Misspent Youth

  “Mum, you haven’t been gone a month.”

  “I know.” She gave him a quick kiss. “But it’s still nice to see you. Now, come along, I’ve got a taxi booked, we’re going to Fortnum and Mason for lunch.”

  Natalie Cherbun came in the taxi with them, while the other two Europol officers were left to catch one of their own. His mother, Tim noticed with some jealousy, no longer had a bodyguard team.

  The distinguished old department store on Piccadilly hadn’t changed since the last time Tim had visited several years ago—also with his mother. The ground floor was given over entirely to a delicatessen, with long, dark wooden shelves stacked with a fantastic array of bottles and packets. It was as if the old store was completely immune to the decay of global transport and the political instabilities that raged across the world. Delicacies from just about every country were stacked neatly in their sections. Tim imagined each brand and variety must have occupied the same part of shelving for decades, as if they’d somehow colonized the place. There was even tea from China, which had long ago disconnected itself from the datasphere.

  His head swiveled around as they walked through, distracted by the smells, first coffee from the big grinding machines behind the counter, then chocolate, then cheese. By the time they reached the far side, and walked up the short flight of steps to the raised restaurant overlooking the shop floor, his stomach was growling with hunger.

  “So what’s happening at home?” Sue asked after they’d ordered their drinks. She hadn’t commented on him asking for mineral water, though her raised eyebrow was quite eloquent in itself.

  “Nothing much. The usual.”

  “Tim, you were desperate to come down here. You might not have said it on the phone, but I am your mother.”

  Tim scrunched his lips up, almost forming a sulky pout before he realized what he was doing. “Well, you know, you and Dad separating takes some getting used to. And I did want to see you as well.”

  “That’s very sweet. How’s Annabelle?”

  “Dunno.” Tim moved his shoulders in what might have been a shrug.

  “Ah.” Sue sipped her champagne thoughtfully. “I thought that was odd. I haven’t heard a word about her out of you since the summer ball. Have you broken up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Everybody says that.”

  “Everybody’s bound to. You made a good couple.”

  “Great.” Tim slumped down petulantly.

  “Oh Tim.” Sue reached over and patted his hand. “It’ll be all right eventually. Broken hearts mend, I know that from experience.”

  “Who broke your heart?”

  “Lots of people. Boys! You’re a cruel race.”

  “I don’t think I broke Annabelle’s heart.”

  “Of course you did. She’ll be devastated she was so stupid as to let you go.”

  “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-aw
ay 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?”

  “It’s a bar in Nottingham, right in the center. We’re going to hit a few clubs.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “How about you?”

  “I’m waiting for some friends,” he lied. “We’re going to take a tour around the West End tonight, see what’s happening.”

  “So much cool.”

  “So shall I give you another call when I get home? Maybe we could meet up?” he asked hopefully.

  “Do that. I’d like it. Hey, drown in fun tonight.”

  “You too. Bye.”

  “Bye, Tim.”

  The screen went blank. Who are you trying to fool? he asked himself bitterly. From somewhere he found the courage to say: “Click, real-time call to Goddard house phone, eighteen Southbrook Crescent, Uppingham, Rutland.” This was it, the last desperate gamble. If he blew it now, they would be over forever.

  The call wasn’t rejected by the house’s datasphere interface. That alone sent his pulse rate up. He waited while the speakers pealed loudly around him. Then they fell silent, and the screen lit up with poor resolution shadows in a drizzle of emerald sparks. The shadows moved, and he recognized them as Roger Goddard’s face. Annabelle’s father was frowning heavily. “Hello?” his deeply puzzled voice queried.

  “Hello, Mr. Goddard, it’s Tim Baker. I wondered if I could talk to Annabelle, please.”

  The huge face on the screen displayed a number of strange tics as the question was pondered, changing the frown into an expression of anguish. “No,” he said quietly. “No, you can’t.”

  “Please, if you could just ask her to come to the phone. I just want to talk to her. That’s all. Please.”

  “I can’t, Tim. She’s not here. She left this afternoon.”

  “She left?”

  “Yes. Packed her bag and went. She said it was just for a few days. But I know. This is just the start. I’ll be here by myself soon.”

  “Where’s she gone?”

  “She’s off to spend a few days with her boyfriend.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who the fu—Do you know who he is?”

  “I’m not sure. I know you used to be. This is somebody else.”

  “What’s his name? Please, Mr. Goddard.”

  “I don’t know. That’s strange. I’m sure she must have told me. But I don’t remember.”

  “How long has she been seeing him?”

  “Quite a while. Was it you she went to the Summer Ball with, or him?”

  “Me. It was me.”

