“I . . . I thought it might be weighing on your conscience—your slightly callous dismissal,” he says. “So I thought I’d give you the chance to be a bit politer this time.”
Bea eyes him as an owl might a mouse. “You’re serious?”
He shrugs.
Bea kicks at the stone step. “All right then, I’ll be civil when I tell you to piss off this time. So, what’s your name?”
He tugs at his beard. “Valállat.”
Bea narrows her eyes. “Did you make that up?” she asks, annoyed at being unable to pronounce it. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s Vali.”
“That’s not what you just said.”
He shrugs again, pulling his jumper down from riding up over his belly. “It’s Hungarian. I’m adapting it for”—he’s unable to resist glancing at Bea’s mouth when he says this—“The English tongue.”
“Watch it,” Bea warns.
“Sorry, sorry, I . . . Anyway, you can call me Vali, or Val, whatever you want.”
“Why shouldn’t I call you . . . the other thing,” Bea asks. “I’m perfectly capable of learning to pronounce your real name.”
“I know, but I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Vali hesitates, wiping rainwater from his brow. “It’s not really a proper name.”
“What is it then?” Bea says, curiosity momentarily trumping cruelty.
Vali fixes his eyes on his feet. “It—it means . . . ‘beast.’”
Bea frowns. “Why the hell would your mamá call you that?”
Vali shrugs. “Apparently that’s how I looked when I was born, like a little beast—all red and wrinkled and covered in hair.”
“Hair?”
“I had tufts on my ears, supposedly, and on my back. Not much, I think, but enough to set my mother’s mind. Her opinion didn’t improve over the years either—” He looks suddenly startled. “Oh, but you should know that I don’t anymore. My back is now entirely hair-free.”
Bea glares at him. “Why the hell should I care how hirsute you are?”
“Yes, of course. Not at all. Apologies for the digression,” Vali says. “Anyway, now you know my name, you can tell me to piss off again.”
“Right.” Bea looks down at him. He looks up at her. She bites the inside of her lip. “All right then . . . Perhaps that can wait. Get up, you’re soaked.”
Frowning, Vali stands.
Bea holds out her umbrella.
Vali grins.
“Stop grinning.”
Vali doesn’t.
Bea rolls her eyes. “You look like a fat hamster.”
12:34 p.m.—Liyana
Liyana stands in the long lunch queue at Ottolenghi, her aunt’s favourite Islington café. In the time before their financial crash, Nyasha liked to say that Ottolenghi’s fare could be bettered only by Blé Sucré in Paris or Panificio Bonci in Rome. Now, by rights, Liyana shouldn’t be here at all. But when all is lost, and the swimming pool is out of bounds, some small solace can be sought in Ottolenghi’s lemon brûlée tarts.
The lunch line inches forward while Liyana’s thoughts settle gloomily on the Slade. She’s decided to reapply for the next academic year, determined to spend the time between now and then working and saving to meet that part of the £18,900 first-year fees and expenses not covered by loans. Loans she’ll spend the rest of her life paying back, but so be it. It’s only a shame that her passions and talents aren’t inclined towards a more financially stable subject, like economics or law. Even media studies would be a safer bet than fine art.
Liyana sighs, turning her thoughts to less upsetting matters, musing on a problematic plot point in BlackBird’s latest escapade. Might she strip the leaves from the trees and stitch them together to—
“I’m going to kill Cassie when I see her.”
Surprised by the acidity of the statement, Liyana glances at the customer behind her. “I’m sorry, what?”
A polished white woman, all linen and gold, regards Liyana with silent suspicion. Embarrassed, Liyana quickly turns back to her place in the queue.
“Oh, Grandma, what are we going to do?”
Confused, Liyana glances over her shoulder again. But the suspicious woman is still silent, and none of the chatter undulating along the lunch line is being directed at Liyana. However, those two sentences were, she’s sure. She heard them as clearly as if someone had spoken into her ear.
The line shifts forward. An emaciated blond woman relays her intricate order to the patient blond girl behind the counter. Why is it that everyone—customers and staff—in these places is always so fucking pale? Liyana waits, alert. Then it’s her turn.
“Can I help you?”
Liyana fumbles for her list.
“I said stop smiling—now you look like a constipated hamster.”