‘I hate feet,’ she said, turning away.
‘And yet you were mysteriously drawn to mine. You can touch them, if you like. I love a good foot massage.’
‘Vile,’ she said, rolling her eyes and walking back in the direction of the wedges.
This was not the sort of dialogue that Achilles was accustomed to. Typically, if a girl struck up a chat with him, the exchange would lead to a coffee, a kiss and either a quick shag in the disabled toilets or a taxi back to his for something more substantial. Instead, this girl had seemed repulsed by him, which he found both fascinating and insupportable.
Thirty minutes later, carrying the bag that contained his new purchase, he spotted her sitting in the window of a coffee shop and went in to join her.
‘Just to set your mind at rest,’ he said, holding the bag high, ‘I bought the trainers. So no one else will have to catch my horrible diseases. And I picked up some new socks too. You were right. I should have worn some in the first place. I apologize for my crimes against humanity. If you still feel you need to despatch me to The Hague to stand trial, I will completely understand.’
‘My father is a chiropodist,’ she replied, looking him up and down as she sipped her latte. ‘So I know what can happen when someone unwittingly wears shoes that someone else has worn before them. There are any number of afflictions. Warts, verrucas, athlete’s foot—’
‘I’m not much of an athlete.’
‘Corns, calluses, blisters, bunions, heel spurs, gout—’
‘Jesus, I’m not Henry VIII.’
‘I’m just saying.’
‘I knew a chiropodist once,’ said Achilles. ‘He bought me a pair of Bang & Olufsen headphones. The sound quality is tremendous. There must be good money in feet.’
Rebecca narrowed her eyes a little, sizing him up, before turning to look out of the window.
‘Well, if you’re not going to leave,’ she said, turning back to him, ‘then you may as well get something to drink. And I’ll have one of those marshmallow cakes at the front of the display case.’
He grinned, put his shopping down by the side of the table and went to the counter to purchase an Americano, another latte and two cakes. When he returned, she was messaging someone on her phone, although she put it away as soon as he sat down. In her bag, not on the table. He was pleased, if not surprised, to have her full attention.
‘So, what’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Rebecca,’ she replied. ‘Like the first Mrs de Winter.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You don’t get the reference?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘That’s disappointing. I hoped you would. Somehow, I thought you’d be a reader.’
‘I’m not really,’ he replied. ‘But my cousin Rachel is.’
Rebecca smiled. ‘Nice,’ she said, and he laughed, trying to keep his smugness under control. ‘And yours?’
‘Achilles Cleverley.’
‘That sounds more like a character in a spy movie than a real name.’
‘Maybe we are in a spy movie,’ he said. ‘And, any minute now, a man is going to come in and hand me a flash drive with all the codes on it.’
‘The codes to what?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I mean, I could keep the scenario going a little longer if you like, but I feel it’s run its course.’
‘I agree,’ she said.
‘Nothing worse than a joke that’s past its sell-by-date.’
‘Tell that to Boris Johnson. So, I suppose, with a name like Cleverley, you must be related.’
‘To who?’
‘To the man with the chat show.’
‘I’m his son. The youngest child of three but by far his favourite.’
‘Then the others must be absolute monsters.’
He stared at her, uncertain whether she was being flirtatious or just downright rude.
‘So, do you have a boyfriend?’ he asked.
‘Why do you assume that I’m straight?’
‘Because ninety per cent of people are,’ he said. ‘So it’s not an unreasonable assumption. You’re not going to get all Woke on me, are you? Because I’m allergic to self-righteousness. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question.’
‘About whether I have a boyfriend? It just seems like a peculiar question to ask a complete stranger.’
‘Small talk isn’t really my thing. Have you ever been to Africa?’
‘No, why?’
‘Are you interested in astronomy?’
‘Not in the slightest, why?’
‘Do you give money to charity?’
‘Sometimes, why?’
‘Do you have a boyfriend? It’s as valid a question as any of those.’
‘Hmm.’ She thought about it. ‘No, I don’t, if you really want to know. How about you?’
‘Do I have a boyfriend?’
‘Yes. For some reason, I feel like you might.’
He shrugged.
‘I had one once,’ he said. ‘Well, not really a boyfriend as such, more a guy I had a fling with. A dancer. A friend of my mother’s. He was very handsome and I was interested in trying it out, just to know what it would be like. But it didn’t take. I tried vegetarianism once, too, but couldn’t get into that either. So I think I’m destined for a life among women. My older brother, on the other hand, is a total flamer.’
‘Do people still use that word?’
‘I do.’
‘And does he have a boyfriend?’
‘Oh God, no,’ said Achilles, laughing. ‘He’s so far back in the closet he’s got one foot in Narnia. But it’s only a matter of time. I fully expect to wake up one morning and find a skinny-assed boy with a bad haircut and a spotty back coming out of his bedroom with a look of utter disappointment on his face. Anyway, the point is, I’m currently single and available for selection.’
She smiled and took a bite of her cake. One of the tiny marshmallows stuck to her upper lip and he reached across to wipe it away, but she reared back in her chair as if he’d been about to hit her.
‘Sorry,’ he said, genuinely surprised by her reaction. ‘I was only—’
‘My fault,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I don’t like people touching me unexpectedly.’
‘I’ll submit future requests in writing, then.’
‘That would be preferable. So, if you’re not a spy, I can only assume that you’re something much more mundane. Like a schoolboy.’
He opened his arms wide in acknowledgement. ‘I am, as you suggest, a lowly schoolboy.’
‘How old are you?’ she asked.
‘Seventeen,’ he replied. ‘And you?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘I love older women,’ he said.
‘That’s probably for the best. If it was the other way around, you’d be a paedophile.’
‘Please. My father’s worked for the BBC all my life. I practically grew up around paedophiles. Jimmy Savile used to drop round on Christmas Eve with presents for me.’