Misspent Youth

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.

37. A SNOWFLAKE IN HELL

THE SUMMER STORM CRAWLED NORTHWARD across the placid azure sky, following some way behind the