Misspent Youth (commonwealth saga)

by Peter F. Hamilton

  The afternoon she went up there they splashed around in the swimming pool for half an hour before dragging a couple of sunloungers out onto the patio. It was a hot afternoon, with no clouds and no wind; the forecasters were predicting the high would last at least three weeks. Annabelle toweled herself off, then sprayed on factor forty sunblock. She was wearing her navy blue bikini, a copy from the one in Stephanie’s range. It was a shame because she would have preferred an all-over tan, but going topless in front of Tim right now would give him the wrong idea. As far as she was concerned he was still on probation.

  So they lay side by side, with only a small table between the sunloungers. Tim lay with his head resting on the cushions so he could look at her the whole time. The talk was almost as relaxed as it had been a week ago. Tim was starting to accept his father going out with other girls, though Annabelle wrinkled her nose with distaste when she learned about him going out and crawling around the clubs each night. But it was nice to see Tim returning to some sort of equilibrium. She told him how devastated she’d been when her own mother left.

  When it came to the finals, he was cool about them, which sparked not a little envy in her. He apologized, and said he understood about her wanting to get to university and away from her home. They daydreamed together about what it would be like if she went to Oxford or Cambridge with him. He still hadn’t decided which one he’d choose.

  The radio they had on in the background, tuned to an eighties music station, began a news report about Rob Lacey’s campaign. He was in Spain, speaking at rallies there and trying to make alliances with regional politicians, eager for their endorsement.

  “He’ll do well out there,” Tim said.

  “How come?”

  “Spain’s always been a good ally to us in Brussels. They usually vote with us to block the central and northern countries.”

  “He’ll never win.”

  “Yes he will. The Med countries don’t have their own candidate. Nobody in France will vote for him, same way as we’d never vote for a Frog. All he has to do is swing the Germans behind him.”

  “I can’t believe we’ll have a president of Europe.”

  “Do you think it’ll matter, that it’ll make a difference?”

  “No. Be nice if it did, though. There’s so many regulations he needs to liberalize or just abolish.”

  “And more he needs to strengthen. The Germans are getting a thousand Russians a day sneaking in over the eastern laser-curtain border. More, if you access the undernet reports.”

  “I know.” She sighed. She picked the glass tumbler off the table, only to find it was empty. “I need more juice.”

  “Call Mrs. Mayberry,” Tim said.

  “Honestly, Tim, you’re so much a slob.” She climbed to her feet and walked over the lawn to the house with its wide open French doors.

  “Get me one, too,” Tim yelled at her.

  “One of these coming right up.” Annabelle gave him the finger, and walked into the living room. It was cooler inside, the air conditioning murmuring quietly behind slim vents in the baseboard. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead, and blinked while her eyes adjusted to the light.

  “You look sensational in that bikini,” Jeff said.

  Annabelle just managed not to jump at the shock. He was sprawled in one of the deep leather couches, feet up on the armrest, shoes off, an old, very fat paperback science fiction novel in his hand.

  She pursed her lips as her heart calmed. “Why, thank you, Mr. Baker. What’s your next line? I’d look even better out of it?”

  “I wasn’t going to say that,” he protested. “If Sue taught me anything about clothes, it was that revealing is always more alluring than revealed. Always leave ’em wanting more.”

  “From what I’ve heard, you’re not wanting for anything at all right now.”

  Jeff gave a mock bow. “Ouch. Cruel lady.”

  “Nothing you don’t deserve.”

  “True.” He nodded at the patio outside. “So how’s it going?”

  “Great. I’ve got through most of today’s studying.”

  The answer made him frown. “Right. And with Tim?”

  “Equally fine, thanks.”

  “I hope he appreciates how lucky he is.”

  “I think he does.” Annabelle was very conscious of how Jeff was looking at her—after all, it was a small bikini. Although his face was so spookily similar to Tim’s, he had none of his son’s worshipful uncertainty when he spoke to her. Jeff was infinitely more confident and urbane, which made his flirtatiousness fun rather than awkward. And Sophie’s insidious little phrase trading up kept running round her mind.

