Peter Hamilton - Misspent Youth

“Till I go to Oxford, yeah.”

He hadn’t known how easy she was to chat to, either. They talked away for over half an hour, their conversation butterflying through subjects. It was strange; he didn’t try to impress her or be smart or cool. There wasn’t a lot of point—she knew him too well for that. Yet she still kept talking and joking with him. In the end he simply said: “My ankle should be all right again in a few days. Is that invitation to come and stay still open?”

“’Course it is.”

LIEUTENANT KROBER AND THE REST of the expanded Europol protection team were waiting for Jeff and Annabelle as soon as they cleared Heathrow’s customs hall. The officers closed in protectively around them before they moved down the concourse to the exit, still on a high-grade alert following the EIC’s article.

Little was said between the two of them during the drive back to the manor. When they finally got home Lucy Duke was waiting with a whole file of engagements and interviews she’d fixed up. Jeff just sighed as she started in about schedules and charm offensives and said they’d review it all tomorrow.

Annabelle almost laughed aloud at the way they got ready for bed that evening. Traveling and jet lag had left her weary without actually sleepy. So after supper they got undressed, folded their clothes neatly, slipped into dressing gowns, brushed their teeth. She felt as though they’d been married for fifty years. They lay on top of the bed, side by side, while the big wall screen buzzed away with news stream images she wasn’t watching.

By this time in the chalet, Jeff and Karenza would already have stripped her naked. She’d be writhing between their indecent bodies as they began yet another long night of glorious lechery. Five days spent performing every fantasy Jeff could think of had left her feeling strangely contented, and very secure. After that kind of intimacy you couldn’t get any closer.

They were a proper couple now. Just like Sir Mitch and Stephanie, she thought. The girls at school had always been scornful of the way she idolized Stephanie. They thought she was simply chasing fashion and celebrity for its own sake. They didn’t realize how much Annabelle admired the beach volleyball player for the way she’d conducted her life. Stephanie had grown up on an estate far worse than the one in Uppingham where the Goddards lived; she’d broken out by using her talent and exercising an unwavering determination. Stephanie set herself goals and accomplished them. Her life was an inspiration. Annabelle knew she was going to do exactly the same thing. Someday.

Actually meeting her idol that day at the launchwatch party had been among the happiest moments of her life. And Stephanie hadn’t laughed when she confessed she had ambitions, too, even though they were still vague. Stephanie knew enough about the tough side of life not to poke fun at people trying to better themselves.

Now here Annabelle was, comfy with her man. And all because of the action she’d taken to achieve that.

“I was only here for a few days before,” she said. “But it feels like home already.”

Jeff squeezed her shoulder. “It is your home.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.”

She rolled onto her side, and put her arm around him. “Thank you. I don’t want to go back to my dad’s house. Not now. Not after everything.”

“I don’t want you to go back to your dad, either. I told you that before Tim found us. I still mean it.”

“I think I’m a little scared of living with someone in their house. I’ve never had a boyfriend who lasted more than a couple of months before, and they were never anything like this. I feel like I should be doing something, but I don’t know what.”

“There’s no need to start psychoanalyzing this. You’re here because we fit together. We both knew that the first time we saw each other. There are no secrets, and we’ve never played games. We can talk, we make each other laugh, we make each other happy, I’ve never been so excited in bed. Trust me, that’s so much more than most relationships have.”

“Is that enough? Will that make it last?”

“For a hundred years, no. But I’ve started relationships with a lot less going for them.”

“What about the rest of it, the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

“For a start, I don’t have any money.”

“I have more than enough.”

“I need an education. I can’t be a kept sex kitten for those ninety-nine years. We’d both wind up hating each other.”

He smiled down at her, stroking her hair lazily. “Details. That’s all. We’ll sit down tomorrow and work out what you want to do, and how you can make it happen, and what compromises we have to make for each other.”

“You don’t mind that?”

“You having a life? God, no. I’d mind if you didn’t.”

She moved around until she was lying on top of him, her head resting against his neck, eyes closed. “I love you, Jeff,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

THE NEXT MORNING JEFF WOKE UP with a mild headache. He put it down to the flight back from Miami; even today after all the health scares and regulation, aircraft still had awful cabin air. And getting up with a headache was always a rotten way to start the morning; it invariably meant the rest of the day would go badly. After he took a couple of synthesized neurofens he drove the Jag over to Manton. A Livewire Security car was parked by the housing estate’s gates, with a couple of staff sitting inside, giving a hard stare to anyone who drew up in front. He gave them a friendly wave as he showed his identity smartcard at the sensor post, which they ignored.

Alison greeted him at the door. Her thick straw hair was awry, coffee stains pimpled the green cardigan she wore, and the last centimeter of her Cuban cigarette oozed out a strand of smoke as she put her arm around him for a platonic kiss.

“Expecting someone important?” he asked cheerfully.

“Don’t.” Her throaty voice was even deeper than usual. “I’ve had your wife here, remember. I felt like I should be wearing my Sunday best the whole time.”

“I know she was here,” he said grimly, looking around the spruced-up hall. “I saw the invoices this morning.”

“That’s the very least you should be paying for.”

“I know.”

She shut the door. “You look very fit and tanned.”

“Thanks. Is he up?”

“He’s in the living room. And you be careful what you say.”

“Yes!”

“I can’t believe you did that to him.”

“Alison. Please.”

“All right, I’ll go and do domestic things in the kitchen like a good girl. There’s probably some water drops spilled on the counter. I’d hate to be shot for not wiping them up quickly enough.”

Jeff was in half a mind to ask her to stay with him. Walking into the next room required the same kind of courage as telling the doctor to get on with a surgical procedure.

Despite the clean-up operation, the pictures on the wall hadn’t changed. Jeff smiled at the warrior maidens in their brass bikinis; he even remembered one of them, a model he’d managed to meet, thanks to the cover artist. That must have been fifty years ago. What must she look like now?

Tim was lying on one of the patio’s sunloungers, wearing just a pair of navy blue shorts. His body was dappled by tiny sunbeams that had broken through the shade of the neatly trimmed remnants of wisteria. The lighting made the marquetry patches of artificial skin very prominent, a strange gray-white color against the boy’s natural skin. His crutches were propped up beside him.