Theft

by Luke Brown

  ‘What is she talking about?’ said Sophie, taking her phone out of her bag and looking at it.

  ‘She’s a Marxist commentator,’ said Rochi.

  ‘Stop finding that funny. I am, actually,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Whereas I am a scholar of Marx and his influence on world history,’ said Andrew. ‘Shall we rescue Emily from her editor?’

  ‘You do that, Dad. We’ll stay and get to know Paul.’

  While Rochi explained the London Review of Haircuts to Sophie, I watched Andrew walk towards Emily and Amy, then suddenly veer off towards the door, where his PhD student Chloe was coming through, looking around her with an expression of amused despair on her face, like an Austen heroine making the most of the bad company that she would be stuck with for the entire rest of her life. Andrew held his arms up as if he were delighted to see her, and they walked out of the shop together. Sophie had looked up from her phone to notice this performance too and our eyes met again.

  ‘Are you on duty?’ asked Rochi.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Are you out looking for people with terrific hair?’ She shook her hair like a shampoo model.

  ‘That was impressive,’ I said.

  ‘Put her in the magazine,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Put us both in the magazine,’ said Rochi.

  ‘I don’t mind being trivialised in this instance,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Fine,’ I said and pulled out my phone. ‘Can I do you together?’

  ‘What an impertinent question,’ said Rochi, mussing her hair.

  ‘We’re not a pornographic fantasy,’ said Sophie.

  ‘I’m resisting the urge to say “I’ll be the judge of that”’ I said.

  ‘You are precisely not resisting that urge,’ said Rochi.

  ‘You’re exactly the problem,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s lucky for you that the patriarchy has conditioned us to be forgiving of reprehensible creatures like you.’ She was looking back into her phone and adjusting her fringe.

  I caught them in my screen and loved them both. Sophie’s dress was loose enough just to skim her hips, to turn her silhouette into a pair of straight lines, an easily drawn icon of a woman, the two-dimensional version many of us preferred to see instead of the complicated actuality. There was no hiding the actuality of Rochi. Everything about her was big, her mouth, her eyes, her hips.

  I took the picture. I took another. Posters for platonic female friendship, for the irrelevance of men. Bookshelves were clearly visible around them. Stev’n would probably want to photoshop some caged dwarfs in leather behind them if he used the photo.

  I felt a hand on my back. ‘Hello,’ said Amy. ‘You keep leaving me with the lunatics.’

  I put my phone away. ‘This is my sister,’ I said, and made introductions.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to have a sister,’ said Sophie.

  ‘He does,’ said Amy.

  ‘I thought you might be one of those men who hadn’t been round women much,’ Sophie continued, without looking at Amy.

  ‘We’ve been disagreeing about whether if Brexit happens it will be the fault of men,’ I explained to Amy. ‘I expect Sophie and Rochi went to girls’ schools and base their opinion of men on men who went to boys’ schools.’

  ‘Is there much difference?’ said Rochi.

  ‘The ones who go to boys’ schools are even worse,’ said Amy. ‘From my experience.’

  ‘At least they aren’t talking over girls like they do in the mixed schools and getting in the way of their education,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Is that what they do?’ said Amy.

  ‘It’s statistically proven,’ said Sophie.

  ‘I must have had an inferior education to you, then. Don’t mixed schools tend to have poorer pupils than the all-girl schools?’ asked Amy.

  ‘You’re like your brother,’ said Sophie. ‘Exceptions don’t disprove general rules.’

  ‘And what should we do with those boys I went to school with and who ruined my education?’ asked Amy. ‘Should we just execute them at birth? Or would sending them to the Gulag suffice?’

  Sophie considered this silently. ‘I’m sure we can find something more compassionate to do with them,’ she said, glancing at me.

  ‘We’re just jealous you got to hang around with boys at all,’ said Rochi, stepping between Sophie and Amy, and she winked at me as a glass began to ting. I looked up to see Emily casting around the room for Andrew, and then Cockburn started speaking.