  Bad bad bad, she told herself as she went into the kitchen. So why does it feel exciting?

  TIM PRODDED HIS SUNGLASSES up as she approached the sunloungers. “You all right?”

  “So much okay.”

  “I thought you were scowling at me.”

  Annabelle stood above his sunlounger, looking down at him, a glass in each hand. Back out here, with Tim, it was hard work not to feel guilty. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I’m not unhappy with you.”

  Tim managed a nervous smile. “Good.”

  “It’s too hot for me out here. I’m going up to your room to cool off.” She put the drinks down on the small table. One eyebrow rose slightly in query. “Are you coming with me?”

  29. TIM IN LOVE

  AND AFTER ALL THAT, all the crap in his life, his mother leaving him, his friends that weren’t quite, the constant nervous anxiety of wondering if he’d done and said the right thing to her, the rickety flight that was his life had suddenly leveled out. No, actually, it had done more than that, it had become perfect. His finals were so easy he just sailed through them. The weather was warm and sunny. Dad actually stopped bringing the girls down to breakfast.

  And there was Annabelle.

  Annabelle, who came around to the manor most afternoons. They really did spend a couple of hours studying; swimming and sunbathing, too. But each time, they wound up in his room, naked, and having sex. There was a whole great summer holiday coming up ahead of them as well. Over eight long weeks, when neither of them had anything to do. That would mean she could come around every day. Really, how could anything possibly get better?

  He began to wonder about after the holiday. She’d probably be going to a different university. At night he made calls, finding out if he could switch from Oxford and Cambridge so they could remain together. He didn’t tell her that; it would be his surprise present later on. Just thinking about what she’d do to thank him made him break out in a sweat of excitement. She was as eager as him to try things in bed.

  HIS FATHER SEEMED HAPPY with the arrangement. Tim kept on saying how happy he was, how wonderful Annabelle was. Jeff would smile, and grip him by the arm, and say: “That’s great, Tim, I’m so pleased. She’s a lovely looking girl.”

  He didn’t even have a beer. Which just proved he could act in a restrained manner, despite what everyone said. It also pleased Annabelle. He hadn’t realized before how much she disapproved of him getting blasted. Quitting was just another example of how in tune they were now.

  “Dad,” he asked one morning, “how old were you and Tracy when you got married?”

  “I was early thirties, she was late twenties. Why?”

  “Nothing. Mum was twenty, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah.” Jeff ordered the kitchen’s wall screen to switch off, and the news stream vanished. “You thinking of eloping, son?”

  Tim shook his head and scooped up another spoonful of cornflakes. “No.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “Dad?”

  “Oh shit. Yes?”

  “Which university do you think I should go to?”

  “Ah. Right. Okay, well they’re both pretty good. I went to Oxford, of course, but I’m not insisting you follow. Have you actually decided what you’re taking?”

  “General science for my degree. Unless I find so
mething that really grabs me, then I’ll switch to it. I’ll probably go for a physics doctorate.”

  Jeff poured a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, giving Tim a smile over the rim. “Doctorate, eh? That’s very focused for you, Tim.”

  “Better the qualification, the better the job.”

  “I know, but you are only eighteen, you know. I’m just a bit surprised you’re thinking along those lines. If you’d like, you can take a gap year, you know. I never did, and I always regretted it.”

  “Are you dead on? I hadn’t thought of that. I’d have to ask Annabelle what she thought about it.”

  “Would you?”

  Tim colored slightly. “Yeah. If we could do that together, it would be amazing.”

  “I’m sure it would. If you could travel, where would you go?”

  “America, Australia, Japan. I don’t know. Certainly the Caribbean. Wouldn’t that be something, seeing all the spaceplanes, watching a launch. I might even get to meet Stephanie and Sir Mitch. But that would be so much expensive.”

  “I’m not broke, I could probably pay for a ticket. And once you get there, you’d be able to pick up casual work to keep you going.”

  “Really? You’d really pay for that?”

  “Sure. I’ve been taking a peek at your PSE grades. I think you deserve some kind of reward. Especially as you qualify for a scholarship. You’ve done a hell of a lot of work.”

