The Bellwether Revivals by Benjamin Wood Page A

and he’s got a share of all these patents everybody wants.’) Her mother’s family were wealthy, too—‘a line of investment bankers on my grandmother’s side’—and aside from being executrix of the Charles Staunton estate, her mother had a portfolio of companies for which she was either a board member or a silent partner. (‘I think most of them trade in precious metals. Silver. Platinum. Not so much gold these days. Palladium is the new gold, apparently—massively sought after in China.’)
    The more that Iris had talked about her home and family, the more uncomfortable Oscar had felt beside her. His voice had softened with every interjection—’Oh, that’s really … that’s great, that must’ve been nice’—and he’d gone very quiet, so quiet that she’d fallen asleep. While he’d listened to her gentle snoring, his mind had drifted to his own family, his own childhood back in Watford. And he’d woken her before these thoughts made him too melancholy.
    ‘So what now?’ she asked, turning to face him, kissing him.
    ‘I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.’
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘I suppose we just play it by ear.’
    ‘It feels strange. Sort of like we’re cheating.’
    ‘Cheating on who?’
    ‘Nobody. I’m just saying it feels that way.’ She sat up. ‘My father cheated on my mother a long time ago, before Eden and I were born. She told me about it once. I suppose that’s made me inclined to feel guilty about sex.’ Her leg slid over him. ‘What about your parents—are they still together?’
    He adjusted his head on the pillow. ‘Yeah, just about.’
    ‘You don’t talk about your family much, do you?’
    He stayed quiet.
    ‘How often do you see them?’
    ‘Every now and again.’
    ‘Well, when was the last time?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘God, I can’t imagine not knowing the last time I saw my parents.’
    He moved his arm away from her.
    She let a moment go by then said, inquiringly: ‘Are you ashamed of them or something?’
    ‘No. Of course I’m not.’
    ‘Well, I don’t understand …’
    He couldn’t bring himself to tell her what she wanted to know. His parents were uncomplicated people, but they were difficult to explain to somebody like Iris. She wouldn’t understand the smallness of their expectations, how all they’d ever wanted for him was to reach an age where he could look after himself—find a job, move out, work hard, get by, just like
they
did when
they
were seventeen—and maybe one day give them a grandchild they could boast about to the locals at the George and Dragon. How could he explain to her the helpless feeling of being told to skip an exam to finish off a plastering job with his father, or the ache of seeing his school reports used as scrap paper for takeaway orders? He was not ashamed of his parents, but he didn’t want to be like them. He was not ashamed of where he was from, but he didn’t want to go back there. These were the poles of his heart. He could no more explain them to Iris than he could resolve them.
    She got dressed in front of his mirrored wardrobe, fixing her bra nimbly, raking her fingers through her hair to straighten it. He stayed in bed, watching her. A grimy light pooled in the room and, outside, the moon was already a pale blur in the sky. He could make out the scrawl of his email address, still on her wrist. She put on her coat and retrieved her CD from the stereo. Looking down at him from the edge of the bed, she asked: ‘Will you let me know as soon as you hear from Eden? I can’t tell you how much better I feel, knowing there’s a plan in action.’ Her voice was heavy, serious. She squeezed his fingers and kissed him on the forehead. At the door, she heaved the straps of her cello case over both shoulders. ‘Be safe,’ she said, and walked out.
    He slept for a good few hours, and, when he woke, he found himself wanting to call his parents. It had been a long time, over six months, since