vilification, tears, and screams. What she hadn’t expected was no reaction at all. “Is that all you have to say?”
“And what should I say, Ana?”
Liyana considers. “I don’t know. I thought you’d say . . . something.”
Aunt Nya sips her tea. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yes,” Liyana says. “Her name’s Kumiko.”
“Okay.” Nya nods. “And how long have you . . . had Kumiko for?”
“Nine and a half months.”
“Well, well.” Her aunt raises an elegant eyebrow. “You certainly kept that quiet.”
With her index finger, Liyana circles the rim of her coffee cup. “I wanted to tell you sooner—I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
Aunt Nya crosses her legs again. “And how am I doing?”
“Well, I thought you might be a little more . . . surprised.”
“I was a lesbian once, you know,” her aunt says. “At a party with a girl called Sefryn. Very pretty she was, like a pixie. That was . . . over thirty years ago—can you believe it?”
“This isn’t one night at a party, Dagã,” Liyana says. “I love her.”
“And does she love you?”
Liyana glances at the still pool of coffee in her cup. She nods.
“Then you’re a lucky girl, vinye.” Nya sits back in her chair and sets down her cup. “So I’ve been thinking that I’ll get a job, one that’ll pay enough for—”
“Sorry, what?” Liyana sits forward. “I must be mistaken, but I thought you said you’d get a job.”
“You’re not wrong,” her aunt says. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
Liyana stifles a smile.
Nya frowns. “And what’s so funny about that?”
“I’m sorry, but . . .” Liyana shakes her head. “You can barely stack the dishwasher. What are you qualified for?” Liyana won’t say that she’s already applied for several jobs, including Tesco, and is waiting to hear back.
“That’s hardly fair,” Nya protests. “I have several highly desirable skills—”
“True, but you’re not allowed to charge for them.”
Her aunt scowls, then sighs. “I could’ve made an excellent living, though, twenty years ago. Possibly ten.”
Liyana smiles. “The African Julia Roberts.”
“Oh, I think I can do better than Richard Gere.” Nyasha pulls herself up, chest forward, shoulders back. “I’d rather be Violetta in La traviata.”
“What, and die of TB? I think Julia had the happier ending.”
Her aunt shrugs. “Depends on your perspective, I suppose. God, I remember the first time you saw that opera, you cried so loud when she died we had to leave.”
Liyana reaches for the memory but can’t find it. “I don’t—”
“We hid in the ladies’ loos,” Nya continues. “A bosomy cleaner eventually kicked us out.”
“Oh,” Liyana says, half to herself. The coffee in her cup begins to boil. “Yeah, you . . . you promised I’d never have to be a courtesan, that you’d always . . .”
“You slept in my bed for a week.”
“I did?” Liyana says. The bubbling coffee stills. “I’d forgotten.”
Aunt Nya sips her tea and sits back in her chair. “I hadn’t.”
For a few moments neither speaks, then Liyana sighs softly into the silence. “Okay, perhaps we can compromise.”
Her aunt brightens. “We can?”
“I’m not making any promises,” Liyana says. “But I’ll talk to Kumiko again . . . And if you can find a man who’ll agree to a platonic marriage, then—”
“What?” Her aunt’s smile drops. “No, that’s ridiculous. No man will agree to that, unless he’s gay.”
“Then find a gay one,” Liyana says. “Or one who’ll agree to an open marriage, but without any of the—”
“No,” Nya objects. “That’ll never—”
“Those are my terms,” Liyana says. “And they’re not up for negotiation.”
4:37 p.m.—Goldie
I’ve read stories about people realizing unknown skills when put under extreme pressure, like mothers lifting trucks off babies and stuff like that. Well, poverty has realized in me a hitherto untapped aptitude for pickpocketing. I discovered this earlier, quite by accident.
I was trawling the shops, restaurants, cafés for potential serving positions, navigating crowds of tourists and clusters of students. Then, somewhere along King’s Parade, I saw it: a fat purse sticking out of a Chanel handbag. My first impulse was to alert the owner to the precarious position of her purse. My second impulse was to relieve her of that purse. I followed the second impulse.
I’ll limit myself to one theft a day and take only purses and wallets of clear pedigree. If they’re carrying less than thirty quid, I’ll let them keep it. Anything above that, I’ll take half. I’ll leave anything important—credit cards, driving licences, passports. It’s hit-and-run theft, but I’ll bruise instead of maim. Except when I find an upper-class twit with a