‘She thinks your place is sickening.’
‘My place is a concept.’
Charles picks up a bright yellow leaf and raises it in front of St Paul’s Cathedral, narrowing his eyes to change his focus back and forth. ‘She never recovered from that huge hologram portrait of you hung on the ceiling above your bed.’
‘It was a joke for the housewarming party!’
‘Once she’s forged an opinion…’
‘She was at Maddox last night, with Divya and some Italian blokes.’
‘I know. They called at midnight, and I helped them translate.’
‘I’m sure you know, Charlock. I’m saying I know about it too. Already.’
Charles spins the leaf stem six times. ‘Because you’ve planted robot spies all over the country. But yes, I’ll remind her to be a bit more discreet…’
‘Or you could just inform everybody—’
‘Don’t. I’m having a nice moment with London.’
George surrenders with a sigh but gives him a pointed look to make his feelings clear anyway.
He discovered Charles and Elsy’s secret about five months after their Surrey pact, which made them feel Oscar-worthy because his shrewdness is nothing short of sorcery. George has no objection to the unusual relationship their deal entails – although he can’t fathom why Charles doesn’t see other women – but he finds it really messed up that they feel obligated to draw the charade out. He’s met their families, yet he doesn’t get it. He never will.
George Downes is new money. His parents had just met when they envisioned the resort franchise that would propel them into the top 0.1% of the country.
Despite their ever-growing wealth, Mr Downes frequently fries fish and chips in a restaurant he doesn’t own, and George’s older sister Liv manages a shelter for at-risk teenagers in Manchester. The Downeses turn down most invitations to exclusive events, and the only tradition they respect is the Wings for Life World Run. They have both feet in the present, unlike the Ledwells and the Buchanans, who straddle two centuries to honour their ancestors while planning the future of their unborn grandchildren.
George never had to observe outdated etiquette and doesn’t bear his surname’s prestige on his shoulders. He’s free to become whoever he wants and he’s bolstered on this journey.
George is also a wilful genius who sold his first phone application concept when he was seventeen. He’s already making enough of his own money to send anyone packing. If he were Charles, he wouldstick two fingers up at his genitors or convince them to adapt to the decade they live in. But George isn’t Charles. And crucially, Charles isn’t George and can’t handle being pressured to break free from the pressure he’s under.
Therefore, George doesn’t insist when Charles seems in a good enough place. Or when he’s in a terrible place. George never insists.
‘Let’s get going. The chicken roasting on the third floor is calling.’
After only two months in his new building, George enticed the private chef from the flat below to cook for him too.
Charles grimaces, stuffed in advance. He’s expected home at 6pm for another Sunday roast. He takes a mouthful of water to help digest the thought of a distasteful dinner to come and clasps his friend’s hand to get back on his feet.
They follow the path that zigzags down to the bottom of the steep hill, George commenting on every dog they jog past.
Charles prefers to run alone, symphony concerts blasting in his ears and fantastic stories blooming in his mind. But whenever Tottenham plays on a Sunday, he and George plan a full day together around the football game. Once in a while, it involves a private jet trip to the host city where George has secured access to the VIP box.
They leave Primrose Hill behind and enter Regent’s Park. With George’s stomach already grumbling, they will make a beeline for his place near Baker Street. Charles has given up on understanding how his friend does so well at charity marathons considering how little he trains. Another AI thing.
‘Hold on!’ George checks his smartwatch and grabs his phone. ‘I’ve got to get that. Hello? What’s going on? I see. That’s inconvenient...’ He sighs and moves the mic away from hismouth. ‘Might take a while. Do you want my keys to go ahead?’
‘No, I’ll circle around the sports pitches.’
George gives him a thumbs up and shuffles away in the dead leaves.
Charles resumes jogging without his earphones. He hates the feeling of incompleteness paired with pausing music, and George will inevitably catch up with him in the middle of an instrumental piece. Charles will observe people instead and stage them in a fantasy universe. His mind creations are never completed, so it’s not as big a deal if they’re interrupted.
The football pitches are teeming with children who aspire to be the next Harry Kane. George used to dream of becoming Tottenham’s top goal scorer. Today, his dream is to own the club.
On Charles’ right, two teams of teenagers are facing off in a rugby practice match. He follows the action for a beat, then redirects his attention in front of him. On the next square of grass and mud, about twenty kids are playing a variation of tunnel tag, holding a rugby ball while crawling through each other’s legs. Standing out among this tiny crowd, two coaches are encouraging them. The one clapping in the corner looks different, away from the neon lighting above the bar, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, but his French-accented cheering rings a bell, and Charles comes to a dead stop.
