bring the price of spaceflight down to the same as it costs to fly across the Atlantic.”
Jeff laughed. “Now, that’s the definition I’ve been looking for ever since I came out of the suspension womb. I look young, almost as young as you lot; but the real difference between us is cynicism. You don’t have any, while I’ve got a ton of it.”
“I’m cynical,” Philip protested. “I don’t believe a word politicians say.”
“That’s not cynicism,” Sophie said. “That’s just common sense.”
Jeff smiled to himself as he tucked into the barbeque. The youngsters chattered avidly around him, losing just about every inhibition when it came to topics and comments. He was pleased about that. Teenage reticence in front of adults was a near absolute. But he’d obviously found a form of acceptance among them. Not, he admitted to himself, that he’d want to hang with them the whole time; their interests and conversation were too shallow for that.
When he thought about it, he wasn’t totally sure what kind of group he did want to be with on a permanent social basis. Late twenties, probably, or early thirties. Young enough not to be boring, old enough to have some wisdom.
Now that Sue had left, and Tim was on the verge of departing to university, he supposed he ought to make an effort to rebuild a social life. His slightly crazy existence since finishing the treatment had virtually precluded that. It had been a good time, though; not just because of Annabelle. Every consumer item he could want, he’d already got. Which is what youth should be about, no cares, no responsibilities, enjoying everything you do, and the decades stretching out invitingly ahead of you.
Jeff drank some more beer and ate his burgers, happy that not only was this evening one of the best, but that he could repeat it ad infinitum in the years to come.
HE TOOK THEM TO SEE THE CAR after they’d finished their strawberries and cream. It had been delivered only the day before, replacing his old Mercedes. A Jaguar I-type sportster, straight off the new production line at Birmingham, it was low-slung, with two seats, sculpted raw metal bodywork, broad flex-profile tires, computer stabilized suspension, laser proximity sensors, eight recombiner cells delivering power direct to the axle hub motors, limited to three hundred and twenty kilometers per hour but capable of a lot more (he’d already got the fix for that). The sight of it sitting in the garage, yellow light glimmering softly off the blue metal surface, was enough to draw several gasps of admiration from the eager youngsters. Jeff loved it. Most modern cars were big and sedate, giving the impression of quiet infallible power; while this looked seriously mean.
“How did you get it?” Colin asked. “They only started making them this year. I thought there was a two-year waiting list.”
“Being famous has its advantages,” Jeff said. “Although, you will have to put up with me on your spamtxt for the next three months. I did an endorsement deal with Jaguar’s PR division.”
They groaned.
“I know,” Jeff said, grinning. “Sellout.”
“But worth it,” Simon said. “Definitely worth it. This is so much dead on.”
“Can I sit in it?” Rachel asked.
“Of course.” Jeff put his palm on the biometric pad, and the passenger door opened smoothly. She gave him a long thank-you smile as she wriggled past him.
Vanessa stuck her hand up eagerly. “Me too.”
“Do we get to ride in it?” Philip asked.
“’Fraid not, we’ve all had too much to drink. And I haven’t got a hack for the breath sensor yet.”
“Can I at least sit in the driver’s seat?” Colin asked querulously.
“I guess so.” It was the first thing Tim had asked when they went out for a test drive yesterday morning. He’d even let Tim drive the Jag for a couple of miles along the country lanes, where there was no chance of the boy putting his foot down.
Despite the lack of an open road, the Jag had been a dream to drive. Tires clung to the crumbling, potholed tarmac as if they were rolling along a newly laid motorway. Sitting behind the wheel on a sunny morning, U2 cranked up to level twenty on the sound system, gliding through the countryside in a car that would make most other men weep, was another of those defining best moments. Jeff’s life seemed to be clocking up a lot of them right now.
When he was first young he’d hated the sight of middle-aged men in coupes. They were all posers, with no right to own cars like those. And they all wore the same kind of cap, white canvas with a peak, as if it was some kind of Masonic uniform requirement. Didn’t they realize how sad they looked? He’d always sworn he would never repeat their mistake.
Now here he was, pulling off the whole sports car scene with considerable class.
Once he’d dropped Tim off he zoomed over to Stamford to meet up with the birthday girl in their suite at the George. He couldn’t resist driving her home afterward. Sitting behind the wheel on a warm summer’s night, delectable teenage sex kitten at his side with Bruce Springsteen at level twenty—his quality of life had taken a remarkable quantum leap inside a few short hours.
AFTER THE YOUNGSTERS HAD DEVOTED a suitable amount of time to worshipping the Jag, Jeff went back into the study while they settled back around the patio. The call came in a couple of minutes early, just like he knew it would.
“You having a good time?” Annabelle asked. She was in her bedroom at home, a drab box of a room, with ancient burgundy-red curtains already drawn against the night. The single bed she was perched on took up a third of the floor space. The wall behind was covered in posters of Stephanie and Sir Mitch.
“I just want you to be here,” he said. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
“How about you, are you having a good time?”
“Oh yeah.” Her face went all petulant. “All my friends are round at your place with Tim. And you’re there, too. School’s finished, I’ve nowhere else to go. I hate it here, Jeff, I really hate it.”
“I’m sorry. I was there for you this morning, wasn’t I?”
“I know. I just want to be with you, Jeff.” Her hand reached out to press against the screen. “Can’t we be together?”
“We can. We will.”
“I’m being selfish. Sorry. How’s the party?”
“Hmm.” Jeff glanced out the window at the floodlit patio. “They’re getting ready to watch the football match. It’s going to be a long evening, I’d guess.”
“Great.”
“This is getting ridiculous, isn’t it. I want you here, with me, tonight.”
“I want to be there,” she said mournfully.
“I’m going to go and tell him.”
“No, Jeff.”
“For Christ’s sake, the boy’s got to learn there’s thorns among the roses sometime.”
“Please, Jeff, you’re drunk, and randy, and tonight is not the night to tell him.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Jeff, promise me you won’t.”
“All right, all right.” He waved his arms in a conciliatory motion. “I’ll be good. But you’ve got to promise me we’ll talk about this soon. Creeping around meeting in hotel rooms is fine and fun for a few days, but I want more of you than that.”
“Really? Do you mean that?”
“Of course I mean that.”
“I’ll wait till tomorrow,” she murmured.
“That’s the whole point. I don’t want to wait.”
WHEN JEFF GOT BACK OUT onto the patio he just managed to hold off glaring at Tim. If he had, it would have been noticed. His son had avoided any drink other than water and lemonade all evening; he was the only sober
