‘Do you still have them?’
Achilles thought about it. ‘I think I have a Jim’ll Fix It badge somewhere, but I don’t really know what it means. Dad explained it to me once, but it’s so long before my time that it doesn’t hold any resonance for me. Although I believe they were quite prized items back in the day. I could probably get a lot of money for it from some nonce on eBay. I did really well with my collection of Nazi memorabilia.’
‘Does it get exhausting?’ asked Rebecca.
‘What?’
‘Keeping the patter up.’
He smiled. ‘It does, as it happens. But hey, it’s all I’ve got. I’ll need a nap when I get home.’
She looked him directly in the eye and he felt, for a moment, discombobulated. ‘I think you have a lot more than that,’ she said. ‘I mean, it’s obvious that you have …’ She waved a hand up and down in the air before him. ‘All of this.’
‘My genetic make-up.’
‘Yes, that.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’m wondering what’s behind the good looks. Tell me something about you that nobody knows.’
He thought about it and looked away, searching for a funny answer but deciding against it. He would risk the truth.
‘I’ve never taken drugs,’ he said. ‘Nothing. Never smoked a cigarette, never had a joint.’
‘Really? That’s unusual.’
‘But true. Just doesn’t appeal. Your turn. Something about you that—’
‘I’m learning Russian. I take classes every Tuesday evening.’
‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Why Russian?’
‘Don’t know. Just felt like it.’
‘I guess you’ve left school by now so … are you in college?’
‘Yes, I’m training.’
‘To be what?’
‘A musician. A harpist, to be precise.’
He sat back in his chair, smiling a little. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now I don’t know whether you’re messing with me or not. A harpist? Seriously?’
‘I’m completely serious. Why would I make that up?’
‘I made up that bullshit about me being a spy.’
‘Yes, but that was to impress me. And it wasn’t credible anyway. I’m not sure being a harpist is all that remarkable.’
He considered this, then shook his head. ‘Actually, I think it is,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if I have a whole bunch of harpist friends who get together every Saturday night for a jam session. All right, then, let’s test you. How many strings does a harp have?’
‘Forty-seven.’
‘Why are some strings different colours?’
‘So the harpist can find his or her place. The C-strings are all red. The F-strings are all black.’
‘Impressive,’ said Achilles. ‘But you may have tried this trick on other innocent schoolboys in the past, so you’ve learned them off.’
‘I doubt you’re particularly innocent.’
‘What are the strings made of?’
‘Usually metal, nylon or catgut.’
‘And what is catgut when it’s at home?’
‘The intestine of a sheep.’
‘So can a vegetarian be a harpist?’
She looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if she was hoping to find the answer there. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘And actually, that’s a very good question. I’ll ask Dr Lefèvre when I next see him.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Achilles. ‘Dr Lefèvre is your harp teacher.’
‘He is, yes.’
‘I can’t quite get a hold on you, Rebecca,’ said Achilles, finishing his Americano. ‘I don’t know if you’re making all this up or not.’
‘Everything I’ve told you is true,’ she said. ‘Whether you believe me or not is up to you.’
She stood up, gathering her bags, and he frowned.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked. ‘You’re not leaving?’
‘I have a lesson.’
‘Then where’s your harp?’
She laughed. ‘It’s not a violin, Achilles. I don’t carry it around with me. It’s at the music school.’
‘That does make sense. So, are you going to give me your number?’
‘One dick pic and you’re blocked.’
‘Scout’s honour.’
‘Were you ever a Scout?’
‘I was a Cub,’ he said.
‘You’re still a cub,’ she replied, scribbling her number on a napkin and handing it across. ‘Don’t wait too long to call, though,’ she said. ‘I might meet someone else before the day is out. I’m a very popular girl.’
And with that she was gone, and Achilles was left in a dizzy state of rapture. Usually, he didn’t feel any great romantic longings for anyone and was happy enough with sex for its own sake, but there was something about this girl that intrigued him. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to keep talking to her. He put the napkin in his pocket and left the coffee shop, thinking about her all the way to the Tube and all the way home. It was only when he put the key in his front door that he remembered he’d left his new trainers behind.
HASHTAG MESSIAH
Elizabeth had spent the morning under the direction of Wilkes at Sangers for Skangers and had now been dragged to a soup kitchen to decant a tureen of something turgid and greenish that he inexplicably referred to as ‘vegetable soup’ into bowls for several dozen of London’s homeless. Although she longed to return north of the river for a hot shower, Elizabeth was feeling virtuous and hoped that her Good Works might mean they could go to MNKY HSE or Sushisamba later for some real food. If she caught her boyfriend in the right mood, she might even be able to persuade him to join her for an afternoon at the spa of one of the five-star hotels on Park Lane, where they could scrub the greasy film of poverty from their skin with a meso-infusion body hydration treatment and a cryotherapy energy facial. She couldn’t be expected to be virtuous and honourable every minute of the day, she told herself – she wasn’t Jameela Jamil, after all – and she’d already gained almost forty new followers by posting a picture of herself on Instagram with her arm around, but not quite touching, the shoulders of a destitute young man who looked into the camera lens with disgust.
@ElizCleverley Feels so good to give back! We take luxuries like food for granted in the western world & need to remember there are people out there who don’t share our good fortune. #homeless #SoupKitchen #VegetableSoup #Recipes #Kindness #Goodness #Decency #FirstWorld #KimKardashian #Smell #Rancid #Humanity #BobGeldof #Gross #PleaseHelp #Indigent #Indigenous #Indignant #AGoodWash #Soap #MoltonBrown
‘Can we have a talk?’ asked Wilkes, sidling up behind her and wrapping his bony arms around her waist. He’d spent the last hour going through the Twitter account of a famous writer to make sure that she wasn’t following anyone objectionable, then offering her up for the world’s condemnation when he saw that she was. A constructive use of his time, he told himself.