‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you want me to be worried about you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Seriously?’ he laughed.

  ‘Yes. I’m scared. I’m… I’m…’ She felt herself dangerously close to tears and paused for a moment. ‘I don’t know who I am and I’m scared that without you I might just float away.’ She stared at Paul with glassy eyes. Paul smiled at her apologetically and covered her hand with his.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I know you. You’re a strong woman and you will be absolutely fine.’

  Ruby smiled stiffly and pulled her hand away. Because if that was what he thought then he really didn’t know her at all.

  22

  Con was in the kitchen, washing up a dinner plate. Toby smiled at him as he reached past him to grab a glass off the draining board. ‘All right?’ Con said.

  ‘Yup,’ he said, ‘just getting some water.’

  He was about to leave the kitchen and head back upstairs when Con turned round. ‘Toby?’ he said.

  He looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘Would you say that you were posh?’

  Toby smiled. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yeah. What are you? I mean you’re obviously not working class, but are you posh or middle class, or what?’

  ‘God,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘It’s just… it’s funny, isn’t it? Meeting people and they talk a certain way or look a certain way and you think you know what sort of background they’ve had, but then maybe you’re wrong. I mean, there are people in stately homes who haven’t got any money. And you – you own this huge house, but you haven’t got a penny to your name. Are you still posh? Or does being poor make you common?’

  Toby smiled and leaned against a chair. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he shrugged. ‘I’m just curious.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m middle class in some ways. My father’s a businessman. My mother was a model. I was brought up in a four-bedroom house in Dorset, nice but no land. I think we probably had a mortgage. But then I went to a pretty snazzy public school, hung out with some pretty posh people. And now, as you say, I’m penniless. I don’t have a career, but I own a property.’ He shrugged and smiled. ‘I’d say I’m a bit of a mess, really.’

  ‘But you see, compared to me, you’re still posh. My mum’s pretty much homeless. I don’t know what my dad did. I was brought up on an estate, went to a comp. It’s all about the inheritance, isn’t it, what you get when they’re gone? Whatever happens to you, you’ll have this house, maybe some more off your dad when he goes. I’ll get nothing. Well, unless my dad’s actually really rich and suddenly remembers that he’s got a son…’

  He stopped and stared at Toby for a moment. Toby fiddled with the glass in his hand and waited for Con to continue. He wanted to talk about Ruby, it was blindingly obvious.

  ‘I’ve met this girl,’ he said, eventually.

  Toby nodded. Here it came.

  ‘At work. And I’m trying to work out how posh she is.’

  Toby blinked and tried not to show his surprise. ‘Ah, I see. So, tell me what you know about her.’

  ‘Well, she’s about my age. She’s a junior in the fashion department at Vogue, so she probably earns less than me. She’s called Daisy and her sisters are called after flowers I’ve never heard of. She lives in Wandsworth with her sister and her boyfriend. He owns it. It’s really small, apparently. And that’s it. She talks posh and she looks posh. But she’s not bothered about people not being like her. She’s comfortable around normal people, you know.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Yeah. So far.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem? She sounds lovely.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I think she’s interested, but I don’t want to blow it.’

  ‘Well, what would you usually do if you liked someone?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged, and sat down at the table. ‘Just play it cool, I guess.’

  ‘Right, so, that’s exactly what you should do. Just because she’s… posh, doesn’t mean she’s any different to other girls.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘yeah. You’re right. I should just be myself, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Toby, trying desperately to sound as if he were a font of all emotional intelligence. ‘Yes. That’ll do the trick. Be yourself.’

  ‘Yeah. OK.’ He stood up again. ‘Sorry about that – I didn’t mean to, you know. Anyway. I’d better get on. See you later.’ He sidled past Toby and into the living room.

  Toby went back to his room, feeling slightly bemused but touched that Con had felt able to confide in him. The fact that Con was showing an interest in a girl without (he presumed) silicone implants and without (he presumed, although, God knows, these days everyone seemed to want to look like a glamour model, maybe even Vogue girls) a fake tan gave Toby hope. Maybe Con was expanding his horizons, leaving his childhood behind. Maybe he was getting ready to move on. Maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult to get him out of the house after all.

  Toby smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs back to his room. He sat at his computer and gazed across the street. The lights were off in Leah’s front window. He wondered where she was. Maybe she was looking at another flat share. Or maybe she was on a date. He’d watched her coming and going from his bedroom for years without giving her more than a split second of airtime in his thoughts. She had a boyfriend. Girls with boyfriends wore a kind of invisibility cloak. They didn’t exist.

  As he stared at her window he saw her. She was walking towards her front door. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was carrying two fat M&S carrier bags. She stopped outside her house and started feeling round in her handbag. When she was unable to find what it was she was looking for, she sighed, rested her carrier bags at her feet, balanced her handbag on the garden wall and started searching through it again, more and more impatiently. Eventually she brought out a bunch of keys, picked up her handbag and headed to her front door. A light was activated by her presence, and for a moment she was lit up like an actress on a stage. Her front door clicked open and she walked through it. And then, suddenly, she turned, as if someone had called her name, turned and looked straight up at Toby.

