Chapter 30
Flint awoke at nine the next morning feeling strangely energized. Which was weird, because he usually woke up feeling like a ninety-year-old man with emphysema.
He made himself a cup of mint tea and a bowl of Alpen, picked up the Independent from his doormat and made his way out to the garden, where he sat on his armchair in his boxer shorts and soaked up a few early morning rays.
He looked ahead of him at the stool he’d brought out for Ana to sit on last night.
It was still where she’d left it, directly opposite him, her empty lager can on the ground next to it, and he could almost see her sitting on it – all hunched and awkward, her legs all twisted around themselves, picking at her fingernails, covering her face with her hands every few seconds, blushing constantly. He smiled to himself at the image.
He was just about to bring a spoonful of cereal to his lips when something hit him on the back of his neck.
Something wet and cold and heavy. He looked up for a large bird but couldn’t see anything.
He put his bowl down on the grass and gingerly put a hand out to his neck.
He prodded a bit and cringed. There was something there.
Something squidgy and wet and disgusting.
He grimaced and very, very gently picked the thing up between two fingernails.
It was a large lump of wet pink toilet paper.
And at the same moment that he worked out what it was, another large lump landed on the grass at his feet and he heard the snorty sounds of stifled laughter.
He looked up again. Two small faces in the top-floor flat disappeared.
‘I saw you, you little fuckers,’ he yelled.
More snorty laughing noises.
Flint decided to play along with them. He pretended to go back to reading his paper and eating his cereal.
And sure enough, within a few seconds two little heads had appeared at the top window, one little hand clutching another blob of wet paper.
Flint immediately leaped from his seat, took two giant strides backwards and lobbed his missile at them.
It hit the smallest boy square in the face, before dropping off and on to the windowsill below.
The two boys stopped smirking and started grimacing.
‘You’re messing with the wrong man – I’m a trained marksman.’
‘Ya mother,’ said one.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Flint.
‘Ya mother.’
‘What?’
‘Ya mother ya mother ya mother.’
‘What about my mother?’
The two boys fell silent for a moment and exchanged a confused glance.
‘Ya mother is a fanny rash,’ said the small one, eventually, before both of them dissolved into hysterical stifled laughter and closed the window behind them.
‘Jesus,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘Jesus Christ.’ He took his cereal and his paper into the kitchen and finished his breakfast in there.
Later on, he phoned his mother to tell her that she was a fanny rash, and she laughed so hard she nearly wet herself.
‘Where are you?’ Ana shouted into the phone.
‘Drinking espresso in the sunshine, with only a scabby little Scouser to spoil the view.’ Lol’s voice was a tinny echo on the other end of the line.
Ana could hear a man swearing in the background, and Lol started cackling. ‘Fuck off, soft lad. Go and find a car to nick or summat,’ she cackled again. ‘So – talk to me Ana. Tell me what’s happening. What’ve I missed?’
Ana filled her in on all the events of the previous day.
‘Jesus,’ breathed Lol, ‘that’s unbelievable. You mean she’d been seeing that bloke for three years? But – when? How? I don’t understand.’
They chatted for a while about Zander and the children’s home, too. And the obvious question soon arose. ‘Flint won’t accept the possibility that Zander might be Bee’s kid,’ said Ana.
‘Well – I have to say that for once I agree with him. I mean – I know I spend a lot of time out of the country and everything, but even someone as dense as me would’ve noticed something like a pregnancy. So what are you going to do? What’s next?’
‘Well,’ Ana began, ‘Flint’s coming over in an hour and we’re going to do some research on the Internet – see if we can find out what children’s home Zander lives in.’
‘Top idea,’ said Lol, ‘good work. And how is Flint? Is he looking after you properly?’
‘Oh yes. Totally. He took me out last night …’
‘Oh – he took you out, did he? And I sincerely hope he behaved himself …’
Ana blushed, in spite of the 500 miles and body of water that separated her from Lol. ‘Of course he behaved himself,’ she murmured, ‘I really don’t think he sees me like that, you know. I don’t really think I’m his type, you know …’
Lol made a strange Marge Simpson-esque noise down the phone, and Ana could hear that she had her lips tightly pursed. ‘Just be careful, that’s all. You’ve got enough on your plate right now without having to worry about old slinky-knickers Flint trying to schmooze you into bed.’
