." another girl said. Except, he had boyish features and he wore baggy clothes. "Do it."
Arthur clenched his jaw, wondering why things were different if only one had money. Why respect could only be earned when you had something.
Kier tugged his shirt by his collar and whispered to him, "Don't fuck with me in front of my friends or you will–"
He suddenly flew to the side when a ball hit the side of his head. They all held their breaths as a tall guy trudged to them with a bored expression. Arthur had seen him. He was a trainee for the football team.
"Get him out of here," the guy said to Kier's friends, and for some reason, they quickly began to work. Kier grumbled under his breath and shot Arthur and the football guy his withering look. "You alright?"
Arthur gave off a lame nod. "Yeah. Didn't have to do that, though."
He shrugged, picking up his ovoid ball. "I just did, though. Those pricks wouldn't learn if you'd never fight them back. They'd been dicking around for awhile. With you, particularly. It's getting annoying, so." He lent out a hand. "Cain."
Arthur stared at him skeptically. Cain jolted a shoulder, smirking. He then shook it finally. "Arthur."
He dragged another whiff of his cigarette as he made a faint smirk at the memory. Only to scowl at his feet, thinking about having to lie to Cain this time round. He flicked his cigarette down the ground before stomping on it. Just as he undid his back and turned to the bend, he halted in his tracks.
It was Isolde's Porsche.
He quickly rubbed his hands against his pants and smelled his coat. "Fuck." Unable to do anything anyway, he ran his hands through his hair and revealed himself as she stepped out of the backseat.
He soon found himself clearing his throat in front of her, watching the small cup the waiter had just laid out for him on the table before putting down Isolde's tea. She was practically watching his every move, but he'd strayed his eyes away from hers when his phone vibrated.
"Going to see Cain and Jouwee today. Wish you'd be there."
He clutched his phone after reading Paige's message, only to hide it back into his pocket, unbothered to make a reply. Suddenly, Isolde placed a folder between them and he pulled his eyebrows together.
She jolted her chin to prompt him. "Go ahead. Take a look."
So he did. And as he flicked the pages of printed documents about him, with pictures of him that were stealthily taken, his breath got caught in his throat. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and closed the folder with a taut jaw.
"Does Paige know about all this, Mr Huxley?"
He took a dreading pause. Despite the faint noises around them, he could hear nothing but his own breathing, his thoughts, and the sweat dropping down like bullets against the walls of his chest. "No, Ma'am."
"So you were lying."
Arthur's nails carved in his palms like small crescents residing in his skin. "I'm afraid so."
Isolde squinted at him. "Why? Why would you lie to her? How do you think would she react about this nonsense? This is absurd, Mr Huxley. I have always wondered what it is about you that made my granddaughter foolish for even giving you a single glance. She could get any man she wanted. She had the most refined gentlemen right at her feet, but she never settled for anyone. Not even Owen Callaghan, who had always been her best choice. But why you? When you are nothing? A con artist? Huh, Mr Huxley?"
Arthur smirked, at last. He was well-aware where this was going. So instead of hearing it from her, he would say it himself. Besides, it would be beneficial for him. Even if it meant breaking his own heart.
"Don't worry, Isolde–"
"Excuse me?"
He crossed his arms rather insolently. It was royally pissing the woman off, he could tell by the mere snarl of her lips. "I will leave your granddaughter alone. I know you don't like me, anyway."
That got her full attention. Her eyes were practically glimmering, and her chin was askew in sheer curiosity. "There is always a catch, Mr Huxley. What do you want?"
"I dunno." He shrugged, sniffing and flicking a white feathery thing from his sleeve nonchalantly. "Money? Lots of it?" He scrunched his nose, as Isolde clasped the handle of her cup tigher. It didn't really matter wearing his angel suit on any longer. Isolde knew everything already. There was nothing for him to hide. "Pretty sure you could provide me what I want. You hold your end of the deal, I'll leave the girl alone. That's it."
Out of the blue, Isolde splashed the contents of her cup onto his face, making him close his eyes while cracking a wicked smile across his lips. He ignored the gasps from the nearby tables and grabbed a napkin to wipe down his face before turning up another huge smile. One that would insult every grandmother in the world.
"It's a fair deal. Although I'd miss those soft mouth of hers, if I'm being honest."
Isolde banged the side of her fist onto the table, making his coffee dance inside the cup. Somehow, it was comical how much he could actually awaken the beast in her. "You are the most arrogant, impudent man I have ever met."
He shrugged his shoulder amusingly. "You're not the only one who thinks that. But thanks. So...what d'you think, Ms Chairwoman?"
Isolde's lips turned into a thin line as she stared at him pointedly. He curled up a sinister smirk.
When they both got out of the café, Isolde didn't even give him a backward glance. She quickly slid inside of the backseat the moment her bodyguard opened it. Arthur watched her silver Porsche as it sped away, feeling like a total douchebag.
He then looked ahead and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Cain by the window of the little café called Coffee Bliss, just right across his and Isolde's meeting place. Jouwee was sitting opposite him while they were talking, and he was certain Paige was eased next to her as she did message him that they'd be all meeting this afternoon.
Without any hesitation, he spun his heel and began to walk in the direction of Manor Amusement Park. And as the cars flew back and forth, he stared at the overview of downtown Bradbury and at the other side of the plain–towards the path to Rockstring.
He sighed, squinting at the setting sun by the hills.
It was another day of pretending.