  “Oh. Well it was about then.”

  “The Summer Ball? She was seeing him back then?”

  “I think so.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “She was really happy when she left. I couldn’t stop her, couldn’t say anything. She’s so beautiful when she’s smiling and excited like that. So full of joy. How could I ask her to stay? All I want is for her to be happy. I can’t stand in the way of that. My daughter is so wonderful. And he makes her happy. Shining, she was—”

  “Fucking click, fucking end fucking call!”

  SINCE THE BALL. Or even before the ball, if her stupid synth-head father was right.

  I told you, she’s a real slut. Simon’s exact words. Words Tim had nearly come to blows over. Simon claimed she’d slept with Derek, which at the time Tim was sure was his way of covering the fact that Annabelle had dumped him.

  Now she’d gone to stay with her boyfriend. Was it Derek?

  How could she? She knew how much he loved her, how utterly devoted he was. How could she do such a thing? They’d been good together. Everyone said that. A great couple. He made her laugh. They had sex. Lots of sex. Hadn’t that meant anything to her? Hadn’t he meant anything to her?

  Obviously not.

  Tim curled up inside the globe chair, frightened that he was going to cry. Now she had someone else, she would never want him back. They’d moved in together. That meant they would spend every night together in bed. It had already begun.

  The idea produced an actual physical pain in Tim’s head. It was so abhorrent. Nobody could love and appreciate her the way he did. Nobody.

  He could finally realize why people did such stupid, crazy things when they lost someone they adored. There and then he couldn’t bear the notion of ever going back to Rutland, where he’d be near her every day, walking through places they’d been together. He could just as easily stay down in London with Mum, spend the summer sampling metropolitan life until university. That idea died as quickly as it was born. Mum had her new life, complete with her men; she was happy.

  Maybe he should take that gap year Dad had offered him. The other side of the planet was probably the only safe distance to be right now.

  THE SUMMER STORM CRAWLED NORTHWARD across the placid azure sky, following some way behind the morning express train from London to Peterborough. Tim changed for the regional train to Stamford, then caught the bus back to Empingham. Thick black clouds were just beginning to fall over the lip of the southern horizon as the taxi carrying him and the Europol team pulled up in front of the manor; the air was heavy with the smell of ozone.

  Lieutenant Krober was in the hallway when Tim walked in. “We didn’t expect you back for a few more days,” he said.

  To Tim’s ears the Europol officer sounded strangely guilty. “Yeah, well, London didn’t work for me.
”

  “I see.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “I am not sure.”

  “Not sure? You’re his bodyguard.”

  “He has not gone out. He is in the manor. Perhaps working.”

  Tim frowned at Krober, who was giving Natalie Cherbun a silent, frantic look. He marched into the living room. Dad wasn’t there, but a navy blue bikini halter was draped over the back of the white leather sofa. Tim stared at it, startled by how familiar it was, one of Stephanie Romane’s swimwear line. The big French doors were open, obviously used that morning. He went out onto the terrace to see if anyone was outside. Behind him he could hear Krober and Cherbun talking in low urgent voices. Nobody was in the garden. The pool was calm and flat, with a single inflatable ball floating in one corner of the deep end.

  From somewhere above and behind him came the sound of a girl moaning hoarsely. Tim turned slowly to see that the veranda doors of his father’s bedroom were wide open. He wasn’t conscious of climbing up the iron spiral stairs from the terrace. The next thing he knew he was standing on the veranda while the storm’s precursor breeze stirred the louver blinds along the edge of the broad glass doors. There was another cry from inside the bedroom, sharper this time. A cold dread seeping through Tim’s body produced shivers down his arms and legs as he crept forward to the window frame. His face pressed up against the glass, allowing him to peer through the narrow gap between the blinds.

  He was looking directly into Annabelle’s wide-eyed stare, though she seemed unable to see anything through her own rapture. She was kneeling on all fours in the middle of the four poster bed, oiled skin gleaming in the room’s rich lighting. Jeff was positioned behind her, hands gripping her hips, muscles straining as he pulled himself forward, grunting with the effort of penetration. Annabelle’s beautiful features suddenly contorted with a grimace of dirty glee, and she let out a long delighted wail.

  The tableau rooted Tim to the spot. All he could do was watch in utter disbelief as his father fucked Annabelle barely three meters in front of him.

  They went on and on. He was sure there was never going to be an end to it.

  The image blurred. Tim blinked, not understanding what was happening. Then he saw big raindrops were splashing against the glass. The storm had arrived from the south, rolling across the sky to shroud the manor in darkness and thunder. Rain and tears mingled together as they trickled down his cheeks.