“Neither am I. Losing the Champions League final still stings like hell. Everyone at Denby was ready to celebrate the victory! We never thought they would kick us out with a 3-0 score. Lance and I had been fantasising about this big Arsenal-Real Madrid final for months. We had prepared such powerful stadium chants that we could have swept Denby Hall away,” I agree.
“How’s old Lance?”
“He hasn’t recovered yet,” I comment, shaking my head.
“Excuse me, I think I’d better join my wife now. If she doesn’t stop swinging her fan to summon me, I fear she might behead someone.”
While Ashford and I are walking toward the seats, we hear a voice calling from behind.
“Parker! Did you bring razor blades?” It’s Harring, who throws an arm round Ashford’s shoulders. “In case we want to slit our wrists tonight!”
I spot a familiar curly red head, and I start waving in the crowd. “Cécile!” I beckon her to join me.
She is wrapped in a long black evening dress – by now I understood that it must be her typical style.
“Speaking of suicide…” Ashford says in a low voice, speaking to Harring.
“Cécile, this is my husband Ashford and his friend Harring,” I tell her, introducing the two men.
Nobody says a word. Except for Harring. “Hey, old witch! Came out of your crypt for an evening stroll?”
Ashford elbows Harring in the ribs, but the latter does not understand. “I see that you came to bring a breath of joy as usual.”
“And you brought a breath of ignorance,” she replies, ice cold.
“Do you know each other?” I ask, surprised by their banter.
Ashford cuts in to explain: “See, we were born and grew up in the same places, we did the same things and attended the same schools. It would have been impossible not to know each other.”
“Or to avoid each other,” Cécile comments.
“I see you’re still a sociopath!” Says Harring, with his typical light-hearted smile painted on his face.
“I see you still lack self-control,” my friend hisses.
Harring seems more and more amused. “That’s one of my best imperfections.”
“He’s also modest,” Ashford observes with irony. “These two can’t stand each other. They’ve been in open war since middle school.”
“I don’t like you either,” says Cécile, talking to Ashford.
“As if I even cared.”
Harring cuts in, with his usual sensitivity. “Are you still with your nerd from Palo Alto?”
“Obviously,” my friend nods.
“Nerd from Palo Alto?” I ask.
“Sean Page,” she informs me.
“He inventedRazorstreaming,” Ashford adds. “The illegal platform for streaming and download.”
“You have a boyfriend?” I ask Cécile, surprised. I hadn’t even considered this possibility; she is always so detached and independent that she doesn’t really look like the kind of woman who would want relationships.
She confirms: “I’ve been seeing him for two years. I’m glad you look so surprised.”
“And I’m surprised that it has lasted for so long,” says Ashford, supporting Harring.