  He almost ducked, but didn’t. Instead he smiled at her and waved. She smiled, too. And she looked, for just one brief, fleeting and exhilarating second, like the most beautiful woman Toby had ever seen in his life. The thought brought a rush of simmering blood to his head. He gulped and turned his gaze back to his screen.

  23

  Ruby saw him coming home through her bedroom window. He was holding a yellow Selfridges carrier. His hair was different – softer, less spiky, less manicured. It was the first time she’d seen him since Toby’s birthday and her reaction took her by surprise. A jolt of excitement, a quiver of happiness. The boy she’d shared her home with for more than a year, the boy she’d seen as nothing more than a schoolboy with a job, had turned into a man.

  She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked fine. She’d thought about crying when she got home after an interminable, strangely numb Tube journey back from the Wolseley, but changed her mind and decided to have a bath instead. She was glad now, as Ruby had a face that didn’t recover very easily from the indignity of tears.

  She pulled out her Rimmel concealer and smeared a little underneath her eyes. Then she blobbed some translucent pink gloss onto her lips and went downstairs.

  Con was in the kitchen, boiling the kettle. He jumped when he heard her come in behind him.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said, pulling open the fridge.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, turning back towards the sink.

  She pulled out a carton of mango and passion fruit juice and poured herself a glass. ‘How are you?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m good. I’m fine. How are you?’

  ‘Excellent,’ she smiled. ‘It’s been a long day, but it’s looking up now.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ he said.

  ‘No, thanks.’ She pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Can’t believe I haven’t seen you. It’s weird.’

  ‘What’s weird?’

  ‘You know – after what happened last week. I haven’t been avoiding you, you know. I’ve just been busy.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, dropping a flattened teabag into the bin, ‘me, too.’

  ‘Had a gig last night. Didn’t get home till five.’

  ‘God, you’ve got more energy than me. I can’t do late nights any more.’

  Ruby laughed. ‘You’re nineteen!’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m a growing boy. I need my sleep.’

  Ruby laughed again. She glanced at him. He looked as if he was about to leave the room. She stalled for time. ‘I like your hair,’ she said. ‘Looks better without all that stuff in it.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yeah. Softer. You look more… mature.’

  He snorted and looked embarrassed.

  Ruby felt a wave of longing fall across her like a shadow. He was so new, so clean, so unformed. She wanted to touch him. ‘What are you up to tonight?’

  He shrugged. ‘Waiting on a couple of calls. Probably heading home to meet some mates.’

  ‘Home? That’s Tottenham, right?’

  ‘Yeah. Old school mates. You know.’

  ‘And if not…?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you don’t go to Tottenham? Any plan B?’

  ‘No, not really. Probably just get a DVD and order some food in.’

  ‘Is your mum in tonight?

  ‘No. She’s meeting Zoë from work. Going out Stansted way.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘so… maybe you should just knock your plans on the head. Maybe you should just… stay in.’ She smiled as she said this and cocked her head to one side, but he didn’t seem to be reading her.

  ‘You reckon?’ he said. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Its just, I’m in tonight. Your mum’s out. Seems a shame not to, you know, make the most of it.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, realization finally dawning upon him. ‘Oh, right. Yeah. I see what you’re saying.’

  ‘So,’ she stood up and faced him. ‘What do you reckon? I’ve got a DVD player in my room.’

  ‘Christ. I mean –’ He hooked his hand around the back of his neck. ‘– that sounds great. But I kind of promised my mates I’d see them tonight.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, mentally untangling the past three minutes of conversation, trying to find the bit where he’d sounded ambivalent about going out. ‘Sorry, it sounded as if you didn’t have firm plans. It was just an option, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know.’

  ‘It still is, if your mates blow you out.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  Ruby touched his arm. She hadn’t meant to, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘I’ll be in my room,’ she said, ‘if you change your mind.’ And then she moved her hand to his cheek. His skin felt like wax under her palm, cool and smooth and pliant. ‘See you,’ she said. She picked up her glass of juice and sauntered from the kitchen, feeling suddenly and horribly as if she was barking up the wrong tree.

  24

  Con tugged at the tail of the pale blue and white checked lawn cotton shirt that hung from underneath the beige merino jumper he was wearing over it. He glanced down at his narrow black jeans and pointy leather shoes. The whole outfit had set him back £150. He’d promised himself he wasn’t going to spend any more money on clothes, that he was saving all his money for his private pilot’s licence. But then his salary had been paid into his account and he’d hit Covent Garden with his Switch card on Saturday and blown half of it, just like that.

  He’d bought a scarf, too. Thin, like a tie. He’d seen a picture of Brad Pitt wearing one in one of his mum’s celebrity magazines, but he wasn’t sure about it now. The blokes in the post room had looked at him a bit funny when he walked in this morning, so he’d whipped it off and stuffed it in his pocket. But here, upstairs, it was different. Upstairs you fitted in by looking different, by looking as if you didn’t know that Brent Cross existed. He pulled the scarf from his pocket and wound it round his neck. Then he pushed open the doors to the Vogue fashion department and tried to look cool, calm and collected.

