Ziggy
Ziggy
Ziggy walked out of the classroom and into a world which felt as if it had expanded a little. He’d spent the last hour with Mr. Wingate, playing with coding problems that had made his brain fizz, then looking at some of the online prospectuses of universities he might be able to apply to. Ziggy had scrolled through pictures of worlds filled with ornate, high-ceilinged libraries, huge, high-tech computer labs and groups of smiling kids who looked like they actually wanted to learn. Could he insert himself into those scenes? Was there really a place for someone like him? And Kylie?
Ziggy was so wrapped up in this potential shiny new world that he nearly walked straight into Alicia.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, expecting her to swerve away from him as quickly as possible.
Ziggy had never fitted neatly into any of the school cliques. He was a strange mixture of geeky—on account of his passion for coding and math—and cool—due to his prowess on a football pitch and, according to the girls, his good looks, a striking combination of conker-brown eyes and blond hair, which frizzed from his head as if he’d stuck his fingers into an electrical socket. But in the past, despite not trying terribly hard to fit in, Ziggy had always had plenty of people wanting to be his friend, or his girlfriend. Even, on one occasion, his boyfriend.
Not now. Baby Kylie had tipped him over the fine, but crucially important, line from being individual to weird . The only father in year thirteen. In the whole school, even. And the girls, who’d once flocked around him, now avoided getting too close, as if his superpotent spermatozoa might be able to leap the gap between them, like Highland salmon desperately searching for their breeding grounds, and send them hurtling into the same inhospitable universe as him.
But Alicia didn’t dash off; she fell into step with him.
“Hey, Ziggy,” she said. “Why are you here so late?”
“Extra computer science,” he said. “You?”
“Oboe lesson,” she said, nodding at the long blue case she had slung over her shoulder.
“Oboe,” said Ziggy. “That’s so cool. I thought everyone played, like, the violin. Or the guitar or piano.”
“That’s why I chose the oboe,” said Alicia, blowing a red corkscrew curl out of her eyes. Ziggy caught a faint scent of peppermint on her breath, which made him feel strangely lightheaded. “It’s a challenge, but it’s unique. You could come and watch me at the next orchestra performance, if you like? I’m first oboe. On account of being the only oboe.”
“Sure. Thanks,” said Ziggy. “I’d like that.” And as Alicia headed out of the gates, pausing briefly to wave at him and smile, he edited the picture in his head, of him in the university library, to include a girl who played the oboe and was a challenge, but unique.
Just like him.
Ziggy’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and read the text message. Daphne wrote texts, he’d discovered, just the way she spoke: in proper full sentences and with perfect grammar and an undercurrent of condescension. They were the sort of messages more suited to being handwritten on a card and delivered by a butler than appearing on a phone screen.
Ziggy, you can find Kylie and myself at the Fox and Ferret pub on Brook Green. We’ll see you shortly, no doubt. Daphne.
Daphne had taken Kylie to a pub ?
Not for the first time, Ziggy wondered whether Daphne really was the right person to trust with his daughter…
···
Well, it didn’t look as if Daphne had taught Kylie to drink vodka straight from the bottle. At least, not yet. In fact, everything appeared—relatively—wholesome.
Kylie was sitting on Daphne’s knee, and Daphne was waving a rattle at her and…smiling? Actually, it looked more like a grimace, a human facial expression being attempted by a poorly created avatar. Maybe Daphne’s smiling muscles had atrophied more rapidly than the rest of her through lack of use. Ah, this was obviously the photo shoot for the dating website. It was all his idea. His fault.
Art, who he recognized from the community center, was sitting on the other side of the table, while another old man—who Ziggy guessed must be the William that Daphne had mentioned—took photos with an extremely expensive-looking camera attached to a huge, scarily phallic lens.
“Are you sure I’ve not taken your picture before, Daphne?” said William. “I never forget a face, and I’m pretty certain I recognize yours.”
“Highly unlikely,” said Daphne. “I’m quite the hermit. I must have one of those bland, interchangeable faces.”
Ziggy tried not to laugh. Daphne was about as bland as a chicken vindaloo, and just as likely to blow your head off.
“Try to look like you’re at least a little fond of your granddaughter,” said William, before taking a few steps back, which was definitely wise.
“Uh, she’s not Daphne’s granddaughter, actually,” said Ziggy. “Do you think it’s a good idea to lie like that?”
Everyone turned to stare at him, including Kylie, who—sensing an escape route—stretched her arms toward him and started to cry.
“It’s not a lie, dear boy,” said William. “We’re not going to say Kylie’s related to Daphne. Photos don’t actually lie ; they just encourage people to see their own version of the truth. And if people choose to assume that Daphne has a gorgeous, photogenic, loving family, then so be it. Talking of which, would you mind sitting at the table, just there? You can be Kylie’s brother.”
William gestured at the empty seat next to Daphne.
“I’m her father, not her brother,” said Ziggy.
“Well, I know that’s the truth, but it’s hardly probable, is it?” said William. “And it doesn’t fit the narrative we’re creating here.”
“Ziggy’s been having extra lessons at school, while I’ve been babysitting his daughter,” said Daphne, which Ziggy read correctly as Don’t forget you owe me one . Daphne was a wily, manipulative old crone. Ziggy sighed, and sat down.
“By the way, I found the stone from your bracelet, Daphne,” he said. “Would you like it back?”
“Good God, no,” said Daphne, looking rather queasy. “I know where it’s been! But you must keep it. Put it somewhere safe. It’ll make a great anecdote for when Kylie’s older. The diamanté stone that traveled all the way through her digestive tract!”
“Smile, and say, ‘Hello, Granny.’ Look as if you love each other!” said William. Easier said than done.
After what felt like hours of Ziggy posing as Daphne’s fake grandson, William moved Daphne to an armchair by the fireplace.
“We need to make this look like a different place and day,” he said. “Daphne, can you take off the jacket and add the silk scarf? Perfect. Right, let’s throw Maggie Thatcher into the mix. Everyone trusts people who dogs like, I find.”
Art whispered something in Maggie’s ear, before placing her reluctantly on Daphne’s knee and mouthing, Sorry . The dog looked rather put out at being used as a prop. Ziggy knew the feeling.
“Art, you sit on one side of Daphne, and I’ll sit on the other. Ziggy, I’ve set up the shot, so all you need to do is press the button. OK?”
“Sure,” said Ziggy, who was, to his surprise, starting to enjoy himself. Kylie was sitting beside him on the carpet (which he really hoped they cleaned regularly), chewing happily on a cardboard beer mat.
“Right, Daphne,” said William. “You’re going to say something really funny, and Art and I are going to laugh uproariously, while Ziggy takes the shot. Go.”
“So you two are my best friends?” said Daphne. William and Art started laughing. What looked like genuine belly laughs.
“That wasn’t supposed to be a joke,” said Daphne. “I meant, that’s the effect we’re aiming for, right?”
They laughed even harder.
Ziggy moved to the side to get a better angle.
“By the way, I talked to my old mate, Ned, at the local paper about the nativity,” said William, once he’d been able to catch his breath.
“Great!” said Art. “Is he going to come?”
“Yes,” said William. “But he didn’t think it would make much difference. He has contacts in the local planning department. He says they’ve already had a proposal for turning the Mandel Community Center site into a luxury apartment complex.”
As if he’d turned a telescope around and was peering through the wrong end, Ziggy’s world—which had, for just an hour or so, felt as if it were expanding—contracted to a pinprick.
No Mandel Community Center meant no childcare, no school, no university, and no new life.