  “Jesus, Dad, that’s…Thanks!” He wasn’t quite sure how he’d got off the subject of going to university with Annabelle, but this more than compensated.

  “How’s the planning for the ball going?” Jeff asked.

  “Good, I suppose.”

  “That’s it? Good? You’ve got three days left, Tim. Have you rented a tux? Because I certainly haven’t seen a bill for a new one materialize on the household account. How are you traveling down there? Where are you picking Annabelle up from? What flowers have you chosen for her?”

  “Oh.” Tim was suddenly crestfallen. Mum usually sorted all that kind of thing. And I never appreciated it. “Dunno.”

  “Better get started then, hadn’t we?”

  THE WAY IT WAS EVENTUALLY ARRANGED, Annabelle and Tim went with Rachel and Simon, with all of them leaving from the manor. A beauty therapist from Gazelle’s in Oakham turned up at three o’clock to style the girls’ hair and apply their makeup.

  “We’re not leaving till six,” Tim protested when she arrived. The look he got from Annabelle froze any further comment. Sue’s old bedroom was taken over for the afternoon by the girls. Mrs. Mayberry and Lucy Duke were also drafted to help them get ready.

  Tim and Simon took a brief quarter of an hour to dress. Tim’s tux had been delivered by the Community Service Supply van only that morning. It had been chosen after several rushed video calls with Sue, who had surveyed current suitable evening attire in several London outfitters. In the end she’d gone for a classic style, with a modern cut for his trousers and a slender silk collar on the jacket. Jeff had to tie their bow ties for them. Tim hadn’t dared suggest an elastic one to his mother.

  The florist arrived at quarter to six, the corsages in a cool storage box on the back of her e-trike. As he waited down in the hall, Tim was beginning to feel the impact of the event with a fluttery stomach and tingling feet. At five past six, Lucy Duke appeared at the top of the stairs and coughed. Both boys wheeled around.

  Rachel looked superb, her strapless purple satin dress stroking the contours of her figure. Tim never noticed her. Annabelle was dressed in a white evening gown that was so bright it was almost silver; it had a deep plunge back, which was countered by a demure neckline blending into a seamless bodice section that was surely sprayed on; the skirt was made up from an array of long panels that slid about fluidly as she walked, to reveal momentary glimpses of her legs. Her thick gold-chestnut hair had been swept back and down in a straight glossy mane, with thin strands corkscrewing at either side of her brow.

  Tim stood at the foot of the stairs as both girls made their grand entrance. He put his hand out for Annabelle when she was a couple of steps from the bottom, entirely unsurprised to find it was trembling. She took it gently and alighted on the hall’s marble tiles.

  “You look beautiful,” Tim whispered.

  “Thank you.” She brought her lips together for a slight kiss. “Don’t muss me.”

  He hadn’t even noticed she was wearing makeup it was so subtle, highlighting strong cheekbones, a mild mascara deepening her eyes. Her scent was the kind of air that gusted off a meadow of summer wildflowers.

  “Sorry.” He proffered the corsage, a scarlet rose bordered with tiny saffron freesias. Annabelle curtsied as she took it.

  There was a burst of applause around the hall, led by Jeff, with Mrs. Mayberry and the Europol team smiling on behind him. The four youngsters were suddenly a knot of happy flustered grins.

  The limousine that had pulled up outside the manor’s portico belonged to the era of movie stars, glam rock princes, and decadent opening nights in London’s West End. It was a stretch white Lincoln with black windows and small orange running lights, a boomerang TV aerial sticking up out of the trunk.

  Tim saw it and gasped. “Dad! Oh my God!” He couldn’t believe anything like it still existed outside a transport museum.

  “My treat,” Jeff said. “I’m just sorry I couldn’t find you a pink Cadillac.”

  “It’s brilliant!” Rachel squealed. She stood on tiptoes and gave Jeff a kiss. “Thanks so much.”

  “No problem.”

