The Understudy: A Novel by David Nicholls Page B

Colin. He was wearing his various shades of moss-and-lichen-colored catalog casual sportswear, stretched unappealingly over the broad, doughy physique of a public school rugby player turned occasional golfer, and once again Stephen felt the sharp thrill of unambiguous, guilt-free hatred. Colin, meanwhile, offered up that self-satisfied smile on his big, pink rugby-captain face, the collar of his polo shirt turned up in irreverent celebration of the holidays, his cheeks so rosy they might have just been freshly rouged. Or slapped. That was how Stephen liked to imagine it anyway; slapped, very hard, simultaneously, with table tennis paddles.
    “Steve!”
    “Colin!”
    “We wondered if you were coming.”
    “Well—here I am.”
    “Well—good to see you!” he lied. “I’ll let the young lady know!” Colin turned and shouted into the depths of the house. “Sophie, Steve’s here!”
    Pause.
    “So, come in,” said Colin, opening the door just wide enough for Stephen to squeeze through. He wondered whether he should wipe his feet, then decided against it. That’ll teach him. He followed Colin through toward the kitchen, but was stopped in his tracks by Sophie barreling into him at high speed from the living room. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, her legs around his waist as if clinging to a tree, squeezing all the air out of him.
    “Hey—where did you come from?” he gasped, kissing her forehead.
    “Why are you wearing those clothes?” she said, peering down the short length of her small nose.
    “What clothes?”
    “Nice clothes.”
    “Hey, I always wear nice clothes.”
    Sophie just frowned.
    “Well, I knew I was seeing you, so I got dressed up specially!”
    She frowned harder. “No you didn’t, silly.” Then, her face brightening, “Have you got a job interview?” she asked.
    Stephen paused just for a second, before saying, levelly, “No, Sophie, because I’ve already got a job, thank you very much.”
    “I know, but a
proper
job.”
    “Get down now, dumpling,” said Colin, diplomatically. “I think you’re a little bit heavy for poor old Steve.” Colin was one of those men who seem to carry around an invisible wet towel to flick at people. Stephen heard it snap, and once again felt the hot flush of hatred.
    “No, she’s not! You’re not too heavy for me, are you, Princess? You’re light as a feather!” and with some difficulty, he extended his arms to full length and locked them at the elbows, so that Sophie’s forehead clunked noisily against the lampshade.
    “Could you please put me down now, please?” asked Sophie quietly.
    Struggling to suppress a groan, Stephen lowered her to the floor.
    “All ready and raring to go then, Sophie?” asked Colin, rubbing her bruised head.
    “I’m nearly ready.”
    “Well, run up and get your coat on,” he said, pushing her toward the staircase. They stood in the hall in silence, listening to her clomp upstairs, and Stephen passed the time by wondering if he could have Colin in a fight. Certainly, Colin had the edge in body weight, but Stephen had the motivation. Especially if he were armed with, say, a cricket bat. Or a samurai sword…
    “Hey, listen,” whispered Colin, “we’ve been meaning to ask—what are you getting you-know-who for Christmas?”
    “I don’t know yet. Why, what are you getting her?”
Her own house, maybe?
Stephen wondered.
A small island, perhaps?
    “A piano,” whispered Colin, and Stephen felt the wet towel snap near his ear.
    “But haven’t you already got one?” said Stephen, remembering the old upright that he and Alison had bought from a junk shop ten years ago.
    “That old pub piano? It’s unplayable. No, we thought we’d invest in a baby grand or something. I wanted to tell you, just in case you wanted to, I don’t know, chip in for the piano stool or some sheet music or something.”
    Snap
went the towel…
    “Actually—I’ve sort of got something special planned for Sophie,”