‘Oh, but it is. Any sane man would be proud to present you as a girlfriend. You’re the archetypal girl next door.’

  ‘Or girl over the road, in this case.’

  Toby smiled. ‘Well, yes. Indeed.’

  ‘So, is that a plan, then? I’ll come over, Monday afternoon, give you a few kisses and cuddles? Charm your father. Eat some cake?’

  ‘That sounds like a glorious plan.’

  ‘Good,’ said Leah, raising her can of lager to his. ‘But there’s just one condition.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘It has to be a chocolate cake. With chocolate icing.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  78

  ‘Well, hello!’ Daisy’s father strode across the driveway. ‘Welcome to Beens Acres!’ He shook Con by the hand and took his small case from him. ‘Is this all you’ve got?’

  Con nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I travel light.’

  He looked up at the house. It wasn’t as big as it had been in his head, probably about the same size as Toby’s house, except built from a different colour brick and surrounded on all four sides by fields.

  ‘This is really good of you,’ he said to Daisy’s dad as they climbed the pocked sandstone steps to the front door.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing at all,’ he said. ‘We’re used to it. All the girls have their boys to stay at some point. We call this the Beens Hostelry for Lovesick Boys.’

  Con smiled. ‘It’s only temporary,’ he said, ‘just until I get accommodation sorted out.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Spend as long as you like. As long as you like.’

  There was a very big dog in the hallway. Its tail beat loudly against the tiled floor and its ears flattened against its head with repressed excitement. ‘This is Rory,’ said Mr Beens. ‘There’s a small one somewhere, too, called, variously, depending upon whom you ask, Smarties, Arthur or Bongo. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure.’

  The hallway was large and cluttered, full of books and lamps and piles of outdoor clothing. Through a door to the left, Con could see a big dusty sitting room, furnished with pastel-hued antiques, sage walls and yet more books.

  Daisy appeared at the doorway. She was wearing a huge anorak and furry boots. She beamed and ran towards him. ‘You’re here,’ she said, wrapping her arms round him.

  ‘I am,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t hear your cab.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I walked from the station.’

  ‘Oh, no! Why didn’t you phone? We could have picked you up.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘honestly. It was fine. I’ve never been to the country before. I wanted to see it.’

  ‘Never been to the country?’ said Mr Beens, incredulously.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Never. Went somewhere on a school trip once, but all I can remember is the coach journey.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Beens, ‘a double welcome to you, then, from us, and from the country.’

  Daisy looped her arms round Con and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she said. ‘This is so great.’

  He kissed her on the lips and smiled.

  ‘Come on. Let me show you round.’

  Con followed her through the house and the dog followed them, stopping every time they stopped and sitting down patiently, as if it was the first time he’d seen the house, too. The house was a weird mix of tasteful antiques and random garish pieces of furniture from the 1960s and 1970s. A small semi-glazed room at the back of the house was wallpapered with an iridescent lime-green bamboo print and the walls of the downstairs toilet were painted orange and covered in badly framed cartoons torn from newspapers. It was a house that didn’t take itself seriously, that didn’t care too much what anyone thought of it, a house that was comfortable in its own skin and Con could immediately sense that he would be fine here.

  A small fat pony grazed thoughtfully in the back garden and a large hairy cat dozed on the kitchen counter in a circle of sunlight. The small dog that Daisy’s dad had mentioned was found eating toilet paper in the bathroom.

  ‘Oh, God, Bongo, not again.’ Daisy pulled the roll from his mouth and gathered up the pink shreds that lay scattered across the tiled floor. ‘You stupid, stupid dog.’

  The big dog looked disdainfully at the small dog before getting to his feet to continue the tour of the house.

  ‘And this,’ said Daisy, opening a door on the attic floor, ‘is your room.’

  It was a large room, with a low sloping ceiling and a rather cheap-looking Velux window in the roof. A tiny dormer window looked out over the driveway and the main road. The bed was a single, clothed in a bright duvet and a fat pillow. There was a small pine wardrobe at the other end of the room and a Victorian washbasin and jug on a wrought-metal stand, with a lilac hand towel. ‘Is this OK?’ said Daisy.

  Con looked round. It wasn’t the most characterful room in the house, but it was warm, it was dry and it had a bed in it, and as long as Con lived he would always consider that to be the most that any man could ask for.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘Really perfect.’

  ‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘You do know, though, don’t you, that they wouldn’t have the slightest problem with you being in my room?’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but it just doesn’t feel right. It feels… disrespectful.’

  ‘Oh, Con. You’re so old-fashioned.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m a gent. And I want to give your parents something,’ he said. ‘Some money. For letting me stay.’

  ‘No way,’ said Daisy. ‘Dad would be insulted.’

  ‘He would?’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t consider this house to be his house. As far as he’s concerned it’s our house. Us girls. And he and my mother are just house-sitting for us until they die. He wouldn’t dream of taking money from you.’

  ‘Well, then, let me buy them something. A gift.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t do anything. Just relax. Just be.’

  ‘Be what?’

