“Oh, that.”
“I can’t believe Jeff announced that on this ridiculous life site of his. You don’t brag about separating from your wife. It should be a private thing.”
“Lucy Duke said it was the best way. By being first to break the story we get to preempt any media interest and control the angle.”
“Timmy, if she ever gives you advice like that, you will tell her to go take a flying fuck, won’t you, dear?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Yes.”
“You do still talk to your mum, don’t you?”
“Oh yes. We’re fine, I suppose. But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“That’s very flattering, darling. I’ll do my best, you know that. Just don’t expect miracles, will you.”
Tim sat on the edge of a sunlounger, dropping his chin into his hands. “Me and Annabelle split up.”
“Oh no! She was such a lovely girl, Tim. Oops, sorry.”
“It’s all right. She was lovely.”
“Here, have some Pimms.” Alison picked up a big glass jug that was only a third full. The brownish liquid had a lot of fruit slices bobbing round on the surface, along with the remnants of ice cubes. She started to pour some into a highball glass. “Best summer drink there is. Always cheers me up, especially by the fourth glass.”
“No,” Tim said firmly. He started to tell Aunt Alison what had happened.
When he finished she gave the glass a mildly guilty glance, then took a sip. “You’re a silly old thing, Tim. Don’t think there’s much more I call tell you. ’Course, I’m not exactly the one best placed to lecture you on the evils of drink.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to. I’m never going to touch any alcohol or synth8 again. I promised myself that.”
“Jolly good.” She started picking up the cigarette packets littering the table, shaking them to find one that had some in it. “So who’s going to be next?”
“Next?”
“Girlfriend, Tim. Annabelle was a damn fine notch on your bedpost. You can be proud of that. Who’s going to be the next?”
“Alison! I don’t want anyone else. I just want Annabelle back.”
“The way you told it, Annabelle made it pretty plain you were through.”
“Suppose.”
“That was good psychology on her part, making you end the phone call. I wonder where she learned that?” She found a packet that had a couple of cigarettes left, checked that they were straight nicotine, then lit up.
“How do I get her back, Alison? I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do, what to say.” Tim waved his hand in front of his face, trying to waft the awful smoke away.
“I remember when I was your age.”
“Yes?”
“One boy after another. Dearie me, the reputation I earned myself. Then I had my seventeenth birthday; now he was a hell of a present to find in your bed the next morning.”
Tim tried not to smile.
“He was wonderful. Alexander was his name. Tall, blond, handsome, hung like a donkey. Those were the days, that kind don’t look at me twice today. Anyway…he claimed he was descended from Russian aristocracy. It could have been a family of Russian sanitation engineers for all I cared. I was so in love. I would have followed him anywhere if he’d only asked. He didn’t. At least not me. That was my very best friend Siobhan who traipsed along after him for a dirty weekend in Scarborough. Broke my heart.” She blew a long plume of smoke, staring wistfully out over the reservoir.
“Is that why you never married?” Tim asked reverently.
“God, no, I went out and grabbed myself another bloke before the end of the week. That’s what you do when you’re a teenager, you’re forever on the bounce-back. Then you reach an age and look around, and all the good ones have been snapped up—so the myth goes. Of course, novelists aren’t the easiest creatures to live with, either. I used to have neuroses that could frighten a shrink at twenty paces. Doesn’t mean I didn’t have long and worthwhile relationships with men, though.”
“Um, yes. Alison, what’s this got to do with me and Annabelle?”
Alison shook her head in exasperation. “Your generation, always want the capital letters, never the subtext. You don’t learn to read properly, that’s the trouble. And don’t start telling me you’ve accessed books. I’m talking about the real thing, good solid paper that you can hold in your hand, and bend the page corners the way you’re not supposed to.”
“I wouldn’t tell you that.”
“Hmm. The thing is this, Tim; you’re eighteen, forever is about a month at your age. You’ll get over her. And move on to the next like the healthy, appallingly randy boy that you are.”
“I don’t want to get over her. Why does everybody say that? I want her back.”
“Did you dump Zai?”
Tim was thrown by the abrupt shift. “Er, yes.”
“She must have felt just like you do now. Except it would have been a lot worse for her. Women get hurt a damn sight more by these things. Not that men ever appreciate that. Oh no, you know and care as much about our feelings as you do our G-spot.”
“I do care.”
“Hmm. So after you’d cast Zai aside because Annabelle had bigger boobs, she was left with her emotions bruised and bleeding, and feeling as low and unwanted as a person can get.”
“I didn’t do it like that.”
“But you did leave her. It was your decision. So did she have a date for the ball?”
“Yes.”
“There was never any chance you would get back with her. You were so obsessed with Annabelle you wouldn’t even consider it. Zai knew that, so she had no choice. She picked up her life and met someone else. She got over you.”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you are. It’s possible. You will survive. Now, which of your other friends-who-are-girls do you fancy the most?”
Tim fell back into the sunlounger and smiled in dismay. “I know I’ll survive. But I still want Annabelle back.”
“Ah, the lowly servant boy smitten by the unattainable princess. I’ve written about you so many times.”
“Do I get her in the end, the princess?”
“Unless you’ve got a magic sword and a flying dragon that does smart-ass one-liners, not a snowflake’s chance in hell.”
34. HAPPY BIRTHDAY
IT WAS ANNABELLE who had to get the door when the bell rang. Roger Goddard was confused by the sound. It was only quarter past eight in the morning, and this wasn’t the day when the Community Supply Service van came to restock their house with food. He didn’t know what to do about the insistent tone of the bell, it didn’t belong in his routine.
She pulled her worn old bathrobe over her equally faded knee-length T-shirt and opened the door, making sure the security chain was engaged. A young man was standing on the step, a safety helmet under his arm, electronic pad in his hand. The e-trike parked behind him had a florist franchise logo on its cool storage box.
“Ms. Goddard?”
“That’s me.” She started to smile as soon as she realized what was happening.
“I have two deliveries for you.”
“Oh that’s great. Wait. Two?”
She had to sign twice on the pad before he’d hand the bouquets over. One was big, twenty red roses just starting to open, complemented by long graceful white orchids. That was from Jeff. The other was even bigger, a wide cone of gold and royal-purple paper containing a vast array of flowers, half of which she couldn’t name. The little card that came with it said: