Next

By Christopher Elliott

Stories should interest you, touch you, move you. There are 134 in ‘Next’. Many, possibly even most, will do just that. ‘Youth’, ‘love’, ‘life’, ‘death’, and so much more. Stories often relevant to you, your life, past and future. Stories very readable, memorable.

 

‘Next’ is generous, a friend you will want to spend time with. A book to keep beside your favourite chair, beside your bed. A friend to meet up with often over the years. Rather special, rather out of the ordinary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398463912

Christopher Elliott

CHRISTOPHER ELLIOTT is a nationally acclaimed consumer advocate who is National Geographic Traveler's Editor-at-Large and resident ombudsman. He writes their "Problem Solved" column, a nationally syndicated weekly travel column, a regular USA Today column, and a daily blog focused on solving consumer travel problems. Elliott writes a weekly column for The Washington Post and is a personal finance blogger at Mint.com. He's hosted a cable TV show and a nationally syndicated radio show, and was an independent producer for NPR and a commentator for both NPR andMarketplace. As a pioneer in digital journalism, he founded the Internet's first business travel website in 1994 and began blogging in 1996, before it was called blogging. He became ABCNews.com's first travel columnist in 1997, and his work has since appeared in a variety of major news outlets, including CBS Interactive, CNN.com, MSNBC.com and USAToday.com. As an early adopter, he was one of the first journalists with a presence on Facebook, Google+, and Twitter. Currently, his family is on an open-ended journey around the world, covering the adventure for nationalgeographic.com and the Huffington Post.

Book preview

About the Author

In the mid-sixties, Christopher Elliott, then a student of English and French literature at Trinity College, Dublin, found himself in a small group studying short story writing with the great Irish writer, Frank O’Connor. Elliott’s first pieces were not successful. You have to tell a story, said the master. If there is no story, there is nothing. But in those years, Christopher Elliott had few stories to tell. Today, many years later, the world has remedied that.

Dedication

To all those who gave these stories life.

Copyright Information ©

Christopher Elliott 2022

The right of Christopher Elliott to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398463905 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398463912 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Heartfelt thanks to ‘PAW’ – Pattaya Authors Writing – for their reviews and encouragement.

Prologue

The World Recedes

The world recedes, it is no more. The dark seeps down. The warm dark, the forgiving dark.

From it comes, not another world, but fragments, jetsam, odd scraps of past times. Walking through the dark, faces talking, calling, waving to him, faces that remember his face, faces he cannot place or site in any context: trustworthy or criminal, honest or conniving, advantageous or to be shunned.

A world without a plan, a world he protects from order and cohesion, for these impede, block and prevent—prevent him from the new and unknown. For without these, without discovery, life has no movement nor value.

From street to street he ambles, smiling and waiting for a sign, a sensation, an indication. Slowly, slowly, the dark mutates, grows dense, wet and penetrating. Light rain is falling and his face damp, words from the past drifting in, his credo, his constitution:

‘Breathe, breathe deeply, never consider the definitive in the ephemeral.’

So this he does, leaning against walls or sitting on a bench below a tree, attentive to signals, to anything of significance.

While he waits, two figures approach, pass him by and he watches while one stops as the other continues on. The standing figure does not move but waits, so he rises and walks to where his new life, his dark life is standing. Together they go on through the dark to a new communion and understanding for the bounds of reason are receding and the unknown becoming known.

Youth

Tadpoles

Are you going to bring those horrible things home?

Her hair is wet, clinging to her cheeks, the collar of the coat buttoned tight under her chin. She’s pretending that it’s all bad and wrong being out in the lane. in the rain, but in reality is totally happy, so very ready for all and anything.

To call Stony Bottom a lane is not precise. It’s a track, very rutted and the ruts deep, water running everywhere, running down gullies from the boundless woods on either side, woods on steep hills rising up, far up; beech woods and the ground thick with decomposing leaves, the air dense with the scent.

Yes, I am.

