‘We want you to move out,’ said George.
‘So you’re making me homeless?’
‘Well, it’s not as if you don’t have friends among that community, is it?’ asked Beverley.
‘We’re not making you homeless,’ said George, standing up and putting an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. ‘You can stay here as long as you like, you know that. But both your mother and I think it would be good for your personal development if you got a job. Call it a favour to us.’
‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘So I have to do favours for you now, do I? I’m your daughter, you know, not your best friend.’
‘Still, it would be much appreciated.’
‘Fine!’ shouted Elizabeth, standing up and marching towards the door. ‘I’ll think about it. And in the meantime, if anyone is looking for me, I’ll be upstairs. Writing poetry.’
RUM AND COKE
At a corner table of the Churchill Arms in Kensington, Jeremy Arlo, six weeks short of his fifty-first birthday, was seated at a table, pretending to read the Evening Standard. He was of average height, with thinning grey hair, and had chosen to wear a pair of chinos that were too tight around the waist. An ill-advised check shirt, also a size too small, made his stomach swell, parting the fabric at his navel to reveal an unappetizing glimpse of furry skin. He glanced at his watch and wondered whether he had time to run down to the high street to buy something more appropriate to his girth, but it was already three minutes past seven, and the shops were probably closed by now.
Before he could decide for sure, however, the door swung open and Achilles Cleverley stepped inside with a bemused expression on his face. Achilles had never seen a bar so bedecked with Union Jacks before. He caught his own reflection in a mirror – jeans, Sex Pistols T-shirt, biceps freshly pumped – and felt out of place, an anachronistic figure brought back from the future to tell the drinkers gathered there that the world they cherished would one day come to an end, their empire would crumble, and this would be its last remaining outpost.
He glanced around and spotted Jeremy instantly. A new victim was always easy to identify. He’d be the one person who looked absolutely terrified to be there.
‘Mr Arlo?’ he asked tentatively, approaching the table and feigning shyness as he brushed his blond hair away from his forehead in imitation of a young Leonardo DiCaprio, an actor that Achilles was frequently compared to in terms of looks and physique. Jeremy stood up immediately, almost upsetting the half-empty glass on his table.
‘Nick,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s good to meet you. You found the place all right?’
‘Yes, no problem.’
‘Oh good.’
They stood there smiling at each other, saying nothing, and when things got awkward, Achilles asked whether they might sit down.
‘Of course, of course,’ said Jeremy, indicating the seat opposite him.
‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether you’d show up,’ said Achilles. ‘You probably have a lot better things to do with your evenings than meet random strangers.’
‘Not at all,’ replied Jeremy with an anxious smile. ‘Well, I mean, yes, naturally, I have a busy life. I do have, you know, friends and so on. But I was so looking forward to talking with you in person. There’s only so much that one can say over text messages.’
‘That’s true, but I got a really positive sense of you from them.’
‘As did I with you. Is that right? It sounds ungrammatical. Sorry, I’m a little nervous. I wasn’t entirely sure if this was a good idea.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, it is a little unorthodox.’
‘I suppose.’
‘But as the day wore on, my bad angel began shouting down my good angel, and before I knew it, I was standing at the bar ordering a drink.’
Achilles nodded, slightly concerned by the man’s use of the word angel. Was he some sort of religious nut, intent on saving his soul in time for the Rapture? If so, this might not work out as planned.
‘Did you come far?’ asked Jeremy after an awkward silence.
‘You sound like the Queen. Isn’t that what she asks everyone?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ he replied, laughing.
‘You wouldn’t like it down my way. This is much better than I’m used to.’ Achilles looked around innocently, as if he’d never been in a building with a roof before, let alone in a room with tables and chairs.
‘It’s private, too, which I thought was important. We don’t need everyone knowing our business, do we?’
Achilles glanced at the man’s pint before looking back up pointedly.
‘Oh yes, can I get you a drink?’ asked Jeremy.
‘I’ll have a rum and Coke,’ said Achilles. ‘And you might need this,’ he added, handing across his fake ID, which added ten extra months to his age and carried his fake name. ‘Just in case they look over and think I’m not eighteen.’
‘You are eighteen, though, aren’t you?’ asked Jeremy.
‘It says so on the card,’ replied Achilles. ‘So I must be, mustn’t I?’
Jeremy smiled and stared at it for a few moments. Achilles remained silent, watching as a cloud of hesitation passed across the man’s face. Once or twice in the past, one of his marks had chosen this moment to make an early escape and he’d never heard from them again. But more often than not, desire took a lead pipe to the man’s conscience, beating it senseless and leaving it on life support.
‘Well, yes,’ said Jeremy finally. ‘Rum and Coke it is, then,’ he muttered, walking away, and as he made his way to the bar, Achilles glanced around at the old men dotted around the room, staring wordlessly into their pints. The place was creepy as fuck, he decided, but at least there was absolutely no chance of running into anyone from school. No one he knew would be seen dead in a place like this. Behind the bar, a woman standing with an elbow on one of the pumps studied the boy’s ID before looking in his direction, and he gave her his most charming smile, the one that rarely failed him, and he watched as she handed the card back to Jeremy and turned around to reach for a bottle of Captain Morgan. A younger girl wearing a low-cut top and too much make-up passed by, carrying a tray of empties, and glanced at him.
‘Parents let you out on a school night, did they?’ she asked.
‘Fuck off,’ he said, flashing her the pearly whites too. She wasn’t much older than him, and she laughed, already smitten.
‘One rum and Coke,’ said Jeremy, returning to the table and putting the drink down before him, along with another pint for himself.
‘Thanks a lot, Mr Arlo.’
‘Please, call me Jeremy. Calling me Mr Arlo makes me sound like your teacher.’
‘Oh yeah?’ asked Achilles, taking a sip from his drink; to his annoyance, the barmaid had gone light on the rum and heavy on the Coke. ‘Is that what you’d like, then? To be my teacher?’
‘No, no,’ said Jeremy, shaking his head quickly and blushing. ‘No, I didn’t mean anything along those lines. You’ve got me all wrong.’
‘I was just joking,’ said Achilles, regretting what he’d said. It was far too soon to indulge in any flirtatious teasing. He needed to put the mark at ease. ‘Sorry.’