Nobody Real

I don’t look at you. “What do you want, Thor?”

You move closer. “What do you want, shoplifter?”

I swerve to pass a shuffling old man wearing three different shades of pastel blue.

“I’m not a kid any more,” I say.

“Neither am I.”

You step up so you’re level with me. “Tell me that didn’t feel good though.”

I stop walking.

“It didn’t feel good.”

You shake your head.

“So why are you smiling?”

Then my phone vibrates for real and slips out of my hand. I scramble to catch it, smacking my shopping bag on the pavement and nearly falling over as the phone lands in my palm.

“Nice catch.” You stand there, clapping your paws.

Cara’s face, beaming out from my phone screen.

I stand up straight and compose myself. “This is a bad idea, Thor.”

You nod.

“Probably.”

And then you’re gone.

The old man tips his sky-blue flat cap as he slowly steps through the space where you were.

I nod back, then answer the call.

“Marcie! It’s a full house tonight!”

Cara’s dad Ken always greets me like I’m an old schoolfriend he hasn’t seen for years.

He’s a graphic designer and he looks like one. Bald like he did it on purpose, he’s got that flawless, poreless, older man skin that says water filters and gym membership. He’s holding an expensive-looking tea towel.

“Full house?”

Ken nods. “Morgan’s here. Hungry?”

It smells amazing. Don’t think I’ve ever been to Cara’s house and Ken hasn’t been cooking. I’ve had so many foods for the first time here. Wild boar. Quinoa. Pickled herring.

“Her highness is upstairs working on a new video. Dinner in a hour, OK?”

“OK, Ken. Thank you.”

And he’s off, back towards their massive kitchen, expensive tea towel over his shoulder, leaving me to close the front door, like I’m family.

Cara already has the tripod and camera set up when I knock and walk in. She’s checking her camera angles, deliberating over which pillows to have in shot.

“I’m not dressing up, Car.”

Cara stops fluffing pillows. “Who said anything about dressing up?”

I throw my jacket over the back of her 1970s super-villain swivel chair.

Cara’s room is like a cross between an FBI investigation wall and a retro furniture shop. The walls are collages of magazine articles, photographs and old B-movie posters. I always think of people’s bedrooms being like the inside of their head. Cara’s is busy and full, but organised. She was made for her journalism degree. Her hair’s tied up in a stubby ponytail and she’s wearing her pre-planned “I just threw anything on” outfit for the camera: black leggings and one of Morgan’s old sweaters.

“Morgan’s home?”

“Apparently,” she says.

“That’s early, no?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him. Been in his room since he got back. If he’s home early, he must be broke.”

“I haven’t seen him for ages,” I say.

Cara cuts me a disapproving look on her way to her backstage-style dresser.

“Don’t worry, you can stare longingly into his eyes over dinner. That’s if he even comes down.”

“Shut up.”

I try to think of the last time I saw Morgan. Maybe the Christmas before last. He rarely comes home from university in London.

“Can’t we just hang out, Car?”

“We are hanging out.”

“Yeah, but I mean just do nothing. Exams are over. When was the last time we just did nothing?”

Cara looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili.

Through her bedroom window, the sky is going dark. I picture the view from across the street. Camera on tripod, one girl fluffing pillows, getting ready, another standing nervously next to the bed. Some girls make thousands of pounds on their own in their rooms with their laptops.

“What accents can you do?” she says, pulling two bottles of what look like shampoo out of a yellow Selfridges bag, one seaweed green, one milk-chocolate brown.

“Accents? What are you talking about? What are they?”

Her face lights up.