She wipes her nose, dances off ahead, skipping, jumping over the ruts carrying our fishing net. Madeleine, my sister, seven years of age, fair-haired, skinny, always moving, leaving me behind, waiting for me to catch up; slower because carrying the glass bowl dangling in the string bag woven this very week for this same purpose, under the guidance of Miss Amanda, the art mistress. Red string and very handsome the green glass bowl dangling in the red net.

All is very subdued, only the light rustle of the rain far up in the top branches and the splash of brown water breaking over high stones in the stream, a torrent that follows the track down to the lakes. Silence sometimes shattered by a jay screaming insults, a companion replying.

It’s a fair stretch down to the Wells, Waggoners Wells, three lakes in a row formed three hundred years back for the working of iron, the stream dammed for this purpose. Now quite abandoned, empty, silent save for the sudden, swollen, drops of water breaking the surface, falling from high branches tossed by passing squalls; lakes full of tadpoles, newts, frogs, small fish, the water dark brown, the surface mainly green under algae.

Stony Bottom, always a wild walk down the valley through those beech woods, between massive trunks, smooth, of great weight and age, patches of light, shifting shadows. Centuries of calm growth, undisturbed, boughs straining upwards, fox holes, badger holes, long since vacated. Walking carefully following Madeleine, careful, carrying the glass bowl. Some twenty minutes of walking.

Then a first sight of open water, wide spaces out beyond the trees, the first of the lakes. A clear expanse, steep banks, the stream spilling out over pebbles into the top corner, a path leading on around the lake, tracks falling down to small coves, a wooden railing lurching to one side. Madeleine sliding down one such track, calling: Come on, come on. They’re everywhere.

And, in fact, yes there they are, swirling clouds of tadpoles, chugging in all directions motivated by ideas, purposes, known only to them. The net absorbs scores, dropping them into the now water-full bowl, heavy in the red string net.

And so home with the clouds louring, the rain strengthening, the wind tiresome.

*****

Mr Stephens has taken great trouble, has had a large glass tank mounted at the back of the room. Pebbles line the base, larger stones spaced out tastefully, bubbles rising from behind a dark rock, green oxygen-emitting fronds swaying, lights shining between other rocks, all has been prepared most perfectly and there on the table beside, our glass bowl, tadpole-full.

Right, all stand up. Take your places. No pushing. Jenkins stop that. Can you all see? Very well. Ready, are we? So Madeleine, please release them. Careful now.

She does and they break out, dart magnificently around the tank, hide behind stones, rise up, sink down, return to nibble at the surface. Fortunate creatures, before mere nothings in the vast brown depths of the lake, lost and unknown, now with pride of place, sunlight, neon light, clear water, a great leap-up for a tadpole, a new life for them and for Madeleine and I, an immeasurable source of pride and joy.

Who in the Sunshine

Wide, wide and coming slow the laden barges, deep sunk but not sinking. Hippos and the water running along the gunnels. The great river and the water black as coal but slowly, slowly. the sun rising, rising out on the horizon, much golden light, reflections on the water, and the tide rising too, a slow impetuous current, flotsam jiggling up and down at the water’s edge and much broken wood, 4 x 1,6 x 1, ideal.

Half a pound of nails, an old hammer and Mike’s stock of planks from yesterday. The saw too very fine, a joy to hold; put down a pencilled line along the set square, cut softly back and forth, dust falling softly.

Yesterday’s achievement still impressive, the wheels robust, the tires as new, the base well cut and laid.

Big gulls calling, settling on posts and screaming. Screaming at what? At the tide sweeping in debris? Screams of delight, of satisfaction.

‘Hi Nick.’

‘Hi Mike.’

‘Bring the cokes?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Four bottles?’

Silence.

‘Two?’

‘Yeah. Down there by the jetty.’

‘How’s it going. Been here long?’

‘Na. Just started. Hold that will you.’

‘Like that?’

‘Yeah. Hold it firm.’

‘The hammer rising and falling. The gulls taking wing.’

‘Looks good.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Next?’

‘Yeah.’

