Theft

by Luke Brown

  ‘My problematic lack of a woman would be.’

  ‘Your housing problem. Your aimlessness.’

  ‘What’s so good about having an aim? What’s great about trajectory? That’s how people impale people with things. I just want to live quietly.’

  ‘Stop sleeping with everyone then.’

  ‘Sleeping with who? It’s they who’ve stopped sleeping with me.’

  ‘Stop trying to sleep with everyone.’

  ‘Have I ever tried it on with you?’

  ‘No. But I have been very careful to project a consistent don’t try it on with me aura.’

  ‘I’ve noticed it.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So what are you going to do next?’ I asked. ‘Where are you going to go?’

  ‘I’ll get another houseshare. It’ll be fine. Nathan’s housemate is always talking about moving to Berlin – maybe he’ll actually get his arse in gear.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘And if Jonathan gets a new place he said I could stay there for a bit.’

  ‘Jonathan?’

  She looked away. ‘What?’

  ‘Jonathan?’

  ‘What?’ She stood up.

  ‘Jonathan?’

  ‘None of your business, Paul. You know his wife has left him for an Old Etonian banker?’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘Last night. They’ve known each other since they were children or something.’

  ‘Right. But why hasn’t he told me?’

  ‘I guess he’s… embarrassed? Ashamed?’

  ‘I’ll become a teacher if you marry me,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you need a clean criminal record to be a teacher?’ she asked. She laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

  ‌

  ‌Nine

  My glasses steamed up as I entered the shop where Emily’s launch party was being held. I unzipped my parka to wipe them with my T-shirt. When I put them back on, Susannah was standing in front of me.

  ‘Paul! How nice to see you again. You didn’t write to me like you said you would.’

  ‘I was just thinking how I should. I’m quite desperate for a career now.’

  The room was busy already. A group of men in their twenties with side partings and retro glasses stood by the wine table, trying to look like they were attending a cocktail party sixty years ago on the Upper West Side. I could see Emily behind them, talking to the literary editor of a newspaper. She had her hair up and was wearing a white dress that showed off her shoulders. He said something and she laughed. Her new editor, James Cockburn, whom I knew well from his visits to our shop, was standing beside them, beaming, dressed in tight black jeans and a leather biker jacket, pointy boots. He must be knocking on for fifty, but he’s tall, not detectably fat while wearing clothes, and his long hair comes down in curls over his shoulders.

  He was waving at me and so it was hard to focus on what Susannah was saying to me.

  ‘… my treat, what do you say?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Are you going to write it down?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said. I took my phone out. ‘Now, remind me…’

  She gave me the details again and I wrote them down.

  *

  Amy was due to arrive too. I was keeping my eye on her, scared she would vanish again if I didn’t keep in regular contact. While she was back up north she had changed our estate agent and reduced the price of the house slightly, and now she was back in Peckham. She had devoured the proof of Emily’s book I gave her. ‘This is really miserable!’ she said, smiling and turning over the pages.

  *

  A mother is dying in hospital in a Scottish town and receiving visits from her two daughters, Ella and Ailsa. It is the first time the daughters have seen each other in several years. Ella tells the story. The conversations she has with her mother and sister bring back memories of her childhood. At first there is a hole in the novel where the father might be. So the reader might surmise that there is no father, that the daughters have never known him. Or a reader might surmise that he is a subject so momentous that he has to be avoided. The reader knows that there is a reason why these women have found it so hard to speak to each other, why Ella has not spoken to either of them for so long. But the reader does not know the precise details. The contrivance is either a realistic imitation of repression or an elegant device to keep the pages turning, with neither interpretation cancelled by the other. The father, we discover, is dead, though he has only been dead for four years, and this is no time at all. Ella still fears sudden phone calls from him in the middle of the night. Death alone seems too slight a thing to have freed them from his dominion, from his violence. Ailsa thinks Ella exaggerates. She doesn’t want to talk about her father. Their mother is dying. What good will it do at this stage to accuse their mother of cowardice, of failing to protect her daughters? Doesn’t Ella think she tried? Why should she have been so much stronger than her daughters? Ella needs to get on with her life. Like you? asks Ella. With the two husbands you’ve had? The ones just like Dad?

  I got rid of them, didn’t I? Ailsa yells at Ella. I got rid of them! I stayed here with Mum. Men in this town: that’s what they’re like.

  That’s why I left, says Ella. And then she leaves again.

  *

  While keeping my eye out for Amy I made my way over to Emily, who was surrounded by men and women wearing dark or eccentric clothes. When she saw me she excused herself from a conversation with a man with a floppy fringe, a hooped earring and a cravat – and came over to give me a brief hug.

  ‘He’s a bit intense,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘A pen pal from a while ago.’

  I looked at her in her white dress. ‘You look great. Like you’re getting married.’

  She reeled backwards with convincing horror.

  The man with the cravat was hovering closer. A woman in a trouser suit shouldered him into the cookery section. ‘Emily,’ she said. ‘Do you know Peter from The Times?’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I said, and stepped away and into Andrew.