  *

  After Cockburn had finished, Emily made the briefest of thank yous to her agent and editor. ‘I was going to thank my partner but I can’t see him – oh, here he is. Thank you to Andrew too for all his support during the writing of this book. Thank you all for coming.’

  Andrew had returned alone, and made his way over to kiss her. The crowd began to buzz again.

  I looked for Amy. She was browsing in the Latin America section.

  ‘You’re not plotting another escape, are you?’

  ‘Yes, I thought if my trial at work goes against me, I might hide out in Argentina for a while, like a Nazi.’

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re keeping things in perspective here, Amy.’

  ‘Yes, well. I’ve realised I do want that job back. How depressing. I spent years earning my public-sector maternity benefits and get pregnant the second I storm out.’

  ‘Your body must have bloomed at the freedom.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Just stay calm. Say sorry.’

  ‘I know. But it’s they who should be apologising to—’

  ‘BAAAAH. Wrong answer.’

  ‘But seriously, they’re such mor—’

  ‘BAAAAH. To be kidnapped by Mossad and tried as a war criminal.’

  ‘Will you let me talk, Paul?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It shouldn’t all be one-way traffic.’

  ‘I’m just trying to suggest you bury your anger for the purpose of your meeting.’

  ‘I spend my whole life burying my anger. What’s that fucking look on your face about?’

  ‘Sympathy. Would you like to get out of here and get something to eat? It can’t be much fun here without booze.’

  She looked around the room. ‘It’s OK. I liked Emily. But I’ll just head off in a bit. Need to prepare for tomorrow’s showdown. You’re probably right. I need a script.’

  ‘I could help you work on one.’

  ‘Don’t you want to stay with your new mates?’

  ‘They’re not exactly my mates. Sophie seems to actively dislike me.’

  ‘Not as much as she dislikes me.’

  ‘Or you hate her.’

  ‘What a stuck-up bitch. Did you hear the way she spoke to me?’

  ‘I think that’s just the way she talks to everyone. The other one, Rochi, she’s OK, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s a lot less rude. And she must be absolutely minted. Have you seen her bag? That’s about two thousand quid’s worth of handbag.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a knock-off.’

  ‘Women like her don’t carry knock-offs.’

  ‘I didn’t notice.’

  ‘I think you do notice. You’re always going for women like those.’

  ‘I wish. I don’t come into contact with them.’

  ‘You love those North London girls.’

  ‘Monica wasn’t posh. Or from North London.’

  ‘Wasn’t she?’

  ‘No! She was from Portsmouth. That’s not the same as posh.’

  ‘You’re not still thinking about her?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, Paul. She’s gone.’

  ‘Let me buy you dinner.’

  ‘Nah. You belong here. This is your scene. I’m getting my book signed then heading off for a pizza on the sofa with Netflix.’

  ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to disappear.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Chance would b
e a fine thing. Were you crying earlier? I know you said you had hay fever but you looked like—’

  ‘It was just hay fever. If I looked miserable it was just because they got me thinking about Dad and Carl.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Oh, I’m being oversensitive. I thought they were saying Dad and Carl were… insignificant, but all they were probably saying is that women have it harder. Which is true, isn’t it? Look at Mum.’

  ‘We need to talk about Mum. About what happened, about what we do next.’

  ‘Oh, I know. Let’s. But let’s not now.’

  ‘That’s what you always say. Not now. Not here. Call me, OK? We should come up with a plan to do something to remember her in the autumn.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said. I was finding it harder to forget her, not the other way around.

  ‘Yeah, yeah? For fuck’s sake, Paul.’

  She shook her head and walked away. I nearly watched her go but I was scared of not seeing her again for months and so I ran after her to apologise.

  *

  Emily was still talking to the big bear of a man when I got back to the shop. I approached her with my book open at the title page.

  ‘This is an old friend, Richard,’ she said, ‘from when I lived in Leeds; Richard, this is a new friend, Paul.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘You too. Do you live round here?’