And so the golden morning, the great river swelling onwards, the horizon very distant and their cart half finished.

Swotting

On a grey wet November afternoon, two small boys sought shelter from the driving sleet and camped down behind the ivy-clad walls of the fives court. They had brought with them a dog-eared packet of Woodbines, now half-empty, and a box of matches. They were confident no one else would venture out in the cold, the wet, and that they would be able to bring this piece of adult behaviour to a happy conclusion. But it was not until Harold had destroyed the fifth match on the damp paper that they saw him, Atkins Junior huddled under an oak on the far side of the Puntabout and clutching a large object.

What’s he doing, Simmons?

Reading.

Reading!

Yes, reading, Harold.

Why?

Cos he’s a swot, Harold.

Swots read?

Yes Harold. Much of the time.

Do you read, Simmons?

Only when I have to. When we’re told to.

Cos you’re not a swot?

No Harold. No, I’m not.

And you don’t want to be?

No. Do you, Harold?

I don’t think so. But I like reading.

Well, Atkins minor wants to be a swot.

Why, Simmons?

Cos he wants to go to Winchester. His dad went there.

What’s Winchester?

A school for swots, Harold. Awful clever lot.

Perhaps I’m not so clever.

No Harold, perhaps you’re not. Your dad didn’t go to Winchester, did he?

No.

Well, there you are. But you like reading. What do you read?

Biggles mostly. And Robinson Crusoe.

Swots don’t read that sort of thing.

Oh. What do they read Simmons?

Big heavy books. History. No stories. No pictures.

Not much fun.

No fun at all.

So why do it? Why go to Winchester?

You get money later Harold. Lots of it.

Wow! Really?

Yes, lots of it.

Wow. I wish I had lots of it. Maybe I’ll change. Yes, if Atkins can be a swot and get lots of money why can’t I?

Because you’re not clever Harold.

Oh, so I’m not clever?

No, you’re not.

Right. Right. Right Simmons, so you think that, do you?

Yes, I do.

Well, I’m going.

Where you going, Harold?

To …to …the library.

And what are you going to do there?

Read.

Read what?

Well, I’ll ask. I’ll say I want to be a swot and see what they give me.

Fine, Harold. Fine. Well you do just that but if you get to be a swot it’s bye-bye. I don’t want a swot friend.

You’re sure, Simmons?

Absolutely.

Oh well, it’s bye then.

Yes, bye Harold.

Bye Simmons.

*****

But on the way to the library Harold Peterson changed his mind, or rather a number of doubts and curiosities arose in his mid. Doubts about what he should say when he came into the library, curiosities about swots and their motives. He couldn’t return and walk back straight across the Puntabout as Simmons would be sure to see him and laugh, but he could reach the oak and Atkins if he took a circuitous route round the tennis courts, the vegetable gardens and then cut in through the woods. So this he did and came up quickly on Atkins still deep in his book.

The small boy stared up at him surprised and somewhat worried. They looked at each other in silence, damp and serious.

You’re reading, Atkins?

Yes sir.

What are you reading?

The boy handed over the book. It was indeed large and repellent.

Harold read out the title:

"The Origins of the Tudor Dynasty. Yes, I see, Atkins, and all this because of Winchester."

What’s Winchester, sir?

The school your father went to. A school for swots.

The large candid eyes continued to stare up at him:

What’s a swot, sir?

Someone who studies a lot.

Oh, I’m not studying sir. This is a book my friend Jameson lent me. It’s frightfully interesting sir. You see I’m a fan of the Tudors. I like them enormously. You see they were part Welsh. I’m part Welsh too sir. On my mother’s side that is. Do you like the Tudors sir?

Harold looked out over the boy’s head. Who were the Tudors? He recalled some mention of them but vaguely. There was another silence until then he thought of a way out.

Very much Atkins. Very much. Are there other books on the Tudors in the library?

"Oh yes sir. Yes. Several. I just finished, The Last Tudor. It’s a great read sir. Have you read it?"

"No. no, not yet Atkins. The Last Tudor, eh?"