  ‘Pushed out of the inner circle too, I see,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I feel like such a pleb.’

  ‘Join the club.’

  ‘I keep trying to. No one will nominate me.’

  ‘I’d offer to help you, Paul, but I’ve never been a member of a club in my life.’

  ‘The first rule of the club is there is no club.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m in the Illuminati. I thought you meant the Groucho.’

  Behind him I saw Amy arrive in the front of the shop and look around. I waved at her and she came over and hugged me.

  ‘Andrew, this is my sister, Amy. Amy, this is my new friend, Andrew Lancaster, a serious intellectual and historian.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Amy. And historian. What an intro.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you too,’ she said.

  ‘Amy’s an intellectual too, of course,’ I said. ‘She’s a big fan of Emily’s novel. Amy, this is Emily’s boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh! That’s nice. I’m actually a failed artist who sells T-shirts at Brick Lane market.’

  ‘That’s exactly what a real intellectual would say,’ said Andrew. ‘You should never trust a self-declared intellectual.’

  ‘Seriously, though, Amy’s very clever. She’s a property guru too.’

  ‘Paul likes to patronise me, when he’s not accusing me of being a greedy landlord.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Amy,’ said Andrew. ‘It sounds like you have the same unfortunate dynamic with him that I have with my daughter. She’s supposed to be here but I can’t see her yet. Of course, she’s thirty-three years younger than me, and Paul’s…?’

  ‘Over two years older than me.’

  ‘Let me get you a glass of wine,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Oh, go on, I’ll have an extremely small glass of whit
e, if you’re offering.’

  ‘I am,’ he said and went to get it.

  ‘What’s the deal there?’ she asked me.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you two really friends?’

  ‘No. I’m friends with his girlfriend. I don’t mind him, though.’

  ‘He seems very charming.’

  ‘He seems fond of younger women. How are you, anyway? Have you decided whether to tell the Bristolian?’

  We looked down at her stomach.

  ‘Not yet. I think I will. I was just… I wondered if… I’m just, oh, let’s talk about it later. This is too hectic.’

  A bearish man brushed past us and we watched him lumber towards Emily. She raised her hands in surprise and rushed over to him. I watched her cling on to him in a way she had never clung to me.

  ‘Who’s he?’ said Andrew, returning with glasses of wine.

  ‘I don’t know, but he’s very tall and rugged,’ said Amy.

  ‘You’ll make me jealous,’ he said, handing her a glass.

  We continued to watch this man crush Emily against his chest. ‘Do you want to come outside for a bit?’ I asked Amy. ‘I need a cigarette.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here and mingle.’

  ‘Good,’ said Andrew. ‘If you stand next to me Emily might feel as jealous as I do.’

  ‘Do you expect me to be charmed by that?’ asked Amy. ‘That you want me to reduce me to a sort of status symbol for you to stand next to in order to manipulate your partner?’

  ‘Was that not charming?’ he asked. ‘Let me try harder then.’

  I left them to it, turning back to see Amy tilting her head and grinning while he spoke to her, as though she was looking forward to challenging him.

  *

  I borrowed a lighter outside from one of two women who were talking politics.

  ‘Do they have any idea how much worse it’s going to be for them if it’s a Leave vote?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘All these white men – let’s be honest, all these racists – throwing their toys out of the pram because they can’t face up to the fact that they’ve had their time.’

  I thought of Carl. I thought of his brothers and sisters, his mum and dad.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and gave the lighter back to her. I smiled at her and her friend. There was an awkward silence. ‘Would you mind if I asked something?’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wondered whether you thought that white women aren’t also going to vote for Brexit? Black men and women? Asian men and women too?’

  Her friend was Asian herself. Indian, mixed-race, maybe. She was tall with dramatic glossy hair, and she had an amused expression hovering on the edge of annoyance. ‘Are you going to vote for Brexit?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Course not. Oh, look, ignore me – I’m sorry for interrupting.’

  ‘He thinks we’re unfairly maligning white men,’ said the woman whose lighter I’d borrowed. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I suppose I think you may as well malign them for their unique faults rather than their shared ones. There are probably enough specific faults to keep you busy.’

  ‘Sorry. Men suffer terribly at the hands of women assigning imaginary faults to them.’

  ‘I’m regretting this. I’ll shut up and leave you alone.’

  ‘No, no, we can address your point. Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I’m no one. My name’s Paul.’

  ‘Sophie.’

  ‘Rochi.’

  ‘Let me leave you two alone.’

  ‘No, come on,’ said Sophie. ‘Do I think women will vote to leave in the same numbers as men? I have no evidence but I don’t think they will. I think we’re more likely to reflect on things than act with some primitive self-assured sense of righteousness. We can’t be as nostalgic about the good old days.’

  I thought about that. ‘So you think it’s male arrogance and aggressiveness that will make us more likely to vote to leave?’

  ‘Male entitlement. Male complacency.’

  ‘What about the men who don’t have much of a sense of entitlement?’

