Dick did, but I could feel my eyes glazing over. I traced patterns in the condensation on the side of my glass until my fingers were dripping wet and I had to surreptitiously wipe them on a discarded napkin.
I’m not stupid. I’m politically engaged. It’d be hard not to be, when I live with the MP for Kensington and Chelsea. She named me after Margaret Thatcher, and I’ve been searching for a suitable revenge for that ever since. I can follow real politics. It’s just the backroom insider talk that makes my brain try to crawl away and hide under the sofa.
“Glenn says we’re going to screw them on copyright reform,” Warren said. He followed up with a vivid description of just how hard and against their will they were going to get screwed that made me glare at him and grip onto my glass for fear I might accidentally chuck my lemonade in his face. Hipster Dick caught my eye and gave a tiny eyebrow-twitch.
An apology, for his friend’s douchebaggery? He wasn’t sorry enough to try and make Warren shut up, though.
Warren carried on speaking and I tried to tune him out again.
A dark scuttling shape moved across the windowsill and I bit back a yelp.
Another bloody spider.
I don’t like spiders. Nobody likes spiders. It’s the legs, they’re just wrong. But I didn’t want to run away or squish it this time. Maybe I was getting hardened to the creep-factor, or maybe I’d just lost all feeling in my brain after listening to Warren for – I glanced at the clock – oh God, almost half an hour.
Warren was saying something about someone called John getting lynched by a select committee, and Hipster Dick was smirking knowingly. I could hear the tone of Mum’s voice rising and falling silkily on the other side of the room as she sucked up to Sir Douglas Ross, the Chief Whip. He was a thin, scary man who always wore a thin blood red tie – according to the Westminster legend he threatened to strangle people with it on a regular basis.
The spider climbed to the top of one of the pointy white ornaments, on the side that meant only I could see it, and sat there. Its two front legs rubbed together, but it didn’t move.
Did that mean something? Was it looking at me? Did the spider want me to see it?
OK, now you’re just being mental .
Still...
“Hey,” I whispered, no louder than a breath, trying not to move my jaw. “If you can hear me...”
“Er, did you...?” Hipster Dick interrupted Warren in mid-crow. He stared at me. “Did you just say something?”
“I was just...” I stupidly let my eyes flicker to the spider. Hipster Dick and Warren both clocked the spider and then stared at me.
“Did you say something to that spider?” Rich’s golden eyebrows drew down together. I didn’t dare look at Warren – he was smirking, I knew it, and probably formulating a joke involving Prozac and Disability Living Allowance. But looking at Rich was almost worse. He looked... worried.
I’ve only known him half an hour and now he thinks I’m crazy, as well as a stupid girl, wearing a stupid horrible dress that doesn’t fit and laughing along with Warren’s awful jokes just because I don’t know what else to do.
“It’s, er, been hanging around here, you know, when you keep seeing a bug it’s like, it’s kind of like become a bit of a, like, a nemesis–”
Smack!
I jumped about a foot in the air and only narrowly avoided throwing my lemonade over Warren after all. Something had hit the window, right beside me. Heads turned all around the room and conversation died. Warren, Rich and I stared out at the flapping shape on the outside windowsill.
“Just a pigeon,” Warren said. “God, they’re stupid.” He rapped his knuckles on the window right in front of the pigeon’s face. It cringed back, then tapped on the window with its beak as if it could bite his fingers right through the glass. Warren laughed.
“If I never see another pigeon it’ll be too soon,” said one of Dad’s men in suits.
I’m not stupid. I’m politically engaged. It’d be hard not to be, when I live with the MP for Kensington and Chelsea. She named me after Margaret Thatcher, and I’ve been searching for a suitable revenge for that ever since. I can follow real politics. It’s just the backroom insider talk that makes my brain try to crawl away and hide under the sofa.
“Glenn says we’re going to screw them on copyright reform,” Warren said. He followed up with a vivid description of just how hard and against their will they were going to get screwed that made me glare at him and grip onto my glass for fear I might accidentally chuck my lemonade in his face. Hipster Dick caught my eye and gave a tiny eyebrow-twitch.
An apology, for his friend’s douchebaggery? He wasn’t sorry enough to try and make Warren shut up, though.
Warren carried on speaking and I tried to tune him out again.
A dark scuttling shape moved across the windowsill and I bit back a yelp.
Another bloody spider.
I don’t like spiders. Nobody likes spiders. It’s the legs, they’re just wrong. But I didn’t want to run away or squish it this time. Maybe I was getting hardened to the creep-factor, or maybe I’d just lost all feeling in my brain after listening to Warren for – I glanced at the clock – oh God, almost half an hour.
Warren was saying something about someone called John getting lynched by a select committee, and Hipster Dick was smirking knowingly. I could hear the tone of Mum’s voice rising and falling silkily on the other side of the room as she sucked up to Sir Douglas Ross, the Chief Whip. He was a thin, scary man who always wore a thin blood red tie – according to the Westminster legend he threatened to strangle people with it on a regular basis.
The spider climbed to the top of one of the pointy white ornaments, on the side that meant only I could see it, and sat there. Its two front legs rubbed together, but it didn’t move.
Did that mean something? Was it looking at me? Did the spider want me to see it?
OK, now you’re just being mental .
Still...
“Hey,” I whispered, no louder than a breath, trying not to move my jaw. “If you can hear me...”
“Er, did you...?” Hipster Dick interrupted Warren in mid-crow. He stared at me. “Did you just say something?”
“I was just...” I stupidly let my eyes flicker to the spider. Hipster Dick and Warren both clocked the spider and then stared at me.
“Did you say something to that spider?” Rich’s golden eyebrows drew down together. I didn’t dare look at Warren – he was smirking, I knew it, and probably formulating a joke involving Prozac and Disability Living Allowance. But looking at Rich was almost worse. He looked... worried.
I’ve only known him half an hour and now he thinks I’m crazy, as well as a stupid girl, wearing a stupid horrible dress that doesn’t fit and laughing along with Warren’s awful jokes just because I don’t know what else to do.
“It’s, er, been hanging around here, you know, when you keep seeing a bug it’s like, it’s kind of like become a bit of a, like, a nemesis–”
Smack!
I jumped about a foot in the air and only narrowly avoided throwing my lemonade over Warren after all. Something had hit the window, right beside me. Heads turned all around the room and conversation died. Warren, Rich and I stared out at the flapping shape on the outside windowsill.
“Just a pigeon,” Warren said. “God, they’re stupid.” He rapped his knuckles on the window right in front of the pigeon’s face. It cringed back, then tapped on the window with its beak as if it could bite his fingers right through the glass. Warren laughed.
“If I never see another pigeon it’ll be too soon,” said one of Dad’s men in suits.
Similar Books
