‘Ah, ancient history,’ Ben says. ‘My favourite subject.’
He takes Serena’s hand in his. She flinches. Ben pretends not to notice. But I notice. Because the Little Shadow notices everything.
‘Ready for the debate, Ben?’ Jarvis says.
‘Mm? Oh yeah. All good,’ Ben says. ‘Our prep session really helped, so thanks for that, mate.’
I imagine Jarvis and Ben locked away together in an office. Ben prowling around a conference table, gesturing with his hands as he reels off policies with practised charisma. Jarvis barking out questions to him about what he thinks of Brexit, how to address the cost-of-living crisis and what on earth can be done about immigration.
‘I don’t know why everything has to be televised nowadays,’ Bitsy says. ‘It’s all got to be on a screen, hasn’t it? I see it with our girls. Constantly on their phones, scrolling and TokTikking—’
‘TikTok,’ I interject.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s called TikTok.’
‘Really?’ Bitsy asks. ‘How would you know? You don’t have children, do you?’
I shake my head.
‘I didn’t think so,’ she says, eyes narrowing. ‘Your type doesn’t.’
Serena, suddenly alert, turns to Bitsy and says, ‘I’m sorry, you can’t just—’
‘My “type”?’ I say, making exaggerated quotation marks with my fingers. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Jarvis shoots me a furious look.
‘Well it should be perfectly obvious,’ Bitsy says, her neck flushing.
I clench my left hand into a fist.
‘I don’t quite follow.’
I tilt my head and make my face clueless.
‘I think what Martin is saying …’ Ben starts. I wave his words away.
‘Please, Ben, let Bitsy finish.’
‘Whatever you’re calling yourselves these days.’ Bitsy takes a gulp of her drink. ‘I don’t know. Queer. Gay.’ She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Faggot.’
The word slices across the room. I put down my glass and walk out, closing the door behind me and wait for a few seconds with my ear pressed against the wood to hear what they’re saying.
‘You simply cannot use words like that anymore, Bitsy,’ Serena is protesting. ‘It’s offensive.’
‘God, poor Martin,’ Ben adds. ‘That was really—’
The rest of his sentence is swallowed by Jarvis’s booming voice: ‘Poor Martin, my arse. He deserves it. He’s always been so fucking superior. And don’t even get me started on that suit! Why’s he dressed like a footballer?’
‘Shut up, Jarvis,’ Ben says. ‘Martin is who he is and whatever you might think of him, he’s also one of my closest friends.’
‘So that’s what you’re calling it,’ Jarvis replies, but his voice has lost its fight.
‘Well,’ Bitsy says. ‘I thought everyone knew what he was.’
She really is an appalling little bigot, I think. And then: Ben defended me. I experience neither anger nor triumph as I walk back towards the kitchen for a glass of water.