  ‘Oh, come on. Sexism goes on from the top to the bottom.’

  And then I made the mistake of continuing. Of trying to accept the truth of what she said only in part, of arguing the case of men who were killing themselves in increasing numbers because of what little there was left for them. Of suggesting that not everyone who votes for Farage is a malevolent racist.

  ‘Really?’ said Rochi.

  ‘I know it might seem—’

  ‘What’s interesting to me is the way you want to sideline any discussion of gender privilege,’ said Sophie. ‘We see men do this all the time.’

  ‘Just like I see expensively educated women and people of… God, listen to me.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Rochi.

  ‘Who do you think has it worse among the poor white people you think I’m unaware of? The men or the women?’ said Sophie. ‘Do you know that’s where the gender pay gap is most pronounced?’

  ‘I believe it.’ I took a deep breath. It didn’t work. ‘Though sometimes it’s danger money for the men. My friend’s dad lost the fingers on one of his hands working on a rig.’

  ‘You’ve got an exception for everything. Why aren’t women allowed to do those dangerous jobs? What about male on female violence being statistically high in poor communities?’

  ‘And then his son, my friend, died of an overdose.’

  ‘Oh, look, I’m sorry, that sounds awful. Where is this place, anyway?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not saying that—’

  ‘It really does matter. If you’re going to refer to individual cases you should state the circum—’

  *

  I threw my cigarette out into the street and rushed back into the shop. Amy was explaining something to Andrew, who had his hands raised in surrender. I asked a bookseller if I could use their toilet and she showed me to the back of the shop. In the little plywood cubicle, I took off my glasses and put them on the cistern, and I let myself break down. It happened from time to time. A wave crashing down, delicious and terrible. Nothing profound, I thought, just indulgent. I’d invoked Carl to make me more authentic, more miserable, than them. This wasn’t suffering as much as congestion and once I’d blown my nose I felt steadier. I washed my face, dried it with my T-shirt when I couldn’t find a towel, put my glasses back on and went downstairs.

  Amy was on her own now. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked. ‘Your eyes are red and your T-shirt’s wet.’

  ‘Hay fever.’

  ‘Do you want an antihistamine?’

  ‘I’ve just taken one. Do you have anything stronger?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ She patted her stomach.

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘How’s the job search going?’

  She told me then that she’d given up applying for new jobs and was hoping she could get her old one back. She’d apologised to her old boss for the way she’d left, citing ‘delayed grief for which she was seeking advice’, and a panel had been convened for tomorrow to discuss what had happened. She was keeping the pregnancy to herself, as was her right under employment law.

  ‘How pregnant do I look to you?’ she asked.

  ‘If I didn’t know you, I’d just think that you were having a baggy fashion moment. I’d be more concerned with working out how you are going to prevent yourself from losing your temper.’

  ‘I’ve been practising mindfulness techniques; perhaps they’ll help.’

  ‘Just think of the money.’

  ‘That will probably help more.’

  *

  Andrew came over with Emily and Cockburn and we all introduced each other. Cockburn began to tell a story about a restaurant he’d been to round the corner where you ate in confession booths, and Andrew and I inched backwards from him while Amy and Emily looked at him in amazement. ‘Do you need another drink?’ I asked
Andrew.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said, smiling. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Your face looked thunderous before.’

  I told him about the argument I’d had outside.

  ‘Do you want my advice, Paul? Don’t be one of those people, even if you’re right. It’s like writing below the line of a newspaper article.’

  ‘I know. But what else can I do? We’re not relics. Not even you, at your age.’

  ‘Very funny, Paul.’

  He didn’t look amused and nor will I if I ever reach his age and have to deal with the ebullient and barely hidden disdain of some little shit who thinks himself superior to me because he hasn’t lived long enough to make as many compromises and take responsibility for someone other than himself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am. When I admire someone I get nervous and insult them.’

  ‘Thank you for admiring me enough to be rude to me. Is that why you’re so miserable today? You think you’re being made obsolete?’

  But before I could explain, we were interrupted by the arrival of the two women I’d argued with outside.

  ‘Sophie! Rochi!’ said Andrew, kissing them each in turn. ‘This is my new friend, Paul. Paul, this is my daughter Sophie and her friend Rochi.’

  ‘We’ve already met,’ said Sophie, ‘and had our first disagreement.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you! Of course! Paul was just regretting your argument. We’ve agreed between us that the great white male is a specimen only fit for zoos.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘It’s funny,’ Andrew continued, ‘because he writes for a magazine called White Jesus. Reviews books and haircuts.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ said Rochi.

  ‘He’s been asked to review legal highs for them,’ said Andrew.

  ‘I turned down the legal highs column,’ I said. ‘Stop looking so amused. I’m just a bookseller.’

  ‘Selling books is an honourable job,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Maybe. It’s more honourable than stealing them.’

  Sophie stared at me, and suddenly laughed. It transformed her face. We looked at each other with complicity for a second.

  ‘I know your hair reviews, actually,’ said Rochi. ‘Everyone loves them.’