— I keep bumping into her.
— Naomi, stop doing that.
— She was at school with us. It’s hard to believe.
— Is it? Why? Naomi stop it. Come away from the barbecue. It’s fire, hot, come here.
— Never mind.
— Sorry, tell me again. I’m listening. Shar. Don’t remember the name at all. Maybe it was during our “break”? You were hanging with a load of people back then I never met.
— No. I never knew her in school.
— Naomi! I’m serious. Sorry — so, wait: what’s the issue?
— No issue. Nothing.
— It’s just in the scheme of things it’s not very…
–“She said, trailing off.”
— What? Naomi, come here!
— Nothing.
Frank comes over with the bottle, as expansive with Leah as his wife is brusque. His face is very close. He smells expensive. Leah leans back to let him pour.
— Why is it that everyone from your school is a criminal crackhead?
— Why’s everyone from yours a Tory minister?
Frank smiles. He is handsome his shirt is perfect his trousers are perfect his children are perfect his wife is perfect this is a perfectly chilled glass of Prosecco. He says:
— It must be comforting being able to divide the world in two like that in your mind.
— Frank, stop teasing.
— Leah’s not offended. You’re not offended, Leah. Of course, I’m already divided in half, so you understand for me it’s hard to think this way. When you guys have kids, they’ll know what I mean.
Leah tries now to look at Frank in the manner he seems to intend: as a projection of a certain future for herself, and for Michel. The coffee color, those freckles. But aside from accidents of genetics, Frank has nothing to do with either Leah or Michel. She met his mother once. Elena. Complained about the provincialism of Milan and advised Leah to dye her hair. Frank is from a different slice of the multiverse.
— My mother-in-law in her wisdom says if you want to know the real difference between people do the health visitor test. Ring the bell, and if they lay on the floor and put the lights out, they’re no good.
Michel says:
— I don’t get this. What does it mean?
Natalie explains:
— Sometimes people don’t want to open the door to Marcia, they’re worried it’s connected to social work, or the benefit office. They want to be off the radar, basically. So if my mum ever rings your bell, for Godssake don’t lie on the floor.
Michel nods seriously, taking this advice to heart. He can’t see it, as Leah does. The way Natalie taps her finger on the garden table and looks at the sky as she speaks. He can’t see that we’re boring them, and they wish they were free of us, of this old obligation. He won’t shut up, he says:
— These people, they would lie on the floor. They’re on Ridley Avenue. And we work it out that they’re all living in a squat, together, on Ridley Avenue, maybe four or five of these girls who are working on the streets, ringing doorbells, and there are some guys, too, we think. Pimps, probably. But this is the stuff you deal with every day. I don’t need to tell you it, you know it. You must see people like this every day, every day, right? In court.
— Michel, honey… It’s like asking a doctor at a party about a mole on your back.
Michel always speaks sincerely, and it is strange that exactly this trait — highly valued by Leah in private — should so embarrass her in public. Nat is following the progress of Spike as he toddles in a flowerbed. Now her attention swings back to Leah and Leah takes its measure: serene, a little imperious. Insincere.
— No, I am interested, go on, Michel, I’m sorry.
— This other one, this guy, he’s also from your school. He asked her for money a few weeks ago on the street.
— That’s not what happened! He’s talking about Nathan Bogle. He was selling travelcards. You know how he does that, you’ve seen him do that, at Kilburn, at Willesden sometimes?
— Hmmm.
It’s humiliating being the cause of so much abject boredom in your oldest friend. Leah is reduced to bringing up these old names and faces in an attempt to engage her.
Frank says:
— Bogle? He the one who was caught for heroin importing?
— No, that was Robbie Jenner. Year below. Bogle wasn’t in that league. He dropped out to become a footballer. Spike, please don’t do that, baby.
— And did he? Become a footballer?
— Huh? Oh — no. No.
Perhaps Brayton, too, no longer exists for her. It’s gone, cast off. She is probably as surprised to have come out of Brayton as it is surprised to have spawned her. Nat is the girl done good from their thousand-kid madhouse; done too good, maybe, to recall where she came from. To live like this you would have to forget everything that came before. How else could you manage?
— He was a sweet kid. His mum was St. Loo-shun. St. Looshee-yan? All our mums knew each other. Very nice looking, very mischievous. Played the drums? Quite well. He sat next to Keisha. Back when she was Keisha. I was very jealous about that, when I was eight. Innit, Keisha.
Natalie chews at a nail, hating to be teased. She dislikes being reminded of her own inconsistencies. Leah dares herself to put it a little stronger: hypocrisies. Leah passes the old estate every day on the walk to the corner shop. She can see it from her back yard. Nat lives just far enough to avoid it. Anyway all meetings happen here, at Nat’s house, because why wouldn’t they. Look at this beautiful house! Leah blushes as an illegal word thrusts itself into her mind, Shar’s word: coconut. And then Michel speaks, and makes it perfect.
— You changed your name. I forget that you did this. It’s like: “Dress for the job you want not the one you have.” And it’s the same with names, I feel.
Ruined for Leah, though, by this depressing I feel, which he only ever says here, in this house, and which is embarrassing. Natalie’s eyes widen; she lunges at a change of subject, which children always seem to provide.
— Michel, you can help me: what should I do about this?
Nat grabs two handfuls of Naomi’s hair and demonstrates the knots by trying to pass her fingers through the nest of it as the child squirms beneath.
— She won’t let me touch it, so I should give it to you to shave off, right? She can come in to the salon tomorrow and see you and get it all shaved off.
Naomi cries out. Michel answers the question, kindly, carefully, sincerely. Advising against drastic action, he recommends hair-food and coconut oil. Even after so many years in this country the English fondness for torturing children with irony remains strange to him. Nat keeps her bright smile pinned to her face.
— OK, OK, Naomi. NAOMI. Mum was only joking… No-one’s going to… yes, plaiting it in the evening should help, Michel, thank you…
Frank says:
— At my school there was no such thing as “school holiday.” My mother never saw me till Christmas.
His wife smiles sadly and gives him a kiss on his cheek:
— Oh, I bet there was. Knowing your mum she just probably never came to pick you up.
Not so funny, says Frank. Pretty funny, says Natalie. Leah watches Nat accept a daisy chain that Naomi has begun. Split a stem with a thumbnail, thread the next daisy through.
— I’m not sending my children to a boarding school. Completely alone in a class of thirty white kids. You’d have to be crazy.
— Our children. Twenty white kids. Didn’t do me any harm.
— You’re wearing loafers, Frank.
Not so funny, says Frank. Pretty funny, says Natalie. Often Leah tries to diagnose a sickness here, between these two — something rotten, something virulent — but the patients persist in leaping from their beds and wisecracking. Kissing each other on the cheek.