  “Yes,” Annabelle said. “Thank you.” Her lips brushed his cheek. Their eyes locked for an instant. Then she was pulling Tim down the stairs, both of them laughing gleefully.

  “Be good!” Jeff called after them.

  The chauffeur held the rear door open, somehow managing to crack open a bottle of champagne at the same time. The kids whooped excitedly as they ducked inside, looking around the extravagant interior. They found the cut crystal flutes, and held them out for the foaming champagne.

  Jeff stood on the top step in the shade of the portico. There was a gentle smile on his lips as he listened to the animated exclamations coming from inside the ludicrous vehicle. They were cut off abruptly as the chauffeur closed the back door. The Europol team clambered into their own BMW, slamming the doors shut.

  Then the stretch limousine was pulling out of the drive, crunching gravel beneath its whitewalled tires.

  “Didn’t little Timmy look grand, just grand,” Mrs. Mayberry said. “And Annabelle’s as pretty as a picture. You must be very proud.”

  Jeff turned to see the housekeeper clasping her hands together, her face all puckered up as she watched the limousine depart.

  “I am, yes.”

  30. WILL THE REAL JEFF BAKER PLEASE STAND UP

  TEN TO THREE IN THE MORNING and Jeff had almost gone to sleep. He’d spent the whole evening reviewing data for the superconductor project. Not that he’d had any insights yet; he wasn’t expecting any. That would come later, when he had acquired a great more detail and information on state-of-the-art systems and theories. Possibly. That was his thing. Sometimes entire solutions would just rise out of a whole mass of seething raw data, utterly obvious with hindsight. Sometimes the routes to solutions would flare in his mind like little nova bursts of illumination. Ninety-nine percent of the time he just slogged along with the rest of the pack, making mistakes and floundering down dead ends. But he did possess that elusive ability. His mind could hold aloft the whole problem and look at it from new angles.

  Call it genius. Or even intermittent genius. It had worked a few times in his life, though the world at large only knew of the one. The rest were dull stuff, inapplicable outside of esoteric physics laboratories, although they had cemented his status within the scientific community far more than the showbiz-style glamour of memory crystals, a status high enough for Brussels to spin their trillion-euro gamble on his head.

  And somehow, throughout the whole
ridiculous circus of faith that an entire continent had placed upon him, he didn’t feel pressured. Like everyone else, he too believed he might manage to produce results.

  A neat trick if you can do it.

  As the actress said to the bishop.

  The security camera picked up the stretch limousine as it turned in to the drive. Jeff watched it blankly for a moment, his eyes still half registering the scrawl of data on the main display screens. Then he saw the time.

  “Oh, bugger it. Click. Save, safe store duplicate, and switch the hell off. We’re through for the night.”

  “I understand that, Jeff,” HAL9000’s melodiously menacing voice assured him.

  The screens blanked out, and began to slide back into their recesses. He stretched elaborately. Empty teacups and his supper plates cluttered one half of the desk. He couldn’t be bothered to take them to the dishwasher.

  Jeff stood at the top of the portico as the limousine braked to a sharp halt. The driver’s door flew open, and the furious chauffeur got out, flinging his cap onto his seat. He stormed off toward the back of the vehicle. The rear door opened before he reached it. Jeff heard the unmistakable sound of someone puking. He rolled his eyes toward the lazy silver stars glittering above. “Oh Christ,” he muttered.

  Tim half fell out of the limo. He wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore; his bow tie was askew around his neck, both shirt-sleeve cuffs were undone, flapping about. One arm flopped down, patting the gravel. Then he tensed and heaved again.

  “Get out of my fucking car!” the chauffeur yelled. He put his hands under Tim’s shoulder and started pulling.

  “All right,” Jeff said loudly. “All right, I’ll take him from here.”

  The chauffeur ignored him, and dropped Tim on the gravel. For one moment Jeff thought he was going to kick the semiconscious boy. Tim giggled in the gurgling way that only the truly drunk can manage, a sound guaranteed to infuriate the sober.

  The chauffeur was glaring down at Tim, clenching his fists. Jeff stepped in front of him, hands held out to placate the man. “I’ve got him.”