shrugged.
‘Ozkarr?’
He grunted.
‘What time deed –’
‘He didn’t,’ Oscar cut her off. ‘Something important came up.’
His au pair whistled through her teeth. Oscar clenched his fists under his satchel.
The road took them past the terraced houses of Muswell Hill where there were buses and lots of people, through two woods on either side, and then suddenly rose up towards Highgate. Here there was more greenery, fewer people and buses, large detached homes and a village pond. He watched the posh boys spill out of the local private school in gangs of four and five. His dad had asked him if he wanted to go there. It would have meant exams later this year, but his dad was happy to pay for private tuition if he felt he needed it. Oscar had said no. He wanted to be like the cool teenagers he saw on the street corners in their baggy trousers, not like these saddos.
The car now crawled down a steep hill and, without indication, turnedinto the spacious side road where he lived. Oscar’s dad often said that the houses in this road were so far apart you didn’t have to ever see your neighbour, which was amazing for London living. But Oscar knew the neighbours were there because in the summer he heard them splashing in their pool. The au pair stopped the car, held her breath, put the car into Park, got out, pressed the button at the side of their gate and ran back into the car. While the gate slowly opened, she manoeuvred the car down the drive and tried to negotiate it into the garage. What was the problem? thought Oscar. Just park anywhere, the garage was big enough for two cars. As soon as she stopped the car, before she had exhaled, he leapt out and raced through the connecting door from the garage into the hall. He ran through the vast, square hallway, leaving mud marks on the marble floor and scattering satchel, coat and shoes on and around the cream chaise longue. He went straight to the kitchen, opened the walk-in fridge and took out some Diet Coke before his au pair had even come in.
‘Whot are you goin’ too doo now?’ she asked, holding his coat in her arms.
He shrugged. ‘Homework,’ and went for the stairs.
‘Aye weel be mekking pastahr at seven,’ she called after him.
‘I
hate
pasta!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll make my own dinner.’
‘Yoo know your faather will be upset eef yoo are not een bed by nine,’ she called out.
Oscar let out a roar of anger as he raced three at a time up the curved staircase, past the full-length window. He slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. Then he flung himself on to his bed, located the remote control under a pillow in one movement and turned on the TV.
He ate dinner upstairs. Toast with peanut butter and a packet of crisps. Luckily he didn’t hear from the au pair again. When he made his toast he could hear her in the utility room talking on her mobile in a harsh, bitty language. It sounded like she was trying to cough up phlegm. She was probably ironing, and thankfully she didn’t come out. After dinner, he spent a couple of hours on his Xbox and then did his homework cross-legged on his bed in front of the telly. Then he shook off his clothes, leaving them next to his bed alongside the plate of toast crumbs and empty crisp packet, put on his pyjamas and picked up his well-thumbed copy of
The Lord of the Rings
.
He didn’t look at his alarm clock as he turned off his AC Milan bedside lamp, but he knew that he’d got away with later than nine o’clock. Stupid au pair didn’t even check. When he couldn’t sleep, he turned on his torch and continued to read under his bedclothes. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
And he didn’t hear the garage door sliding shut hours later.
Mark Samuels slipped off his shoes, threw his briefcase and jacket on the chaise longue, and took the curved stairs three at a time. He tiptoed across the hall and opened his son’s bedroom door. He waited. No movement. He coughed. He opened the bedroom door wider,
‘Ozkarr?’
He grunted.
‘What time deed –’
‘He didn’t,’ Oscar cut her off. ‘Something important came up.’
His au pair whistled through her teeth. Oscar clenched his fists under his satchel.
The road took them past the terraced houses of Muswell Hill where there were buses and lots of people, through two woods on either side, and then suddenly rose up towards Highgate. Here there was more greenery, fewer people and buses, large detached homes and a village pond. He watched the posh boys spill out of the local private school in gangs of four and five. His dad had asked him if he wanted to go there. It would have meant exams later this year, but his dad was happy to pay for private tuition if he felt he needed it. Oscar had said no. He wanted to be like the cool teenagers he saw on the street corners in their baggy trousers, not like these saddos.
The car now crawled down a steep hill and, without indication, turnedinto the spacious side road where he lived. Oscar’s dad often said that the houses in this road were so far apart you didn’t have to ever see your neighbour, which was amazing for London living. But Oscar knew the neighbours were there because in the summer he heard them splashing in their pool. The au pair stopped the car, held her breath, put the car into Park, got out, pressed the button at the side of their gate and ran back into the car. While the gate slowly opened, she manoeuvred the car down the drive and tried to negotiate it into the garage. What was the problem? thought Oscar. Just park anywhere, the garage was big enough for two cars. As soon as she stopped the car, before she had exhaled, he leapt out and raced through the connecting door from the garage into the hall. He ran through the vast, square hallway, leaving mud marks on the marble floor and scattering satchel, coat and shoes on and around the cream chaise longue. He went straight to the kitchen, opened the walk-in fridge and took out some Diet Coke before his au pair had even come in.
‘Whot are you goin’ too doo now?’ she asked, holding his coat in her arms.
He shrugged. ‘Homework,’ and went for the stairs.
‘Aye weel be mekking pastahr at seven,’ she called after him.
‘I
hate
pasta!’ he bellowed. ‘I’ll make my own dinner.’
‘Yoo know your faather will be upset eef yoo are not een bed by nine,’ she called out.
Oscar let out a roar of anger as he raced three at a time up the curved staircase, past the full-length window. He slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. Then he flung himself on to his bed, located the remote control under a pillow in one movement and turned on the TV.
He ate dinner upstairs. Toast with peanut butter and a packet of crisps. Luckily he didn’t hear from the au pair again. When he made his toast he could hear her in the utility room talking on her mobile in a harsh, bitty language. It sounded like she was trying to cough up phlegm. She was probably ironing, and thankfully she didn’t come out. After dinner, he spent a couple of hours on his Xbox and then did his homework cross-legged on his bed in front of the telly. Then he shook off his clothes, leaving them next to his bed alongside the plate of toast crumbs and empty crisp packet, put on his pyjamas and picked up his well-thumbed copy of
The Lord of the Rings
.
He didn’t look at his alarm clock as he turned off his AC Milan bedside lamp, but he knew that he’d got away with later than nine o’clock. Stupid au pair didn’t even check. When he couldn’t sleep, he turned on his torch and continued to read under his bedclothes. He didn’t remember falling asleep.
And he didn’t hear the garage door sliding shut hours later.
Mark Samuels slipped off his shoes, threw his briefcase and jacket on the chaise longue, and took the curved stairs three at a time. He tiptoed across the hall and opened his son’s bedroom door. He waited. No movement. He coughed. He opened the bedroom door wider,
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