  ‘Be yourself. My parents don’t expect fancy presents and best behaviour. They just expect good company. Oh – and maybe a hand in the kitchen. I’ve told them all about your culinary prowess.’

  ‘Oh, God, you haven’t, have you?’

  ‘Of course. They’re dying to try your home-baked bread.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I don’t know if I can make bread on my own, without Toby there to tell me what to do.’

  ‘Of course you can. We’ll do it together. You and me.’ She took his hand.

  ‘You and me?’

  She nodded and smiled. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get started.’

  79

  Ruby peeled the foil wrapper off the meal in front of her and peered cautiously underneath it. A slither of grey chicken breast with something brown and lumpy buried inside it, a smattering of tiny peas, a cluster of oily potatoes, all coated in a viscous tan-coloured sauce. She resealed the container and reached for the crackers instead.

  ‘Pretty gross, huh?’ The man next to her pointed at her tray and smiled.

  ‘Mmm,’ she nodded, ‘not really what I fancy.’ She’d been aware of the man sitting next to her since she’d first taken her seat on the plane three hours ago. She’d been expecting him to strike up a conversation at some point; he’d had that air about him. He’d been reading a book, but it didn’t grip him – he kept putting it down, looking away from it. He’d flicked through the in-flight magazines without reading any of the articles. He wasn’t self-contained. He was bored. Ruby had tried to give off her ‘don’t talk to me’ vibes, but he’d obviously decided to override them.

  ‘Troy,’ he said, offering her his hand to shake.

  ‘Ruby,’ she said.

  ‘Ruby? That’s a beautiful name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, what takes you to New York, Ruby? Vacation?’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, hoping that, if she didn’t feed him any extraneous information, he might just give up.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘just visiting, huh?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘kind of.’

  ‘I’m not from New York, myself. I live in Pittsburgh. I’ll be getting a connecting flight.’

  She nodded and smiled and smoothed cream cheese onto a cracker.

  ‘So, I notice that you’re wearing a wedding ring. Are you meeting your husband in New York?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘Oh, right. Boyfriend, then?’

  ‘No. I don’t have a boyfriend. I just wear this ring to stop people hitting on me.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘whoah. I get it. But don’t worry. I’m not hitting on you. Happily married man.’ He tapped his wedding band and winked at her. ‘But if you’d like me to back off…’

  She sighed, then softened. ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s fine. But when I pick up my book’ – she pointed at it – ‘that’s a sign to stop talking, OK?’

  He laughed, throwing his head back. The woman across the aisle glanced at them. ‘Righty-ho,’ he said. ‘I hear you, I hear you. So,’ he said, ‘Ruby, what do you do?’

  ‘I’m a singer,’ she said, ‘singer/songwriter.’

  ‘Wow.’ He pulled back from her and regarded her with admiration. ‘What sort of singer? Are you famous? Should I have heard of you?’

  She laughed. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not unless you’ve been hanging out in dingy clubs in North London.’

  ‘Ah, no,’ he conceded. ‘Not quite my scene.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think it would be,’ she smiled.

  ‘But you’re good, huh? A good singer.’

  ‘I’m bloody brilliant,’ she said.

  He laughed again. ‘I bet you are,’ he said. ‘Waiting for your big break?’

  ‘Waiting and waiting and waiting. This is my last-ditch attempt.’

  ‘Oh, right. New York or bust?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘that kind of thing.’

  ‘Well, hey, look, in the meantime, I should give you my card. My sister’s getting married next month, been looking for a singer. Something unusual, something a bit… edgy, you know. If your luck doesn’t come up, give me a ring.’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not my thing. But thanks for the offer.’

  ‘Well, I tell you what, she knows some people, my sister. Big people up at Sony, up at Geffen. Might be a good opportunity to meet some people, make an impression.’

  Ruby turned and smiled at Troy. ‘Now that,’ she said, ‘sounds very interesting.’ She took the card from between his fingers and slipped it into her handbag. And then she let Troy F. Shultzberg buy her a bottle of champagne.

  80

  FAIRLIGHTS, SILVERSMITH ROAD, N2

  £995,000

  Six double bedrooms, two bathrooms, three receptions,

  kitchen/diner,

  45ft south-facing garden

  A beautiful and unique residence on this ever-popular road just off the High Street. Fairlights is a fully detached double-fronted villa full of period features and brimming with character. Subject to a recent sympathetic refurbishment, this extraordinary house would make an ideal family home and an early viewing is recommended.

  81

  Toby had grown used to waking up alone in his big, empty house. He celebrated his aloneness by tuning the radio to Radio Three and letting classical music flood every room in the house. His kitchen was as clean and uncluttered as it had been before he went to bed the previous night and the five hooks in the hallway bore only his own coat, his own jacket and his own scarf. He’d taken to having a paper delivered daily, now he knew that nobody would get to it before him, and he hadn’t switched on the television since Melinda had moved out the week before. He performed a strange but very enjoyable dance as he prepared his breakfast in his pyjamas. And then he broke wind, very loudly, delighted by the absence of anyone to offend.

