“You think?”
“Absolutely. I know a dozen friends in this town whose daughters would kill to have your interface number. You’re a prime catch.”
Tim glanced around to see if anyone was listening, not entirely displeased. “Mum!”
“Well, you are, darling, not just because you’re my son, or Jeff’s; you’re pretty special in your own right. Is that why you’re here? To meet new people, get over her?”
“Not really. It’s a little tricky with Dad at the moment, that’s all. I needed a break for a couple of days.”
“Oh God, what’s he done now?”
“Nothing really. You remember Rachel?”
“Vaguely. One of your friends. Brunette, slim, no real chest.”
Tim was momentarily thrown by his mother’s description. “Er, yeah. Well, her and Dad…you know.”
“Bloody hell! Are you sure?”
Several people at neighboring tables glanced round.
Tim studied his glass of water. “Yes.”
“Jesus. That’s sailing pretty close to the edge. What did dear Ms. Duke say about this?”
“I don’t think she knows. It was a bit of a one-night stand. I had a load of people round for an end-of-term barbeque. It happened that night.”
“It was a pretty awful thing for him to do. And her, come to that. But you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that your father’s a celebrity. Worse than that, he’s young and rich. It’s a combination which does tend to attract a certain type of girl. Ask Sir Mitch. There were a lot of tabloid reports before he got hitched to Stephanie.”
“I know that! But…Rachel. I was at school with her for five years.”
“Term’s over, school’s out for good. It can’t happen again. If I know anything about Jeff, he’s probably quite embarrassed about it himself.”
“Yeah, right.” Tim picked absently at his bread roll. His father hadn’t exactly shown much contrition since that morning. If anything, he’d made Tim feel that he’d somehow been in the wrong by complaining. Tim hated that. Things had just started to ease up at home. He’d thought he was getting on okay with his father again. If anything, he’d grown to be more comfortable around this new, rejuvenated father than he had been with the slightly distant old man from before the treatment; he felt less inhibited, more able to share and confide. It was as if they had almost become equals. Lost an elderly father, gained a big brother. On top of that he’d come to look forward to his daily phone calls to his mother. They’d begun to chatter away in a fashion they never did while she was at home being his mother. Then the summer ball happened, knocking his life out of kilter once again.
“Time, Tim,” Sue said in a near-regretful tone. “It cures many things. You just need a long dose of it right now.”
“Suppose.”
“So have you decided where you’re going, Oxford or Cambridge?”
“Oh yeah, sorry, didn’t I tell you? It’s Oxford.”
“Good for you.” She picked her menu up. “Now let’s eat. I’ve got another house to look at this afternoon.”
“Where?”
“Just outside Hounslow. Almost in the countryside, but only a twenty-minute train ride to the center of town. Want to come along and see it with me?”
“Sure.”
THE HOUSE WASN’T ANYTHING EXCEPTIONAL, four bedrooms and a reasonable-size garden—by London standards. Apart from the price, there was nothing appealing about it; and it was underneath Heathrow’s flight path. Even with exorbitant aviation fuel prices and two of the airport’s terminals now shut, there were still an uncomfortable number of planes landing and taking off.
Tim and Sue had a quick look around. The estate agent was promptly informed that it wasn’t what she wanted. Everybody left unhappy.
When they got back to the flat, Sue told Tim she was going out for the evening. “Not the sort of dinner party I can take you to, darling, sorry.”
To which he said he didn’t mind, he’d stay in and access some shows or maybe a pre10 movie. She offered to put him in touch with some of her friends who had family around his own age. There was a fabulous club scene in London, which they took full advantage of. He turned that down as well. His mood just wasn’t connected with that kind of thing right now. Besides, he was serious about staying off drink and synth8.
Sue took over an hour to get ready. When she finally came out of her bedroom, she was wearing a backless white and silver dress. “You look sensational, Mum,” Tim told her. He was always staggered by just how beautiful she was, as if she was a different species from all the other mothers he knew.
“Thank you, darling.” She was twisting about, examining herself in the hall’s full-length mirror. “It’s not too tarty?”
“You don’t do tarty, Mum. It’s sheer class. Dead on.”
She kissed him good-bye, and told him not to wait up.
Tim hadn’t asked who her date was for the evening. He’d never asked before. Why start now?
Two of the Europol team were left on duty for the night, watching a show in the flat’s small den. They’d ordered take-away from the local Chinese, asking Tim if he wanted to share. He’d said no; there was a load of food in the fridge that he fancied sampling. The flat was always supplied direct from Knightsbridge’s exclusive shops and stores.
Tim settled in the living room, claiming a black 1960s Erro Aarno globe chair that had cost his mother a fortune in an Islington antiques shop. He munched away on fresh smoked salmon sandwiches, then went on to try wild boar, followed by some weird salami sausage slices. After that he found a packet of sushi, meticulously arranged like some elegant floral display. That got scarfed down quickly, and he began to dip crackers in a little pot of caviar (okayish but salty). To finish with he piled some giant GM strawberries in a bowl and scooped Cornish cream all over them.
There was nothing he fancied watching on the living room screen. He wondered what his mother was doing right now. Probably at some swanky house, enjoying hors d’oeuvres in the drawing room along with all the other guests before taking their places at the dining table. After that some dinner-suited himbo would escort her out and murmur the question: “My place or yours?”
Stop it!
He hadn’t expected to go out with his mother every night, but she might have stayed with him for the first evening. London’s theaters and concert halls had enjoyed a huge renaissance after Hollywood burned; live shows were now immensely popular. A comedy would have cheered him up; they could have gone together.
Tim looked from the silent kaleidoscope of tiny images on the screen to the plates and dishes and wrappers scattered all over the floor around the globe chair. That spooky old sense of isolation, the scourge of his life until this year, was returning to depress him.
“Click, real-time call to Annabelle Goddard.”
CALLER CODE REJECTED, the screen printed immediately.
“Oh fuck it!” Why won’t she talk to me? He stared at the green script on the screen for a long moment. Everyone kept saying he’d get over her. “Okay then. Click, real-time call to Vanessa Dowdall.”
The big surround-sound speakers produced the ringing tone, making it seem as if he was in the middle of cathedral bells struck by a rampant robot. After a minute the screen printed: CALL ACCEPTED. AUDIO ONLY.
“Hi, Tim.” Vanessa’s voice was raised above a typical pub’s background clamor. He could visualize her, sitting at a crowded table with friends, one hand over an ear, the other cupping her mic and mouth.
“Hi, you said to call sometime.”
“Yeah, right, how are you?”
“Fine. I’m down in London.”
“Cool. I’m in Indigo.”
“Where?”