False Picture by Veronica Heley

out by his father. Well, well. Little Oliver was growing up at last. Bea noticed he hadn’t mentioned his friend’s name. Would it do any good to ask, or merely irritate him? She understood that teenagers didn’t like to be cross-questioned about their doings, and she could trust Oliver to be sensible, couldn’t she? At least she now knew why he’d got home so late.
    He helped himself to another bowl of muesli, and looked at the stove. ‘Any chance of a couple of eggs?’
    Bea put some eggs on to boil, adding vinegar to the water to prevent the eggs from bursting in the pan.
    Oliver’s appetite seemed to have improved with the exercise. ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell Maggie I’ve joined the gym. She’s been ribbing me about being on the small side and she’ll think I’ve done it to impress her, which isn’t true. I can’t help being on the small side. It’s genetic.’
    Bea hid a smile. Oliver was definitely growing up. ‘Napoleon was the same, and Nelson.’
    â€˜I’m not really the fighting type.’
    Bea served him his boiled eggs and toast as the front door burst inwards and Maggie appeared, waving the morning papers.
    â€˜Am I good, or am I good!’ she said, whacking them down on the table. ‘Mission accomplished, etcetera. And oh, he’s totally, utterly gorgeous, and I seem to have made quite an impression on him, too, because he was all over me till I disentangled myself to get some kip. A bit quick, I thought, but I can’t say I disliked it. Oh, my! I turn my back for five minutes and look at the mess you’re in.’
    She swept their cereal bowls into the dishwasher, removed the milk bottle, threw off her jacket, and went on talking. ‘I just love this job. Going into a flat share is the best thing that could have happened to me. There’s two other flats in the block rented by young people and they’re in and out of one another’s rooms, with a party in one flat or the other every weekend. There’s one tonight upstairs that we’re all going to and Charlotte – she’s a sort of ugly duckling, but she seems to be responsible for the running of the flat – but if you, Mrs Abbot, were to take her in hand maybe you could stop her wearing those heavy dark glasses and hair all over her face as if trying to hide behind it, and her skirts are the wrong length, you know?’
    Oliver said, ‘Calm down, sit down, and tell us more about your latest conquest.’
    She rolled her eyes. ‘He’s got a voice like whipped cream mixed with ginger and chocolate, and his skin’s that colour too. He says his parents came from Grenada, but he’s as British as you and me, and clever with it. He’s going places, is Zander.’
    â€˜Hang about,’ said Oliver. ‘I thought you were there to get close to someone called Philip?’
    Maggie put out her tongue at Oliver, but hooked the teapot towards her, and poured herself a mug. ‘Philip? I didn’t see him. It took me some time to work out who was who, because like I said, people from the flat upstairs seem to spend time in our flat, and vice versa. I nearly made a booboo with one man, thinking he might be Philip, but he wasn’t; he was from upstairs.
    â€˜Anyway I did ask Charlotte – that’s the ugly duckling – who the other men in the flat might be because I’m sharing a huge bedroom and a shower room with her, but there are three other bedrooms and one of them must be Philip’s. She said one of the men seemed to be out and another went out early, I don’t know where, but his name’s Lee or something like that. Not Philip. Then I met Zander, that’s the poppet I’ve been telling you about. He said Lee, or whatever his name is, had gone out for the evening and that Philip was a bit erratic, might be working late, they could never tell his movements, and that