  ‘No, no. In Leeds. Just down to surprise Emily and get my own signed copy.’

  Emily signed her name in my book with five kisses, a girlish and endearingly out-of-character gesture, then she turned them into scissors by adding handles to them.

  ‘Very cute,’ I said. ‘Have you had a good time?’

  ‘Reasonably. He was a nice surprise,’ she said, putting her hand on Richard’s shoulder.

  ‘So how do you two know each other?’ I asked.

  ‘Emily used to come and see my band,’ he said. ‘Before I got a real job and became a teacher.’

  ‘They were a good band,’ said Emily.

  ‘We were OK,’ he said.

  ‘Are we going out afterwards?’ he asked, turning to Emily.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Andrew has a plan. Food somewhere.’

  They turned back to look at me and my invitation never arrived so I volunteered my own information. ‘I thought I might go for a drink with some women I just met. Rochi and her friend Sophie. Andrew’s Sophie, I think.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Emily. She looked up to where Sophie and Rochi were talking. Sophie saw her and waved. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ said Emily. ‘Well, good luck with that.’ She put her hand on Richard’s shoulder and leaned slightly into him.

  ‘We’re only having a drink.’

  She nodded, then realised where her hand was and removed it from Richard. ‘I’d better talk to Andrew and see what’s happening. If I don’t see you, Paul, thanks for coming.’

  She walked away, and I smiled at Richard. ‘So, how are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re new friends, you and Emily?’

  ‘Yeah. And you two go way back,’ I said.

  ‘Way back.’

  ‘So, you’re a teacher? My parents were teachers.’

  ‘Were?’

  ‘Were.’

  ‘Well, very sensible of them to get out, I’m sure. Actually, do you mind? I’m just going to have a quick cigarette,’ he said, and he left me alone, turning back to glance at me when he was near the door.

  *

  I lingered for another few minutes, talking to Rochi, Sophie and James Cockburn. By now I’d drunk a few glasses of white wine. I poured myself one last glass, meeting Andrew at the table as he was putting an empty down.

  ‘Did I see you leaving the shop with that young woman who came to dinner with us that time?’ I asked.

  ‘I hope your tone isn’t insinuating anything,’ he snapped.

  ‘I didn’t mean to insinuate anything at all.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Yes, you did. Chloe. She’s a demanding PhD student.’

  ‘Right. She’s probably infatuated with you.’

  ‘No, no. Not like that. Let’s please not talk about her. She’s interfered with the evening already.’

  ‘Fine by me. So what’s next? I think I’m going to go for a drink with Sophie and Rochi, if you fancy joining.’

  ‘Oh, we have a table booked. Do come along if you want. Emily’s already added one other new guest so I can’t see why we can’t add another. Did you want to come?’

  ‘I did say I’d go for—’

  ‘Yes, good. You go and have fun. And look after Sophie for me, won’t you? Keep her out of trouble?’

  *

  Meanwhile Cockburn was stepping up his friendship with Sophie and Rochi.

  ‘What a marvellous party this is,’ he said, turning to me as I walked over. ‘Aren’t Sophie and Rochi wonderful?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Paul hates us really,’ said Sophie. ‘He thinks we’re champagne feminists.’

  ‘Well, Jesus, what’s wrong with that?’ said Cockburn. ‘I’m a huge fan of champagne and feminism. Paul, you know Sophie’s writing a book about how to change the world?’

  ‘Can I be of any assistance?’ I asked.

  ‘To write my book? Very generous of you, but I’m not sure we’d see eye to eye on everything.’

  ‘I meant, do you need any help to change the world?’

  ‘You can stop trying to deny the existence of the patriarchy.’

  ‘Or you can buy us drinks,’ said Rochi.

  ‘How about I stop denying the existence of the patriarchy and he buys us drinks?’

  ‘Works for me,’ said Cockburn. ‘Let me just see if I can get out of this dinner plan,’ and he walked off towards Emily, who was talking with Richard and Andrew.