And laughing he turned and set off head held high and careless of the sleet across the Puntabout walked towards a new future, a new destiny, to Winchester and the promised fortune.

On Turning 13

Waiting, waiting, waiting,

Oh yes what a terrible time

Stuck anxiously dreaming

Of my distant future sublime

Suspense needs resolution

Not years of waiting and pain,

Youth an indecent solution,

Mucky, miserable, inane.

Suffering merits an early end,

Dark days a glad tomorrow.

But adolescence our life offends

Bringing long pain and sorrow.

I’m told there’ll be girls in abundance,

Money, a house and fun,

Treats for my zones erogenous,

The right to a place in the sun.

But till that comes I live with worries,

Endless, recurrent, grey.

Shall I give you a short list, hurried,

For you’ll know them for sure, anyway:

There are still those things that go bump in the night

Or slither across the floor,

Garden ghouls live just around to the right

Rabid weirdos who knock on our door.

French lessons, subjunctives and articles,

Essays of a minimum length,

Algebra, trigonometry, lost particles,

Horny Horace, tedious Terence.

Cold baths naked, ogled,

Lights out at eight and musical beds,

Behind the fives courts indecently fondled,

Debagged in the bicycle sheds.

Floundering in cross-country rain

Gnats, horseflies biting my rear.

Caught in the Marquis of Albermane.

Brutally beaten for imbibing beer.

Mumps, measles, the whooping cough

Appendicitis, a dislocated thumb

A broken knee. my scalp rough,

A broken heart, an itchy bum.

Aching back, chapped hands

Rashes, allergies, and scaly skin

Fevers, thrushes, bursting glands,

Big toe crushed beneath a dustbin.

Destined to fail, to always descend,

Marked to be second-rate

Oh when will this misery end,

When will the torment abate?

Yes youth is a long calvary

With nowhere to park your cross

And my lovely Mary loves Hilary

And my spots are getting worse.

So sure adolescence stinks,

The smiles a desperate fake,

On my birthday just fizzy drinks

And I had to buy my own cake.

Cards

Way, way back there was no social media, no computers, lap tops, tablets, mobiles. There was early television: a short menu of news, a serial or two, a film, a show, interviews, and all in black and white. There was the radio: music, other serials, more interviews, jokes, the news. There were cards.

Games for two, for three, for four and for one: ‘patience’. Dealing out decks: delight, joy, despair.

The ancient Romans disgorged chickens, other animals. I dealt out decks, read what would happen that afternoon, evening, week, or even month. If bad, another deck, on and on, till one row of stately faces confirmed a future that would be just right, rosy, lovely, the presents large and desired, matches won, holidays superb, the girl next door willing and able. Spades, evil, even death; clubs, work, advancement; diamonds, great wealth; hearts, encounters, romance, erotics.

All there in the cards. Just keep dealing.

Then those long wet afternoons, the wind rattling the frames, the rugs lifting in draughts, two-handed whist, rummy, with nanny, her Woodbines, admonitions, her ancient wisdom. Other afternoons with mother, whist evenings with the family.

Yes there were alternatives: backgammon, snakes and ladders, even tidily-winks, draughts, even chess though that scarily stressful, and never played with my sister for fear of loss and shame. But the real mystery and suspense lay in the cards.

Later, when twelve and in long trousers, bridge with uncles, aunts and father’s friends in the drawing-room. A beer, a gin tonic, late evenings, grown-up talk, flames lighting the room, hot nibbles, peppery surprises.

The first steps to maturity and adult life, holding a fine hand, playing it well, seeing the happiness in my father’s face.

Silver

Silver hated me, with a hatred evident, rarely hidden. For she was bright but I was brighter. I really was embarrassingly bright. Not just a matter of longest rivers and chemical formulas, no this was the real thing, intelligence. I got things quickly, knew the answers when the others fumbled and pretended, when even Silver was at a loss.

