David Mitchell - The Bone Clocks

“So, I will be number one. Is very nice.”

“Separate areas of my life”—jeans, zip, belt—“I keep separate.”

“I am your girlfriend, not an ‘area.’ You shamed of me?”

What a sweet stab at emotional blackmail. “You know I’m not.”

Mariângela’s brain knows she should let this drop, but her heart has seized the wheel. “So, you shamed of your family?”

“No more than an average middle son of three.”

“Then … you shamed I am too older than you?”

“You’re twenty-six, Angel. That’s hardly old.”

“So … I am not white enough for your parents?”

I button up my Paul Smith shirt. “Not a factor.”

“So for why I cannot meet my boyfriend’s family?”

Sock one, sock two. “We’re just … not at that stage.”

“Is bool -shit, Yugo. In relationships, you share more than just bodies, yes? When you in Cambridge, drinking shit coffee with all the PhD white girls, I don’t sit here, praying you call, waiting for letters. No. One guy is consultant at private clinic, he ask for date at Japanese restaurant in Mayfair. My friends say, ‘You crazy to say no!’ But I say no — for you.”

I try not to smile at her amateurishness.

“So what am I for? Just for sex when you on vacation?”

Okay, my coat’s over by the door, ditto cowboy boots; she’s still naked as a snowman and no weapons within easy reach. “You’re a friend, Mariângela. Today you’re an intimate friend. But do I want to introduce you to my parents? No. Move in with you? No. Plan a future, fold laundry with you, get a cat? No.”

Another train passes below the window and cue crying scene: a scene as old as hominids and tear glands. It’s happening all over Planet Earth, right now, in all the languages there are. Mariângela wipes her face and looks away, and the Olly Quinns of the world sink to their knees, promising to make things right. I put on my coat and boots. She notices and the tears stop. “You are leaving? Now? ”

“If this is our big goodbye, Angel, why prolong the agony?”

Hurt to hatred in five seconds. “Sai da minha frente! Vai pra puta que pariu!”

Good. It’s a cleaner ending if she hates me. With one foot over her threshold, I tell her, “If that consultant of yours wants lessons on Mariângela Pinto-Pereira, tell him I’ll give him a few pointers.”

One murderous scowl, one flash of muscular arm, and one glimpse of prime Brazilian breast later, Jesus of Rio is hurtling my way at meteor velocity; I react with a tenth of a second to spare, and Jesus hits the door and turns into a thousand plaster hailstones.

THE SIX O’CLOCK gloom promises snow. I put on my possum-hair hat. All’s well in Richmond’s prosperous backstreets. House owners draw curtains on middle-class rooms lined with books, hung with art, lit by Christmas trees. I make my short detour via Red Lion Street. The girl at reception in the Aston Martin dealership has curves as pert as the cars’ but facially she’s an out-and-out ET. She’s gossiping on the phone as I stroll by — I give her a curt your-boss-is-expecting-me nod and cross the showroom floor to the open door of VINCENT COSTELLO, SALES TEAM. The occupant looks to be in his early thirties, has a gelled mullet, an off-the-peg suit from a mid-range high-street outfitter, and is making a dog’s dinner of wrapping a big box of Scalextric. “Hi,” he says to me. “Can I help you?” Jack-the-lad accent, east London; a photo of him and a little boy on his desk, but no mummy and no wedding ring.

“Vincent Costello, I presume?”

“Yes. Like it says on the door.”

“I’d like to inquire about the resale value of an Aston Martin Coda. But first,” I peer at the half-wrapped box, “you need an extra thumb.”

“No, no, really, you’re fine.”

“I am, yes, but you are not. Let me help.”

“Okay, cheers. It’s for my five-year-old.”

“Formula One fan, then, is he?”

“Crazy about cars, motorbikes, anything with engines. His mother does the wrapping normally but …” A tongue of Sellotape tears off a strip of paper, and Costello refines an “Oh, shit” into “Oh, sugar.”

“Wrap boxes diagonally.” Before he can argue, I nudge him away. “Get the little squares of Sellotape ready beforehand, persuade the paper to fold, and …” A few seconds later, a perfectly gift-wrapped box sits on his desk. “Good to go.”

Vincent Costello’s duly impressed. “Where d’you learn that?”

“My aunt runs a small chain of upmarket gift shops. It has been known for her wayward nephew to lend a hand.”

“Lucky her. So. Aston Martin Coda, you say?”

“1969, hundred and ten on the clock, one careful owner.”

“ Very low mileage for such a mature specimen.” He takes out an A4 sheet of numbers from a drawer in his desk. “May I ask who this careful owner is? ’Cause you haven’t been driving since 1969.”

“No, a friend inherited from his father. I’m Hugo, by the way, Hugo Lamb, and my friend’s one of the Penzance Penhaligons.” We shake hands. “When my friend’s father passed away, he left his family one ungodly financial mess and a humongous bill for inheritance tax.”

Vincent Costello makes a sympathetic grimace. “Right.”

“My friend’s mother’s a lovely woman, but hasn’t got a financial bone in her body. And, to cap it all, their family solicitor cum financial adviser’s just been banged up for fraud.”

“Blimey, it’s one thing after another, isn’t it?”

“Just so. Now, when I last spoke with Jonny, I offered to mention his Aston Martin to our local dealer — you. My parents live on Chislehurst Road. Cowboys outnumber sheriffs in the vintage motor business and I’m guessing a London dealer like yourself could offer a degree of discretion that my friend wouldn’t enjoy if he went to someone in Devon or Cornwall.”

“Your instinct is bang-on, Hugo. Let me consult an up-to-date price list …” Costello opens a file. “Is your own father a client here?”

“Dad’s a BMW man at present, but he may be in the market for something niftier. Beamers are such a yuppie cliché. I’ll mention how helpful you’ve been.”

“I’d appreciate that. Rightio, Hugo. Tell your friend that the ballpark figure for a 1969 Aston Martin Coda with around a hundred K on the clock, all things being equal, is …” Vincent Costello runs his finger down a column, “… in the region of twenty-two thousand. However, London weighting’d work in his favor — I’m thinking of an Arab collector on my client list, a gentleman who’ll pay a bit extra, knowing we sell a sound vehicle, so I could stretch to twenty-five K. We’d need to have our in-house mechanic inspect the vehicle, and Mr. Penhaligon’d need to bring in the paperwork himself.”

“Naturally, we want everything to be aboveboard.”

“Here’s my card, then — I’ll be ready if he calls.”

“Excellent.” I put it in my snakeskin wallet and we shake hands as I leave. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Costello.”

BERNARD KRIEBEL PHILATELY of Cecil Court, off Charing Cross Road, envelops me with pipe-tobacco fug as the bell jingles. It’s a long, narrow shop with a central stand where sets of midprice stamps are displayed, like LPs. Pricier items live in locked cabinets along the walls. I unwind my scarf, but my old satchel stays around my neck. The radio is warbling Don Giovanni , Act 2. Bernard Kriebel, clad in green tweed and a navy cravat, glances around the customer at the desk to ensure I come in peace; I send him a take-your-time face and stay at a tactful distance, perusing the mint condition Penny Blacks in their humidity-controlled display cabinets. It soon becomes clear, however, that the customer ahead of me is not a happy bunny: “What do you mean, fake ?”