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“Yeah,” I agreed. “Something like that.”
“And where are you hoping to study next year? Alex says you’re expected to achieve very high grades.”
“I am.” A wave of pleasure washed over me every time they mentioned Alex had talked about me. “I’m not sure exactly where I’m applying to yet. There is so much choice, isn’t there?”
“Don’t leave it too late,” warned Lizzie. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. My own napkin had drifted from my lap onto the floor. Too embarrassed to bend down and pick it up, I coped without, which, to be fair, I had managed ably for the last seventeen years.
“The application closing date is very soon, isn’t it, Alex?”
Alex agreed, and the conversation moved onto his med school interview and their arrangements for his work experience over half-term with a doctor friend of Richard’s. And then their chatter segued into big sister Stephanie and the gymkhana she planned to compete in later that month. Seeing my plate was empty, Lizzie offered me some more cock, which I accepted, heroically maintaining a straight face. I could become extremely fond of cock. Once I’d worked out a gymkhana wasn’t a type of leotard but, in fact, a competition involving rich girls riding horses, I zoned out for a bit.
I’d fathomed how they did it. How the posh lot streamed onwards and upwards, and how the rest of us were left plodding behind. How the gap between us grew and how they subtly widened the distance. Step forwards if you live in a huge fuck-off house. Step back if you come from a council estate. Step forwards if your dad takes you to rugby training or pony club. Step back if he goes down the pub instead. And so on. They even had a secret language for food, solely to make us scags look stupid. Cock-oh-van in place of chicken stew. Alex would turn up at his med school interview and storm it, without breaking sweat. Already, he’d honed the skills required to converse fluently with educated grown-ups about politics and world affairs and professional careers, because he practiced every fucking day at teatime—sorry,dinnertime. Sure, Daddy’s mate would sort him some work experience, too, but that was just belt and braces.
Alex was a bright enough lad, but nothing special. Not as clever as me, we both recognised that. But who gave a shit how clever you were, if you had private tutors and money and connections? Hell, you could probably announce you were a homosexual at an interview, and you’d still land a fucking great job. And, ten years from now, the cycle would begin again. Alex would take his kids to rugby clubs and fucking gymkhanas at the weekend, so they could meet even more people like them, to help them get a leg up on plebs like me.
I’d like to report that my chicken stew suddenly didn’t taste so good, but it was still the best food I’d ever eaten, so I ploughed on.
I wanted to loathe call-me-Richard and Lizzie—Alex too. But they were all so fucking nice to me, even generating mild dislike proved impossible. We moved on from cock (a relief in many ways) and I was proud of myself for resisting a lewd joke about spotted dick for dessert. I loved spotted dick—we used to have it at school sometimes, but tonight I discovered that Eton Mess tasted better still. And not a mess at all, but a beautifully crafted heap of strawberries, meringue, and whipped cream.
“Sorry that the strawberries aren’t from our garden,” Lizzie apologised. “Waitrose-imported, I’m afraid. You’ll have to come back when they are in season.”
“That’s quite all right,” I accepted magnanimously.
She beamed and gave my shoulder a pat. “Dig in. It’s a silly time of year to be having Eton Mess, but it’s another of Alex’s favourites. He adores whipped cream; it will be all around his mouth in no time. Be careful, Matt—he’ll be wanting some of yours.”
YOU STOLE THE SUN FROM MY HEART
(MANIC STREET PREACHERS)
“God, my parents are embarrassing. Sorry they gave you the third-degree.”
As Alex flopped down next to me on the enormous sofa, I couldn’t recollect ever being so comfortable. Stuffed with cock and strawberries, wrapped inside a sofa that somehow moulded itself to my back, and the most gorgeous boy in the world had his knee touching mine.
Embarrassing? Alex’s parents weren’t embarrassing. Embarrassing was a damp hallway and woodchip wallpaper, the only food choices all yellow in colour, and a sozzled mother, easily mistaken for Jabba the Hutt.
“Your folks were fine,” I reassured him. “They’re really chilled.”
“And my mum’s a bit of a feeder. She loves it when friends come over. Especially thin ones like you.”
“She’s a proper mummy,” I agreed, and smiled at his puzzlement. “It’s what me and Brenner call Phil’s mum, always offering us cake and stuff when we go round to his place. Take it as a compliment.”
They’d have to crowbar me out of this house; I’d come to that conclusion after my second helping of Eton Mess, courtesy of Alex’s feeder mummy. I would stay forever, basking in Richard and Lizzie’s attention, answering their intelligent questions, gobbling their delicious dinners. The cynical part of me (pretty well developed, to be fair) decided the twenty questions had been their way of discovering my potential usefulness in relation to their son’s future. Who cared? I’d enjoyed their company, lied, deflected when necessary, and overall, had a jolly spiffing time.
But the best bit was happening right now. Just the two of us, home alone for a few hours. Therefore, high time to reinstate my cocky, cool persona. Regain the upper hand. Drooling over Hunter onGladiatorsdidn’t quite fit that image, so I flicked through the family video collection instead.
“The Bodyguard,Alex? Really?”
“It’s not mine! It’s…”
“Don’t tell me, it’s your sister’s. I get it. Quite useful having an older sister to hide behind, isn’t it?”
He gave me the finger. More unseemly behaviour from our golden boy. I hoped I hadn’t become a bad influence.
“How aboutSingle White Female?”he suggested. “It’s supposed to be good.”
“No.” For obvious reasons.
“Patriot Games?”
