‘Isn’t.’
‘Is.’
‘Is not!’
She let out a scream of frustration. It seemed that today was a day when her conversations were only going to go around in circles.
‘What are you doing here, Pylyp?’ she said eventually. ‘What do you want? If it’s to try to get back together with me—’
‘Is not that,’ he said. ‘I no want that.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, feeling deflated. ‘How stupid of me.’
‘I come for best friend of my life, Ustym Karmaliuk.’
‘He’s out.’
‘How he is out? Where he go?’
‘He had a date.’
Pylyp frowned, looking like he almost believed this for a moment.
‘With other tortoise?’ he asked.
‘No, with a local Labrador. They’ve become very close. They went to the cinema together to watch the new Marvel movie. I imagine they’re doing some heavy petting in the back row now.’
Pylyp shook his head and wagged his finger at her.
‘Tortoise no go on date with dog,’ he said. ‘And Marvel not real cinema. The Scorsese man, he say this. I think you are making fun of me.’
‘You do that quite well enough by yourself,’ she replied. ‘You don’t need any help from me.’
‘Come. You give me Ustym Karmaliuk, we kiss on cheek, I pat your bottom if you like, we say goodbye. You regret my loss and I forget you for ever. Is proper way.’
‘I told you, he’s out.’
‘He not out. Is crazy idea. Ustym Karmaliuk never go out. He is … how you say … the homebody.’
‘Just leave, Pylyp, all right? I don’t want you here. You’ve hurt me terribly.’
He stood up and his expression turned darker. ‘I not leave this house without Ustym Karmaliuk,’ he declared. ‘Ustym Karmaliuk!’ he shouted, raising his voice, as if the poor unfortunate tortoise would hear him and come running. ‘Ustym Karmaliuk! You are where?’
‘Out!’ insisted Beverley, ushering him into the hallway and towards the door. She opened it and pushed him on to the street. Across the road, a small group of cyclists were taking a break from what appeared to be a lengthy ride, for they had parked their bikes and were drinking from water bottles while looking rather dishevelled. Each one wore a vest displaying the logo of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. ‘Get out and don’t come back.’
‘I no leave without Ustym Karmaliuk,’ he protested. ‘He 115 years old and part of Tataryn family. I no leave him with crazy shitbag woman!’
‘You’ve left him here all week with crazy shitbag woman!’ she shouted.
The cyclists across the street were looking over now, clearly enjoying the little drama playing out before them. One took out his phone and started filming it.
‘Is not right!’ insisted Pylyp. ‘You steal my tortoise. You steal Ustym Karmaliuk. Is family to me.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ she said, eager to bring this entire conversation to an end. ‘If he means that much to you, I’ll get him. Just stay where you are and don’t move. I’ll bring him out. Do not come back inside.’
‘Is good solution to vexatious problem,’ replied Pylyp, looking relieved. ‘I wait here.’
Beverley marched into the kitchen and looked around. Someone had taken the shoe box down from atop the pile of books and relocated it to the garden door. She picked it up and opened it carefully, hoping that she would not be presented with a horrendous spectacle, but, happily, Ustym Karmaliuk looked much the same in death as he had in life.
She marched back towards the front door and opened it with an embittered smile on her face.
‘You want the tortoise?’ she asked.
‘I want tortoise,’ agreed Pylyp.
‘Then here! Have him!’
And then, with all the determination of a US president throwing out the first pitch on the opening day of the World Series, she drew her arm back and flung Ustym Karmaliuk through the air as if he was a frisbee. He soared high above the street, his body displaying extraordinary aerodynamism, landing only a few feet from the RSPCA cyclists, where his shell smashed into a dozen pieces. Most of the riders screamed. Two threw up. One passed out.
Pylyp placed his hands to his cheeks and let out a roar of horror, but she didn’t care.
‘We’re done,’ she said, slamming the door in his face. ‘Don’t come back!’
IT STARTED WITH A PUPPY
So bruised did Elizabeth feel by her unexpectedly wounding encounter that she didn’t even stay for her appointment with Trevé – there was no advice he could give her that would be better than that of @WillBuchanModel – marching out of his office and making her way down the street, wiping tears from her eyes. Entering the first pub she came across, she ordered a large glass of white wine and sat at a corner table, the only person present at this hour of the day, feeling a strong urge to get completely wasted.
The boy’s words had struck her like a hammer-blow and she took out her phone, staring at it for a moment before placing it on the table before her. When, she wondered, had the success of her life become predicated on the number of strangers willing to read about the minutiae of her day? How had all this madness begun? She’d signed up for Twitter when she was in sixth form without really thinking about it, because most of her friends were embracing the platform, but she hadn’t committed much time or energy to it until a sunny afternoon a couple of years ago when she found herself sitting in Hyde Park and a cute puppy had come over to stare at her. She’d taken a photograph and posted a humorous comment alongside it, and the tweet had received a rapturous response. Watching the numbers of likes shoot up had given her a sense of achievement that she’d never quite felt before. She’d never seen herself as someone who might succeed on her own merits. Her parents, after all, were the high achievers. Their children didn’t seem destined for any great fame. Nelson was painfully shy, Achilles was an idiot, and she didn’t even know what she was or what she wanted to be. But something about that picture of the puppy had changed things for her, making her feel that she could have a voice in the world too.
Once, she recalled, she used to read books. And listen to music. She’d even written some songs that weren’t terrible, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d picked up her guitar or read a novel from cover to cover. Whenever she tried, she could barely get through a few paragraphs before reaching for her phone to document the fact that she was reading it in the first place, and by the time she’d posted that and tagged all the relevant people, she’d lost interest in the book itself and would toss it aside. It had served its function, after all. It had given her something to tell people about. To let them know that she was alive.
Why, she asked herself, did she not feel validated as a human being unless strangers were listening to her, commenting on her, liking her? This small piece of plastic and computer circuitry sitting before her had taken control over her life. Would she even exist if it didn’t?
She stood up, ordered another glass of wine, and deliberately left her phone on the bar as she made her way back to her seat, waiting to see how she might feel. Her hand started to tremble a little. She held it up and yes, her fingers were noticeably shaking. A newspaper sat on the next table, folded in half, and she saw a picture of an attractive woman on the front, with the words then didn’t want anything to do with me underneath, and she wondered whether she might get her news from the print media in future. What would that be like? She frowned. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Surely, by the time the newspapers were printed, brought to the shops, purchased and taken home again, all that news would be old news?