It was obviously disagreeable for a gifted 10-year old girl to be outpaced by a boy of the same age, a spotty, lanky, slovenly boy, Sam, me. It caused her to scowl, bite her nails, snort. Now a young Adonis, that would have been different, she could have accepted that, even fallen for him. That would have seemed right, relaxing, to be second is relaxing. But no, settling for second place to spotty Sam, impossible. She was better than that. She was good.

Not that nature had dealt her a winner’s hand though: weak eyes, a long nose, hair that was of no definable colour, somewhere between straw and carrot. Only her eyes matched her ability, large, defiant, always alert. When confronted, never backing down, rightness blazing out. So I always looked elsewhere, pretended to know my place, before inserting the knife. Oh the knife bit so sensual.

He was dismembered.

Do you all agree with Silver, class?

Yes Miss Montecute.

Silver, thank you.

Silver smiles her ‘I’m-the-best smile.’ I raise a hand.

He was hanged.

They all stare. It’s lovely.

Yes, Miss Montecute. He was hanged. Akroyd confirms this. On account of his rank.

Really Sam. Are you sure of that?

Yes, Miss Montecute. Absolutely."

I do not look at Silver. One should not gloat. It could become dangerous. She has her followers, an evil lot. Then I am not cast iron, I have my secrets, my secret weaknesses that leave me always vulnerable. One has to take care always.

Years have passed, We began this situation aged six. Then much of the same thing, me always winning. I’m almost fed up with it. What’s the use of winning in a small pond, competing with small fry, only Silver offering any satisfaction? That and the harmonica. Christmases I give them Bach’s Air in D on my harmonica and it’s well-played. I grew up with the harmonica.

Poor Silver. She has been raised to be the winner. Her mother, her father, live for that. The name they’d given her, the money spent on extra tuition, the praise, their only pleasure to be had from fostering the winner, the silver one: glassified, long-nosed, gangly but a winner. Sam has no place in that world. Sam should just fall victim to something incurable, effective, irremediable. But I don’t.

I didn’t also, for the most part, like girls. They seemed evidently unhealthy, struggled with their bodily parts, talked foolish. But at ten something began to change. I saw strangely smooth skin, rounded forms that spoke of pleasures unknown, took to noticing who had what type of mouth, what lips. A strange change but one usually easily dampened, demystified. But not always, not always.

It was on one warm May morning at 12.15, or thereabouts, that we were lined up holding our trays, standing quietly waiting, the sunlight flooding into the dining room when I noticed Silver several paces in front of me. There was a white paper napkin on her tray. A passing breeze blew it down on the floor. I stared at it for a full second before deciding to bend over and pick it up for her. I don’t know why I did this. That is not my usual behaviour.

So holding the tray firmly in one hand, I bent both knees and reached out to take it. But so did she and there was a small collision. I gave up on the effort, she secured the napkin and we both stood up. She was smiling. She was inches away. Something crazy swirled through my mind and I kissed her. She continued to smile. It was all very strange.

Then the world shifted: no competition, no treasons, fibs, gossip. We became accomplices, a duumvirate, allies, all smiles, even one darkening evening on exiting the gate, a hand held. Yes, it was all very strange.

I avoided any situation that might give her offense but occasionally even the best promoted strategies can run astray. The history lesson and Miss Montecute always the weak point.

Now children, do you remember that disastrous marriage, that part cause of so much bloodshed and suffering? Who did Edward IV marry?

I looked at Silver, she looked at me, then put up her hand.

Elisabeth Woodville.

Now that would have been fine and all would have been so well, had I not just finished a fascinating book by John Ashdown-Hill. The Secret Queen. And I, foolhardy I, put up a hand.

It is very probable, indeed almost certain, that there was another earlier marriage to another lady.

Oh really! said Miss Montacute drily, that’s the first I’ve ever heard of that. Would you have some special inside knowledge of the subject, Sam? Something that only you, who are so always clever, would know? What, may I ask, was this lady’s name?

Some of the dumber ones tittered, Silver laughed nervously. I looked slowly around at the poor creatures, at the about-to-be-deflated monster Montacute. I smiled at them.