  Daisy was walking urgently towards him, a knitted bag slung diagonally across her chest, dressed in a grey coat and scarf.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ he said. ‘Where’re you going?’

  She smiled at him, then grabbed his sleeve, pulling him out of the doorway and into the hall. ‘I’m bunking off,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve just told them my aunt’s dead.’

  He raised his eyebrows at her.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t actually have an aunt, so I’m not hexing anyone. I’m just so bored. I had to get out of there.’

  Con had never skived off a day’s work in his life and felt slightly shocked. ‘So what are you going to do?’

  She shrugged and stabbed at the lift button with her thumb. ‘Haven’t decided yet. Was thinking I might just go home.’

  ‘Seems a waste,’ he said.

  ‘Why – what would you do if your aunt hadn’t really just died?’

  ‘I dunno. Probably wouldn’t just go home, though.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ She furrowed her eyebrows together. ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should be more imaginative. I know!’ she said. ‘I know exactly what we should do.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s go to Borough Market and buy loads of yummy food.’

  ‘But I can’t skive off.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘Well, what will I tell them?’

  ‘Tell them your aunt’s dead.’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Well, tell them your friend’s really upset because her aunt’s dead and you have to look after her.’

  ‘What! No way. That’s what girls do.’

  ‘God, I don’t know, then. Tell them you feel sick.’

  Daisy rubbed some lip balm over his forehead and Con told his boss that he’d just thrown up. Five minutes later he met Daisy round the corner on Bruton Street and they scurried away together towards Oxford Circus, sniggering like the schoolchildren they’d only just ceased to be.

  Borough Market was another world. Con had barely set foot in a supermarket in his life, let alone a food market. Con really wasn’t a food person. He had very little interest in it beyond how cheap it was and how filling it was. It helped if it tasted good which was why he liked McDonald’s. It always hit the spot. He tried not to eat crisps and sweets because his nan had always told him that if he was hungry he should eat something proper. She’d got too ill to cook for him in the end; that was when he’d started with the McDonald’s. He couldn’t handle watching her shuffling painfully round the kitchen, so he’d turned to Ronald to sustain him.

  Con knew it was crap, the stuff he put into his body, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it. His skin was good; his hair was good; he was in good shape. He’d worry about it if he started getting fat. Food was fuel, stomach lining, alcohol absorber – that was all.

  But Daisy obviously thought differently.

  She was dashing round this place like it was a half-price designer sample sale. She caressed jars of gooey brown onions and misshapen hunks of bread. She sniffed at wedges of pungent cheese and lumpy phalluses of cured meat. She sampled shards of fudge and oily olives. She moved from stand to stand like a distracted dog, handing over crumpled five-pound notes and arming herself with more and more droopy plastic bags.

  ‘Do you like gravadlax?’ she said at one point, pushing some hair out of her face with a fistful of carrier bags.

  ‘Grava-what?’

  ‘Gravadlax. It’s salmon, cured with dill.’

  ‘What’s dill?’

  ‘It’s a herb.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s a bit like smoked salmon,’ she said, ‘but not so salty.’

  He shrugged. He’d heard of smoked salmon, but he’d never eaten it. ‘I’m not really into fish,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ she said decisively, handing over another five-pound note, ‘then you’ll like this. It’s not really like fish. It’s more like… ham.’

  She bought huge cheese straws and slivers of rustcoloured salami, cylinders of chalky cheese and a box of large eggs the colour of clouds. Feeling guilty that Daisy was spending all her money on food that he probably wouldn’t even like, Con slipped away for a minute to find a bottle of wine.

  ‘What’re you having it with?’ said a man in a striped linen shirt.

  ‘Erm, food,’ said Con.

  ‘Chicken? Fish? Spicy? Rich?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was some fish and some oysters and some olives and stuff.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ he smiled. ‘How about a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse?’

  Con parted with a twenty-pound note with a gulp and took the tissue-wrapped bottle from the man. ‘Make sure it’s cold,’ he said. ‘But not too cold. OK?’

  He found Daisy tasting organic chocolate. ‘Open,’ she said, guiding a piece towards his mouth.

  He put up his hand. ‘Erm, no thanks, I don’t really like chocolate.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, the piece of chocolate still hovering round his lips. ‘Everyone likes chocolate. Now, open up.’

  He parted his lips and felt her fingers brush against his mouth.

  ‘Now,’ she said, watching him with excitement, ‘tell me that that isn’t the best chocolate you’ve ever tasted in your life?’

  He closed his mouth over the chocolate and let it melt under his teeth. His first instinct was to spit it out. It tasted like mud. But as it worked its way over his tongue and through his teeth it suddenly occurred to him that it tasted not just like chocolate, but like chocolate multiplied by a hundred.

  ‘That’s really good,’ he said.

  ‘See,’ she nodded, ‘I told you. I’ll get you some.’

  *