Misspent Youth

one left. Even so, Jeff must have given away some kind of clue.

As soon as he plunked himself down in the slatted oak chair, Tim leaned over and used a quiet voice to ask: “Everything okay, Dad?”

“Sure.” Jeff slapped his son’s knee. “Sure. I’m fine.”

“Here we go,” Colin yelled.

They’d all pulled their chairs into a semicircle, facing a portable five-meter screen, which Tim and Jeff had wheeled out of the pool building earlier. It was showing the Barcelona versus Chelsea European premier league match, live from Milan.

Rachel slumped back into her chair next to Jeff. “This is going to be boring,” she muttered, folding her arms over her chest.

The Five Star Sports access provider logo flashed up over the Milan stadium. Every seat was filled with chanting supporters. Players were running onto the pitch, its grass weirdly bright under the big lighting rigs. A line of ten small grids appeared along the bottom of the screen, providing alternative camera angles. Two of them were carried by the captains, mounted on the side of their helmets. The logo faded out to be replaced by Rob Lacey’s campaign symbol, a white dove flying out of the circle of gold European stars. A streamer scrolled down one side of the screen, declaring that the match’s wideband pan-European access costs were being paid for by the Rob Lacey for President Committee. The ad started in a swirl of music. The main picture and every grid showed shots of Rob Lacey being involved with people, talking to groups of children in several European countries, inspecting a factory, looking out across the sea from the bridge of a EuroNavy destroyer, in shirtsleeves at a head of state meeting where he argued his point. “Rob Lacey,” the announcer said in a magnificently basso voice. “The man who cares about you. Rob Lacey did not come up through the Brussels system, he can see it needs reforming and simplifying. If elected he will do that. Bureaucracy must be cut back, freeing people to reach their full potential. Only Rob Lacey truly values individuals and—”

Jeff let out a bored yawn. The images that had been flipping up to illustrate how magnificent the candidate was suddenly showed Rob Lacey and Jeff walking around the manor’s garden. The prime minister was listening with a seriously thoughtful expression on his face as Jeff waved his arms around, chattering enthusiastically.

The youngsters round the patio jeered and booed loudly. Jeff stood up with a lazy grin on his face, and gave them a sweeping bow. “Thank you, thank you.”

Up on the screen, Rob Lacey was applauding a modern dance troupe from a German inner-city social regeneration project, half of whom were second-generation immigrants from Eastern Europe and Turkey. Jeff sat down as the ad finished with an appeal for inclusive voting, and any donations possible for the election campaign, ten percent of which would be given to the charities so ably supported by Mr. and Mrs. Lacey. He frowned, thinking about the time Lacey had visited the manor. Hadn’t he been talking merely about pruning the sycamores when they were walking around the gardens together?

“At bloody last,” Simon exclaimed. Both soccer teams were moving into their positions, with Chelsea taking the kickoff. The ball went zooming in a high trajectory across the pitch; players hurtled toward it. There was a brief clash of bodies and legs, and the ball was spat outward, toward the Chelsea goalmouth.

“I’m amazed they can even see the damn ball in those helmets,” Jeff mumbled grouchily. “What happened to the kit they used to wear?”

“You mean, when you were young?” Tim teased.

“Yeah. I mean, a pair of shorts and a team sweater was all they ever used to need. Now look at them.” His elaborate gesture took in the heavily padded and helmeted players scurrying over the pitch. “They’re like bloody American footballers. They can’t run; they’re carrying so much foam stuffing they just bounce.”

“Got to be like that, Jeff,” Philip said. “Basic safety.”

“Yeah,” Martin laughed. “The clubs have got to protect themselves against liability lawyers.”

Jeff took another drink of beer. He knew if he said anything more he’d sound like a reactionary old grandfather. Everything used to be better in the past. It wasn’t true. The old days were enjoyable only from a long way away, and seen through hazy filters. Now was always the truly best time to live in. Now had Annabelle in it, even though she was ten miles away.

Rachel leaned over on the edge of her chair, an inscrutable expression on her dainty face as she looked at him. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said quietly.

“Nothing important.”

“Really? I thought you looked lonely.”

* * *

FOR ONCE THE MORNING AFTER he’d had an enjoyable night, Tim didn’t have a hangover. He felt incredibly virtuous, refusing every alcoholic drink he’d been offered.

If only Annabelle could have seen me last night.

But that wasn’t going to happen, not for a while. He was still more than a little disappointed that she hadn’t even acknowledged the flowers he’d sent her on her birthday. Strange thing was, both Vanessa and Sophie had been reticent to discuss her with him last night, although Vanessa had said she’d welcome him giving her a call after she got back home to Nottingham tomorrow. He could press her again then, he decided. No way was he giving up on the most wonderful thing ever to happen to him. Just being persistent would make Annabelle realize how much he genuinely loved her.

Tim pulled on the shorts and T-shirt that were laid out ready for him, and made his way downstairs. There were voices coming from the kitchen. When he walked in, it was just like a deja vu trip back to that morning when he’d found his mother and father together: two people in bathrobes cuddling up together, carefree smiles as they fed each other toast. He really wished it was his mother again, or even any of the other girls his father had brought home after cruising the clubs. Instead, he just had to square up to the reality of it being Rachel who was perched on the chair next to his father, cooing and smooching with him.

His legs just refused to move, leaving him stranded in the doorway, gawking at the pair of them. Rachel! Rachel was his own age, and a friend. Not to mention being Simon’s girlfriend! And she’d spent the night upstairs in his father’s double bed. The two of them naked and…Tim jammed a halt to that line of thought before any images started to spring up.

“Hi, Tim.” Rachel gave him a sunny smile. “Surprise.”

“Uh. Hi.”

“Morning, Tim,” Jeff said. He seemed moderately abashed. Not embarrassed, or contrite, not as if he’d done anything wrong. Just ever so slightly disconcerted.

“Dad,” Tim mumbled. He put his head down and went for the cornflakes. There was no way he could look at the two of them together, not without seeing those images in his mind. His discomfort melted away into resentment for what they’d done, for putting him in this horrible place. Resentment at his father for hitting on a friend. And as for Rachel, what the hell did she think she was doing?

I mean, why?

“Something wrong?” Rachel asked.

“Not with me,” Tim growled back at her.

“You’re not upset, are you?”

It was the implication he hated her for. That little trace of elite amusement in her voice that asked: What do you think you’re doing, passing judgment?

“Is there something I should be upset about?” he asked.

“No. That’s the whole point.”

Tim stopped the pretense of searching for breakfast. “Well then.” He turned his back on both of them and started to walk out.

“Tim, don’t,” Jeff said. There was some genuine worry in his voice, the need to appease. “I thought we talked about this.”

Tim faced them, exasperation amplifying his surliness. “No, not this, Dad. We did not talk this through at all.”

“There was no unspoken agreement, Tim, nothing to say I can’t…” He broke off, giving Rachel a glance. She pouted back at him.

“And that’s the trouble, Dad. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with this. For God’s sake.”

“Well, why don’t you tell me where the trouble lies, exactly?” Jeff said, his voice hardening. “I’d like to know