Eleanor Talbot. Daughter of John Talbot. 1st Earl of Shrewsbury.

It was a sweet moment sent by that great lover of small spotty boys, the Holy Paraclete himself, sent down the golden corridors, first-class mail, sent down like a blessing, a benison: ripe, succulent, never-to-be forgotten; a moment sent down so pristine, so perfect, lovely, carried by angels, their wings stretched, travelling beyond their normal flight capacity, beyond the speed of light, a speed that is god’s gift to small spotty boys and only to them, in their finest hour, my speed.

Delusion

Hush.

Hush why?

Shut up. Sshh. Wait.

And they both knelt there, spell bound, behind the forsythia.

Isn’t she cute.

Sshh.

Well, she is.

She was Flopsy Flipit, their ageing white doe rabbit. She was coyly nibbling a yellowing lettuce leaf they had laid at the edge of the lawn.

You’re sure he’s coming?

Sshh.

You’re sure you saw him?

Henrietta turned her furious freckled face up.

Jane, please, please, just stop talking.

I don’t believe it. I don’t believe you. You tell fibs. You’re a filthy liar.

But she stayed where she was though her knees were getting sore from the grit under the grass and her ankles red from midge bites.

You saw a trim, cocky white rabbit humping Flopsy?

Henrietta nodded her head violently.

Liar.

Shut up.

They waited, the midges worsened and flies crawled along their bare calves.

Hen, I’m going. I don’t believe a word.

OK. Go then.

But she didn’t because she had just seen what Henrietta had whispered to her at breakfast and there he was, a magnificent white buck rabbit crossing the lawn in a series of calculated leaps.

Oh my God! And Flopsy, why doesn’t she run?

Why should she run?

Hen, you’re so bad. You’re a slut.

But Flopsy continued on nibbling and the buck leapt upon her and humped for a full seven seconds as the girls gaped, gasped and held onto the forsythia. Then, leaping off, he bounded back over the grass and disappeared into the shrubbery.

Oh my God!

Well, what did you expect?

Well that she wouldn’t just go on eating the lettuce. Surely it must mean more than that? Are we to go through life just nibbling because the rest’s too boring?

Dunno, Jane. Perhaps that’s all there is to it.

Oh Hen, it’s so sad. It really is. I want to cry.

And she took out a large soiled linen handkerchief and blew her nose.

Youth for the Future

Who was that, darling?

His wife had just come back to the table. She’d been on the phone for quite some while.

Harry, darling. He’s coming to stay for a week.

A week!

Now darling! We did have Sue you know and for two weeks.

But Harry is not Sue.

Well, Sue is not everyone’s first choice.

Well I shall be away for most of that week.

Up to you, darling.

But Meg, it’s not decent.

What do you mean, dear?

Well, you know. What he gets up to with Victoria and Albert.

They’re old enough to take care of themselves now. I’ve explained everything to them. They’re really very fond of Harry.

Of course they’re fond of Harry. That’s the problem, Meg, isn’t it. Harry’s brand new world. No inhibitions, no false modesty, no denials. Let it all fall out.

Darling, that’s rather coarse.

Well he’s dangerous. Should be locked up.

He has been, darling, but they let him out.

Really Meg? You never told me. And you say he’s coming here for a week. I’m taking Vic and Al away.

Don’t be silly, Tom, they’re looking forward to it. And it’s just ideas, ideas and concepts.

Harry’s ‘youth of the future’. Frolicking across the meadows in fanny all. Getting up to god knows what at sundown. Why did they let him out?

Good conduct.

Good conduct!

Yes, both the chief warden and the superintendent took a liking to him. He was shortlisted for exemplary conduct.

I know everything about Harry’s conduct, Meg. I won’t have it. I refuse, I refuse.

Oh Tom, you’re so stuck in the past. It could be 2019 or something. It isn’t. It’s 2037. It’s a new world and youth are at the forefront of it.

So what did they decide?

Decide what?

In the referendum. You know the one last week.

