bottle of Baileys.’
There she goes again, thinks Vesta. She’s partial to a drop of the creamy stuff herself, but she doesn’t even buy Baileys at Christmas.
‘She’s all right,’ says Cher. ‘Posh. Talks like someone off
Made in Chelsea
. God knows what she’s doing here.’
‘Divorce?’
Cher shakes her head. ‘She’s been travelling, that’s what she said. Lucky for some. I haven’t even got a passport.’
Vesta laughs. ‘I have. Every ten years, I renew it. Always think I might, you know,
go somewhere
some day.’
‘Anyway, her mum’s in a maximum security Twilight Home. I think she’s on her way out and she said something about wanting to be near her, in case.’
‘In case. I’ve always liked that phrase. You can cover a lot of ground with an “in case”. Shall I ask her down, you think? Would that be nice?’
Cher shrugs. ‘Could do.’
Vesta closes her eyes and listens for a moment to the neighbourhood noise: the laughter of the kids from what they call the Posh Family on the other side of the fence playing in their paddling pool, the tannoy playing a recorded announcement on the unmanned station platform, a jet changing speed as it cruises in towards Heathrow. You would only have heard one of those sounds when I was Cher’s age, she thinks. ‘I wonder,’ she says. ‘Maybe I ought to throw a party?’
‘A party?’
‘Not a huge party. Just us. Well, it’s silly, isn’t it? All of us living on top of each other, and we’ve never all been in the same place at the same time. And it would be nice. A thank you because you’ve all been so nice, about the burglary. You and Hossein. Even Thomas. And it would be a good way to kill two birds with one stone. Welcome her to the house; thank everyone. And get him in Flat One to leave his lair. He’s been here ages and we’ve barely said a word. And besides. It’s been ages since I had a party.’
‘How long?’
‘God, it must be…’ Her mind flashes back to Erroll Grey and the Khans, sitting on her mother’s old settee. Really? She’s not had a party since that went on a skip? ‘Good Lord. Seven years, at least. I can’t believe it. I used to have people down all the time. And I’ve still got Mum’s old teaset. I spend my life washing the damn thing up, and it never gets used. Might as well celebrate the fact that at least he didn’t smash that, eh?’
‘Tea,’ says Cher.
Vesta laughs. ‘Oh, sorry. Were you expecting cocktails?’
Cher pouts, just a little bit. Of course she was. She’s a teenager. She wants to be out carousing, not eating finger sandwiches with a crew of middle-aged strangers. We must all seem ancient to her, Vesta thinks. Practically mummified. Same way she looks like a baby to me.
‘We could have some cider, at least,’ says Cher.
‘No,’ says Vesta, firmly.
Chapter Thirteen
The Lover is a great reader. He loves to read. He lives in a world where not many people do, where his learning is an anomaly and treated, often, with suspicion, but without reading he wouldn’t be the man he is. He wouldn’t know about the forty days, or about ritual and how its basis often lies in accidental coincidence and pragmatic use of the surroundings in which it developed. And besides: reading helps stave off the loneliness, in more ways than one.
The things he has read about Ancient Egypt, for instance, and its burial traditions. While venerating the corpses of the great is common all over the world, the means of disposing of them often reflects the circumstances of their lives. Thus the Vikings, facing solid, deep-frozen soil for much of the year, would, unsurprisingly, dispose of their heroes in fire and water. And a country in which the combination of climate and shallow topsoil would frequently turn up desiccated corpses from shallow burials might well eventually ritualise the natural order. Egypt’s arid plains, dotted with salty lakes that threw up great heaps of sodium, was ideal for
There she goes again, thinks Vesta. She’s partial to a drop of the creamy stuff herself, but she doesn’t even buy Baileys at Christmas.
‘She’s all right,’ says Cher. ‘Posh. Talks like someone off
Made in Chelsea
. God knows what she’s doing here.’
‘Divorce?’
Cher shakes her head. ‘She’s been travelling, that’s what she said. Lucky for some. I haven’t even got a passport.’
Vesta laughs. ‘I have. Every ten years, I renew it. Always think I might, you know,
go somewhere
some day.’
‘Anyway, her mum’s in a maximum security Twilight Home. I think she’s on her way out and she said something about wanting to be near her, in case.’
‘In case. I’ve always liked that phrase. You can cover a lot of ground with an “in case”. Shall I ask her down, you think? Would that be nice?’
Cher shrugs. ‘Could do.’
Vesta closes her eyes and listens for a moment to the neighbourhood noise: the laughter of the kids from what they call the Posh Family on the other side of the fence playing in their paddling pool, the tannoy playing a recorded announcement on the unmanned station platform, a jet changing speed as it cruises in towards Heathrow. You would only have heard one of those sounds when I was Cher’s age, she thinks. ‘I wonder,’ she says. ‘Maybe I ought to throw a party?’
‘A party?’
‘Not a huge party. Just us. Well, it’s silly, isn’t it? All of us living on top of each other, and we’ve never all been in the same place at the same time. And it would be nice. A thank you because you’ve all been so nice, about the burglary. You and Hossein. Even Thomas. And it would be a good way to kill two birds with one stone. Welcome her to the house; thank everyone. And get him in Flat One to leave his lair. He’s been here ages and we’ve barely said a word. And besides. It’s been ages since I had a party.’
‘How long?’
‘God, it must be…’ Her mind flashes back to Erroll Grey and the Khans, sitting on her mother’s old settee. Really? She’s not had a party since that went on a skip? ‘Good Lord. Seven years, at least. I can’t believe it. I used to have people down all the time. And I’ve still got Mum’s old teaset. I spend my life washing the damn thing up, and it never gets used. Might as well celebrate the fact that at least he didn’t smash that, eh?’
‘Tea,’ says Cher.
Vesta laughs. ‘Oh, sorry. Were you expecting cocktails?’
Cher pouts, just a little bit. Of course she was. She’s a teenager. She wants to be out carousing, not eating finger sandwiches with a crew of middle-aged strangers. We must all seem ancient to her, Vesta thinks. Practically mummified. Same way she looks like a baby to me.
‘We could have some cider, at least,’ says Cher.
‘No,’ says Vesta, firmly.
Chapter Thirteen
The Lover is a great reader. He loves to read. He lives in a world where not many people do, where his learning is an anomaly and treated, often, with suspicion, but without reading he wouldn’t be the man he is. He wouldn’t know about the forty days, or about ritual and how its basis often lies in accidental coincidence and pragmatic use of the surroundings in which it developed. And besides: reading helps stave off the loneliness, in more ways than one.
The things he has read about Ancient Egypt, for instance, and its burial traditions. While venerating the corpses of the great is common all over the world, the means of disposing of them often reflects the circumstances of their lives. Thus the Vikings, facing solid, deep-frozen soil for much of the year, would, unsurprisingly, dispose of their heroes in fire and water. And a country in which the combination of climate and shallow topsoil would frequently turn up desiccated corpses from shallow burials might well eventually ritualise the natural order. Egypt’s arid plains, dotted with salty lakes that threw up great heaps of sodium, was ideal for
Similar Books