Ana grunted and blushed even more.
A voice called out something in the background.
‘Hmm,’ said Lol, noisily slurping down her espresso, ‘I’ve gotta go.
My golden tonsils are required in the studio.
Phone me again tomorrow, won’t you? And look after yourself.
Mwah.’ She blew a kiss down the line, and then she was gone, leaving Ana standing there wondering, with a strange sense of shame mixed with excitement, why exactly old slinky-knickers Flint hadn’t tried to schmooze her into bed and what exactly was wrong with her.
Flint got to Gill’s at twelve. On the way there he bought a box of little Portuguese cakes from the place by the bridge up on Golborne Road. As he handed the white card box to Ana at the door of the house, he felt like Tony Soprano.
‘Hi,’ she said. She was wearing the same jeans and top she’d been wearing last night, and all weekend, come to that.
Flint had never before met a woman who appeared to have so little interest in clothes.
Her feet were bare and her hair was tied back in a ponytail.
It looked nice. Off her face. Gave her a sort of ballerina look.
‘Your hair looks nice,’ he said, dropping his car keys into his pocket and following her into the living room. ‘It suits you – up like that.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Gill not here?’ he said, looking around the empty room.
‘No,’ she said, ‘she’s at the gym.’
‘Yup,’ he said, ‘that sounds like our Gill.’
‘Do you … do you want a cup of tea or something?’ Ana said, fiddling with her earlobe.
‘Yeah. Great. We can have the little cake things, too.’
She nodded distractedly and padded into the kitchen, clutching the box tentatively like it was a dirty nappy.
Flint sat down. Something wasn’t right. With Ana. She seemed awkward. Well, she always seemed awkward, actually, that was nothing new. But she seemed extra-awkward.
She came out with a tray with a couple of mugs on it and the cakes arranged on a plate.
‘So – how are you getting on here with Gill. You happy?’
She shrugged. ‘Haven’t really been here enough to form an opinion. But it seems all right. Gill’s … nice.’
‘Yeah.’ Flint leaned forward and helped himself to a cake. ‘I like Gill, too. She’s as mad as a hatter, but I like her.’
He bit into his cake and the room fell silent. He couldn’t think of a thing to say to her. ‘Are you all right?’ he managed, eventually.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I’m good. I’m great.’
He looked across at her and felt a sudden wave of warmth and compassion for her.
Poor girl. One minute she’d been living her funny little half-life in Devon, thinking her sister hated her, and the next she’d been uprooted and transplanted to one of the biggest, noisiest cities in the world, was living with strangers and discovering that her sister’s entire life was a lie.
He put down his cake and walked over to where she was sitting on a low cushion thing. He crouched down and put an arm around her shoulder. She flinched. He put another hand on her knee and squeezed it. She stiffened.
‘Are you missing home?’ he asked.
She jumped slightly and looked him straight in the eye. ‘God. No,’ she said, ‘not even a tiny bit. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
He removed his hand from her knee and looked her in the eye. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know this must all have been quite hard going for you. And I just want you to know that I’m here. If you need me. If you want to talk. Or cry. Or anything. OK?’
She didn’t look him in the eye this time, just sort of shrugged and nodded. And then, before he had a chance to push it any further, the doorbell rang. Ana looked at him and then at the door.
‘Expecting anyone?’ said Flint, getting to his feet and going to peer through the window.
She shook her head. ‘Who is it?’ she said.
‘I dunno,’ said Flint, ‘some weird-looking bloke.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘Kind of geeky. Skinny. And he’s wearing really weird clothes.’
Ana got to her feet and walked towards the window. She peeled back the curtain and looked through the glass and suddenly jumped and flattened herself against the wall. ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, ‘it’s Hugh!’
‘Hugh who?’ said Flint, peering out again.
‘You know – Hugh Hugh.’
‘Ah. Right. That Hugh. Your Hugh. Yoo-hoo, Hugh,’ he tinkled camply, pretending to wave at him.
‘Don’t!’ said Ana, slapping his hand away from the window. ‘And don’t answer the door,’ she said. ‘Please. I don’t want to see him.’