Oh that. You didn’t hear? Yes it passed. 35 million for, five hundred against.

So the age of consent is now …?

Is now twelve.

Oh my God! No, no.

Yes Tom yes.

And so it’s all Harry’s new world now. A world of youth for the future. Well I won’t stand for it.

You will, darling. You have to. You have no choice. It’s Vic’s and Al’s world now darling. You’re just an ugly old ogre. Stop pretending. Get used to it. Join it. It’s fun.

Getting It Right

Isn’t it such a lovely room, Jane. So many beautiful things.

Yes I suppose so. Lucky Sonia with a lord for a dad.

Look at that.

That old lady.

That’s a great painting Jane. A Gainsborough Jane.

Mrs Gainsborough?

Oh Jane.

"Why? What?

It’s probably worth over ten million.

What for that old lady! What nonsense.

She swivelled carefully round, the carpet very thick, her shoes new, the heels high and potentially disastrous. A lovely girl, tall, insolent features, immaculate skin, two months past that horrendous seventeenth-year time marker and then, only yesterday. three O-Level passes confirmed. Come with many other Cheltenham ladies to welcome Sonia into the same old age pit.

"B dearest, who’s that lout over there?"

Where? Who?

The one they’re all pawing.

I think his name is Antoine.

French?

Half and half. Sonia told me his father is French, an ambassador to some place. I don’t remember where.

Bit of a dish B.

Knows it obviously. Rather unfair though to be dealt such a hand, all the aces. Look at me, two weeks away from old age and the spots still awful, my hair a joke.

So no Antoine for us darling.

Absolutely not. I mean look at that, Jane. Look at that slut Fiona carrying on like that. How ridiculous can you get? Can’t she see he’s suffering?

A waiter passed with a tray of minute hot dogs. They each took two. Munched meditatively.

Beatrice, look at his trousers.

Yes?

"Well, must be one of those. Moulded. Normal guys don’t dress that way. You can see everything."

Beatrice took a small pair of glasses out of a handbag, looked across the room.

Yes Jane I suppose you can. So you think Fiona is wasting her time?

They all are. It’s obvious isn’t it? Wow these are delicious aren’t they? Where’s he gone?

Who? Who’s gone where?

The waiter silly. Beatrice don’t stare like that. What are you doing? Stop it.

Sorry Jane. Interesting. Very.

They resolutely turned, looked the other way, scanned other areas, other girls, Cheltenham, Roedean, Malvern, the young men all in black, the Etonians bunched up in a corner making a lot of noise, so many faces looking over shoulders, whispering in friends’ ears.

Beatrice, is it showing? I’ve lost pounds this year. It’s always slipping.

What Jane?

That strap.

One second, I’ll fix it. There. But Christ Jane, time to go real. Go out and buy yourself some safe non-slip undies.

Thanks B. But why’s Fiona staring at us? Is something happening? Something wrong?

Fixed eh? Not one of my problems. No straps on me. Have one of these.

Close up, holding out his tray, he’s taller, very fit, eyes amazing, rather alarming.

They’re spicy. But any excuse to get away from those she-wolves. Have to keep on the move. You are?

Jane.

Beatrice.

I’m Antoine. Delighted to meet you.

They’re good.

You like spicy Jane?

Yes. But Beatrice doesn’t.

I do if not too hot.

How hot is not too hot Beatrice?

He was standing very near to her. Too near really. But she didn’t step back.

Well, so it doesn’t burn your tongue.

Surely it would have to be very hot to do that. Impossibly hot.

He held out his tray again, chose a roll, bit one end off, chewed thoughtfully.

Mmmmh. Not bad at all. Not hot at all. Try. Please. Try one. Go on, go on please. Take one.

They stood, all three huddled around the tray, putting down rolls.

"See. What did I tell you. Not hot at all. Beatrice see, see you liked that. Don’t deny that Beatrice. See not hot at all. But perhaps now I really have to keep on moving. Though will come back again soon. I promise. Don’t disappear. I promise.

But