Flint exhaled through puffed-out cheeks. ‘Well, well, well – poor old Hugh, eh?’ he said, having already decided that the bloke was obviously a complete cunt.
‘Yeah. I guess so. Poor old Hugh.’
‘But what do youdo, Ana?’ Flint asked. ‘I mean – what do you actually do all day?’
Ana shrugged and looked embarrassed. ‘Look after my mum. Go shopping for her.’
‘Yes – but the rest of the time – what do you do? Have you got a job?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve been meaning to start sending out applications. But I haven’t got round to it.’
‘And what about your old friends, in Exeter – do you still see them?’
‘No,’ she said in a very small voice, ‘not really. They tried. But I think they kind of gave up on me too, eventually. I haven’t really been very good company, since my dad died. You know? But anyway,’ she said forcefully, ‘enough about me. More than enough about me. ‘What about you?’ She looked directly at Flint. ‘What about your life?’
Interesting, Flint thought, the way she’d opened up like that, just for a moment and then snapped shut again, like a fly-trap. She was quite obviously depressed, although she hadn’t admitted it to herself yet. That’s even if she knew it. He ignored her last question.
‘So. Let me get this straight. You haven’t worked for nearly a year. You live at home with your mum. You’ve got no friends and you never go out.’
‘Yup.’
‘Christ. That’s tragic. That’s one of the most tragic things I’ve ever heard. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-five.’
‘Twenty-five. Jesus – what would I give to be twenty-five again. You wait – one day you’ll be my age – thirty-six – and you’ll be wondering what the fuck happened to your youth, where’d it go. Can I tell you the worst thing about getting old, Ana? They try and make out that ageing is all about gain – gaining experience, wisdom, happiness, all that. They’re lying. All getting older is about is loss. Losing things. Losing your hair, your figure, your looks. Losing your sight. Losing your hearing. Losing your mother, losing your father. Losing time to experience things. Losing touch with people, losing your mind. And the worst thing of all – losing memories. The more time you’ve got to look back on, the less you remember. Whole days, weeks, months that you have no recollection of. People you’ve spent entire days with, worked with for months, slept with, partied with … Fuck, Ana. You should be living life. Not wasting your youth. You’ll regret it one day, you really will …’
Ana smiled tightly and to Flint’s horror her eyes suddenly filled up with tears. She cleared her throat and looked away abruptly.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time, really I didn’t. It’s just – people not making the most of what they’ve got – it annoys me. It winds me up. I don’t believe in God, Ana, in the bible, but if there was to be one commandment from on high, it should be that – Thou Shalt Make the Most of What Thou Hast.’
‘Oh yeah. And what exactly have I got to make the most of?’
‘Do you want me to make you a list?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, then. OK. Youth.’
‘Not all it’s cracked up to be.’
‘Beauty.’
‘Yeah. Right.’
‘What – you don’t think you’re beautiful?’
‘Er, no? Not even slightly.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s my nose …’
‘You don’t like your nose?’
‘No – I hate it. Look.’ She turned round sideways to show Flint her profile. ‘I look like a … a buzzard or something. It’s like a beak. It’s disgusting.’
Flint shook his head and laughed. ‘Women! Jesus. What are you like? Well – for what it’s worth, I think it’s a very beautiful nose. It’s elegant. Regal. Dignified. It’s like you.’ She blushed. Vividly.