  He considered his plans for the day ahead. He would walk down to the High Road and buy some fresh flowers for the house. Then he would go to Budgens and pick up the ingredients for his cake. Somewhere in his dusty collection of memories of his father he had an inkling of a fondness for fig rolls (or was it garibaldis?), so he would pick up a pack or two of those. And then he’d get a new teapot from the pound shop, as he’d just discovered that the teapot he’d always assumed was his was actually Ruby’s and had disappeared with her two weeks ago.

  When he got home, he’d put some real coffee on to brew and bake a loaf of bread, not because he wanted either coffee or bread, but because he had two more viewings that morning and he wanted the house to smell delicious. He’d done six viewings over the weekend and the house had been on the market for only three days. He enjoyed showing people round the house. Half the time he knew they couldn’t afford it, that they’d only come to nose round, to see what the weird house on Silversmith Road actually looked like, but he didn’t care. He was so proud of it that he saw his role more as that of a curator than a home owner. He wanted as many people as possible to see his beautiful house before it was sold and locked up against the world again.

  After the viewings he’d make his cake (he didn’t want to mess up the kitchen beforehand) and while it was in the oven he’d have a bath and a shave, then he’d put on some clean clothes and some new shoes, and go downstairs to await the arrival of his father.

  His day was carefully constructed to leave no time at all for milling about, faffing around or thinking. He focused on the precise nature of the icing he’d make for his cake and the exact hue of the lilies he’d buy. His father’s arrival was something so vague and unthinkable that he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate it, until his father was actually standing right in front of him, on his door step. Until he really, really had to.

  82

  ‘Does that include service?’ Reggie eyed the waiter through slanted eyes.

  ‘No, sir,’ said the waiter. ‘It doesn’t.’

  Reggie sighed and pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket which he dropped onto the tray disdainfully. He didn’t bother counting them. He didn’t care. A few quid was enough.

  He glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. He patted his belly and downed the last of his coffee. Disgusting coffee. You couldn’t get a decent cup in London. He looked out of the window at the street outside. It was raining. Of course it was raining. This was London. He’d had enough of London, only been here two weeks and he was fed up with the place already. Admittedly March wasn’t the best time of year to be here, but, still, he remembered now exactly why he’d left in the first place. Bad coffee, overpriced food, never-ending rain, and all these miserable, whey-faced people wandering about, grumpy and dissatisfied, as if all the troubles of the world were on their shoulders.

  Talking of which, it occurred to him that he’d arranged to see his son this afternoon. Well, he hadn’t arranged it; Peter had arranged it. Reggie hated talking to people on the phone. It was bad enough talking to people you knew well; the thought of phoning up his son was unbearable.

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his wallet and looked at it.

  31 Silversmith Road, London N2. Where the hell was London N2? And how was he going to get there? He sighed and put the paper back in his wallet. He thought of his big peculiar son, his strange haunted eyes, his mass of unkempt hair. Could that much have changed? Was it really worth trekking all the way out to some godforsaken part of North London to find out that they still had nothing in common, that he still didn’t like him very much?

  But then, he’d like to see this house, the house he’d bought him all those years ago. And he’d like to see Karen and any children they may have had together. His grandchildren. He had no other plans for this afternoon. Sod it, he thought, sod it. He’d go.

  He allowed a man by the front desk to fold him into his overcoat, then he unfurled his small umbrella and left the restaurant. He waited awhile on the corner of Dover Street and Bond Street, for a cab to appear. When one failed to materialize he began to walk, feeling the legs of his trousers soaking up the rain with every step. People barged towards him, forcing him into puddles and almost into the kerb. This was what it was to get old. No respect. No acknowledgement of the person you were or the person you had been. A strident gust of wind forced the spokes of his umbrella into rigor-mortised angles and he battled to bring it back under control. He zigzagged through the streets of Mayfair, his eyes scanning the street constantly for that welcoming amber glow. Finally he saw a cab, across the road, just dropping off a fare. He skipped across the road, feeling his rich meal slopping about in the pit of his belly.

  ‘London N2,’ he said, breathlessly.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said the driver. ‘I’m on a call. Pre-booked.’

  ‘Shit,’ hissed Reggie, under his breath. ‘Well, where are you going, then?’

  ‘South Ken.’

  Reggie thought briefly of his son, waiting for him on the other side of London. And then he thought of his warm flat in Chelsea, where he would be alone, required to talk to no one, to do nothing.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he said, ‘fuck it. Take me there. Take me to South Ken.’

  He closed his umbrella, slipped into the back of the cab, and looked forward to getting home.

  83

  ‘Oh, God, Toby,’ said Leah, stroking his back, ‘I’m really sorry. I can’t believe he didn’t come.’

  Toby stared though the window at the street outside. He’d watched dusk come and go, and now it was dark. There’d been no phone call, no word from his father or from Peter. They were sitting side by side at the dining table. The chocolate cake sat on the table in front of them, a forty-five-degree wedge missing. A plate of garibaldis and fig rolls sat untouched next to a brand-new white china teapot. Toby tried to feel sad about this poignant arrangement of objects, tried to be hurt by the non-appearance of his father. But he couldn’t.