the front that—Christ, did I just say ‘shit-on mower’? I did, didn’t I?” Kate Childs bends over with silent laughter, which vanishes as quickly as it came. “Sorry. What were we saying?”
“The sign,” says Axel. “The sign round the front.”
“ ‘Slade House, Erasmus Scholarship Centre, Sponsoring Cross-Cultural Understanding in Education Since 1982.’ Walk past it every day. It’s by the”—she jabs a finger over the roof of Slade House—“big gates. So if
that
’s all settled…” Kate Childs points to the big house. “Eat, drink, be merry: tomorrow we…” She waves her hand to shake out the last verb, but gives up and offers Lance her spliff.
Lance turns to us. “I’ll see
you
guys later.”
· · ·
“I’ll lodge a formal apology on ParaSoc’s records,” says Axel, as he, Angelica, Fern, Todd and me approach the house. “My uncle swore that Slade House had never been found.” Axel slaps the stone wall of the building. “Either he’s a liar or he’s delusional. Who cares? My first error was to believe him.”
I feel bad for Axel. “He’s your uncle. You shouldn’t feel guilty just for believing him.”
“Sal’s right,” says Todd. “No harm’s been done.”
Axel ignores us. “My second error was a failure to reconnoiter the locale. A short stroll down Cranbury Avenue would have done the job. It was unforgivable.” Axel’s near tears. “Cavalier. Amateurish.”
“Who cares?” says Fern. “Looks like a slinky humdinger of a party.”
Axel adjusts his scarf. “I care. ParaSoc is suspended until further notice. Good night.” With that, he walks down the passage around the side of Slade House.
“Axel,” Angelica rushes after him, “hold your horses…”
Todd watches them disappear. “Poor guy.”
“Poor Angelica,” says Fern, which I don’t understand; I thought Fern hated her. “Well, when in Rome…” She trots up the steps and slips inside. Todd turns to me and makes a
What a night!
face. I make a
Tell me about it!
face. He readjusts his glasses. If I were his girlfriend I’d make him get frameless ones to let his doomed-poet good looks shine. “Todd, you wanted to ask me something.”
Todd looks all hunted. “Did I?”
“Earlier. On the street. Before Lance found the alley.”
Todd scratches his neck. “Did I? I…” I deflate. Todd’s pretending to have forgotten because he’s got cold feet. It’s all these waif-thin girls gyrating their skinny bodies around. “Maybe if we go inside and chat, Sal,” Todd’s saying, “it’ll come back to me. I—I mean, if you’ve got no other plans tonight. A quick drink and a chat. No strings attached.”
· · ·
“Just the one sister,” I tell Todd a second time, louder, because “Caught by the Fuzz” by Supergrass is pumping on the stereo. We’re huddled in a corner by an oven with a noisy fan. The kitchen’s crammed, misty with cigarette smoke and smells of bins. Todd’s drinking a Tiger beer from a bottle and I’m drinking shit red wine from a plastic cup.
“Your sister’s older than you, I’m guessing,” says Todd.
“Was it a fifty-fifty guess, or can you really tell?”
“An eighty-twenty hunch. What’s her name?”
“Freya. She lives in New York these days.”
Laughter explodes nearby; Todd cups his ear: “Wassat?”
“Freya. As in the kick-ass Norse goddess of…um…”
“Love, sex, beauty, fertility, gold, war and death.”
“That’s the one,” I say. “As opposed to ‘Sally,’ a doomed pit pony, or a tart in the East End docks in a Dickens novel.”
“Not true!” Todd actually looks hurt. “Sally’s a sunny name. It’s kind.”
“All the research suggests that Freyas go
way
farther in life than Sallys. Name me
one
famous Sally. Go on. You can’t, can you? My sister won every medal going at school; picked up good Mandarin in Singapore, fluent French in Geneva; graduated in journalism from Imperial College this June; moved in with her
“The sign,” says Axel. “The sign round the front.”
“ ‘Slade House, Erasmus Scholarship Centre, Sponsoring Cross-Cultural Understanding in Education Since 1982.’ Walk past it every day. It’s by the”—she jabs a finger over the roof of Slade House—“big gates. So if
that
’s all settled…” Kate Childs points to the big house. “Eat, drink, be merry: tomorrow we…” She waves her hand to shake out the last verb, but gives up and offers Lance her spliff.
Lance turns to us. “I’ll see
you
guys later.”
· · ·
“I’ll lodge a formal apology on ParaSoc’s records,” says Axel, as he, Angelica, Fern, Todd and me approach the house. “My uncle swore that Slade House had never been found.” Axel slaps the stone wall of the building. “Either he’s a liar or he’s delusional. Who cares? My first error was to believe him.”
I feel bad for Axel. “He’s your uncle. You shouldn’t feel guilty just for believing him.”
“Sal’s right,” says Todd. “No harm’s been done.”
Axel ignores us. “My second error was a failure to reconnoiter the locale. A short stroll down Cranbury Avenue would have done the job. It was unforgivable.” Axel’s near tears. “Cavalier. Amateurish.”
“Who cares?” says Fern. “Looks like a slinky humdinger of a party.”
Axel adjusts his scarf. “I care. ParaSoc is suspended until further notice. Good night.” With that, he walks down the passage around the side of Slade House.
“Axel,” Angelica rushes after him, “hold your horses…”
Todd watches them disappear. “Poor guy.”
“Poor Angelica,” says Fern, which I don’t understand; I thought Fern hated her. “Well, when in Rome…” She trots up the steps and slips inside. Todd turns to me and makes a
What a night!
face. I make a
Tell me about it!
face. He readjusts his glasses. If I were his girlfriend I’d make him get frameless ones to let his doomed-poet good looks shine. “Todd, you wanted to ask me something.”
Todd looks all hunted. “Did I?”
“Earlier. On the street. Before Lance found the alley.”
Todd scratches his neck. “Did I? I…” I deflate. Todd’s pretending to have forgotten because he’s got cold feet. It’s all these waif-thin girls gyrating their skinny bodies around. “Maybe if we go inside and chat, Sal,” Todd’s saying, “it’ll come back to me. I—I mean, if you’ve got no other plans tonight. A quick drink and a chat. No strings attached.”
· · ·
“Just the one sister,” I tell Todd a second time, louder, because “Caught by the Fuzz” by Supergrass is pumping on the stereo. We’re huddled in a corner by an oven with a noisy fan. The kitchen’s crammed, misty with cigarette smoke and smells of bins. Todd’s drinking a Tiger beer from a bottle and I’m drinking shit red wine from a plastic cup.
“Your sister’s older than you, I’m guessing,” says Todd.
“Was it a fifty-fifty guess, or can you really tell?”
“An eighty-twenty hunch. What’s her name?”
“Freya. She lives in New York these days.”
Laughter explodes nearby; Todd cups his ear: “Wassat?”
“Freya. As in the kick-ass Norse goddess of…um…”
“Love, sex, beauty, fertility, gold, war and death.”
“That’s the one,” I say. “As opposed to ‘Sally,’ a doomed pit pony, or a tart in the East End docks in a Dickens novel.”
“Not true!” Todd actually looks hurt. “Sally’s a sunny name. It’s kind.”
“All the research suggests that Freyas go
way
farther in life than Sallys. Name me
one
famous Sally. Go on. You can’t, can you? My sister won every medal going at school; picked up good Mandarin in Singapore, fluent French in Geneva; graduated in journalism from Imperial College this June; moved in with her
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