  ‘I am sorry about before,’ I said. ‘I’m really not trying to deny the effects of sexism and racism.’

  ‘It’s OK. We believe you,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s grim up north! Did I annoy your sister earlier with my comments about mixed education? Rochi’s right: at least you had people of the opposite sex at your place.’

  ‘What I was most conscious of at the time was of the lack of contact with members of the opposite sex.’

  ‘You do surprise me,’ said Rochi.

  ‘Not as conscious as we were,’ said Sophie. ‘We were boy crazy.’

  ‘Boy mad,’ said Rochi.

  ‘We chased them round shopping centres at the weekends.’

  ‘What did you do when you caught them?’ I asked.

  ‘Educated them,’ said Sophie.

  *

  Sophie wanted to take us to a place on Portobello Road that was ‘so grotesque it was barely believable’.

  Cockburn was going to have a starter with Emily and the rest and join us as soon as possible afterwards.

  We turned past the florists and delis into Ladbroke Grove, walking past houses painted in delicate pastels. In their tall window panes we could see through long rooms to more tall window panes and flowering gardens behind them. Then we turned onto a road of terraces like the one Emily and Andrew lived in, a long cream stretch of pillars and railings and sash windows looking over a locked park.

  ‘In the 1980s I think Philip Roth used to have his writing studio somewhere around here,’ I said.

  ‘I knew you’d like Philip Roth,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Did you grow up in one of these places?’ I asked her, trying to avoid starting our argument up again.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what impression you’ve reached of me, but I didn’t grow up rich.’

  ‘I was wondering, you see, because your dad lives close by.’

  ‘Yes, he does.’ She looked more interested and put her hand on my arm. ‘Have you been round?’

  ‘Yes, I interviewed Emily there.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You have to be stupidly rich to have one of these,’ said Rochi.

  �
�You do now. I grew up in Clapham,’ said Sophie. ‘I’m staying there at the moment with my mum. It’s Rochi who’s from round here.’

  ‘I’m not really from round here. I’m from Kilburn.’

  ‘Your parents’ house is not in Kilburn.’

  ‘It’s not like this. Where are you from, then?’ asked Rochi. ‘More specifically than oop north?’

  I did my routine, the bleak beauty of the peninsula, almost an island, the psychological effect of the isolating landscape. They listened politely.

  ‘I don’t want you to think I was saying there’s no such thing as regional inequality,’ said Sophie.

  ‘If you’re not careful we’ll start agreeing on things,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll have nothing to say to each other.’

  ‘Conversation doesn’t have to be a battle, you know?’ said Rochi.

  ‘Next thing you’ll be telling me that history isn’t the record of the struggle between classes,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, God. You two are almost perfect for each other,’ she said in disgust.

  *

  ‘I’m not saying it’s a good place,’ said Sophie as we arrived at the tapas bar. ‘There’s part of me that thinks it might have been a dream. You’re here really to corroborate my story.’

  Sophie pushed forwards into the bar and we followed. Inside she hugged a young woman, and introduced her as Frankie, her friend from school, the restaurant manager. They talked about the man who had set the restaurant up, one of a small chain in London, and Frankie’s voice went up to emphasise the importance of the name I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Is the bishop in?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘The bishop’s always in,’ said Frankie, with a knowing nod and smile. We were told to go downstairs and say hi.

  Rochi and I followed Sophie down the stairs to what looked like the toilets. But just beside those doors Sophie stopped in front of a full-length mirror and reached her nails behind its right side, pulling it open like a door to reveal a dim corridor, lined on each side by thick velvet curtains in sacristal purple. We stepped through and there we were greeted by a good-looking young man in a cassock. I could see his Converse trainers peeking under the hem. He had tousled indie-music hair and wore an iron cross over a black cassock.

  ‘Where’s your hat?’ asked Sophie.

  ‘It’s called a mitre,’ I said.