Page 53 of The Elements

Because the boy is listening to music, I have to call out to him a few times before he notices me. He startles for a moment before removing his AirPods, his expression a little anxious, as if he’s expecting me to reprimand him for some inadvertent transgression.

“Sorry,” I say, leaning across the passenger seat. “You couldn’t help me out, could you?”

He steps closer to the car now, glancing around but remaining silent. He has surprisingly large brown eyes and long eyelashes that put me in mind of a fawn.

“I’m a bit lost,” I explain, laughing to put him at ease. “You don’t know where Ramleigh Crescent is, do you?”

His face relaxes now. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I’m just a woman who needs directions, that’s all.

“Oh, right,” he says, looking down the street. “I think you’re pretty close, actually. Like… umm…” He points in the direction of a roundabout. “You go down there, I think, and when you get to the traffic lights—”

“The first set?”

“Yes. Before the taxi rank.” He thinks about it, putting the thumb of his left hand to his mouth and holding it there as he deliberates. It reminds me of George biting his nails on the bench outside the hospital a few weeks earlier, a memory that sends a sharp burst of anxiety through me.

That phone call a few minutes ago.

“ Is this Freya? ”

“ After that, I think you go left, ” the boy continues. “Although I’m not really sure. Do you have Google Maps?” His eyes flicker toward the dashboard of my Audi A8 and move hungrily across the various screens and the white leather interior.

“You look like a boy who’s interested in cars,” I say, ignoring his question and smiling at him.

He nods and looks embarrassed, shuffling back on the pavement as he hitches his backpack up his shoulders.

“I couldn’t ask an enormous favor, could I?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t jump in and direct me?” I ask. “I hate to play the damsel in distress but I’m just really hopeless at things like this.”

He blinks, uncertain how to respond. “Umm,” he says.

“I can barely find my own flat unless I’m standing in front of it,” I continue. “And I’ve lived there for years.”

“Well, I suppose,” he mutters.

“You’re a star,” I tell him, and, before he can change his mind, I reach over and open the passenger door.

Still, he doesn’t move. He’s probably been told from childhood that he should never get into cars with strangers, but it’s not as if I’m some overweight middle-aged man trying to entice him into a Ford Fiesta with the promise of a burger and chips and a packet of Haribo afterward.

I’m an attractive thirty-six-year-old woman driving a sports car. I’m hardly a threat.

“I should probably go home,” he tells me. “My mum…” he adds, trailing off.

“Do you live far?” I ask.

“Well, I get the bus.”

“Oh, buses are hopeless. They never come. And if they do, they break down or you can’t get a seat. Tell you what. You help me find Ramleigh Crescent and then I’ll drop you home once I know where it is. Deal?”

“Umm.”

Without waiting for an answer, I sit up straight in my seat and look ahead, as if we’ve agreed upon this plan, and although he remains tenta tive, he defaults to what I can only assume is his true nature: obedience.

He’s a good boy, and I like that. He’ll do what he’s told and cause no trouble.

It takes a few moments, but at last he gets in, closes the door behind him, and before he can even put his seat belt on, I pull out, almost driving straight into the path of a passing van.

“Through the roundabout and all the way to the lights?” I ask.

“Yeah, I think so.”

We drive in silence at first and he keeps his backpack pressed firmly across his knees, as if it contains all his most precious possessions and not just his schoolbooks. His training bag is squashed on the floor around his feet.

“I’m Freya, by the way,” I tell him.

“Hi.”

I wait for him to offer his name, but he doesn’t.

“And you?” I ask.

“Oh, sorry. Yeah. I’m Rufus.”

“That’s an unusual name. I’ve never met a Rufus before.”

“I’m named after some singer my mum likes,” he tells me.

“Rufus Wainwright?”

“That’s him.”

“Believe it or not, I heard him play live once,” I say, a total lie, but I’m aware of the album released from the performance. “At Carnegie Hall in New York. He performed an entire concert that Judy Garland played there decades earlier.”

I hope this will inspire him to ask me something about it, just to get the conversation going, but no, total silence. He probably has no idea who Judy Garland is, so I mention The Wizard of Oz and he turns to me and smiles for the first time.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “The Wicked Witch of the West.”

“That’s the one.”

“She always scared me when I was a kid.”

I smile. He’s still a kid, after all. And he was right to be scared of her.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rufus,” I say, accepting that I’m going to have to make all the running here. I nod toward his sports bag. “You were playing football?”

“Trying to,” he tells me. “I’m not very good.” He hesitates briefly, perhaps wanting to impress me. “Although I did score a goal today.”

“Good for you!”

“An own goal,” he adds in a self-deprecating tone, and I burst out laughing.

“Well, a goal is a goal,” I say. “You hit the back of the net. That’s what counts.”

“Tell that to my teammates. I nearly got my head kicked in.”

We’ve reached the end of the road now and I turn left, as instructed.

I know exactly where Ramleigh Crescent is and have absolutely no reason to visit it, but it’s just off the main road that leads back to my own apartment building, which is all that matters.

His phone rings, and he takes it out of his pocket and looks at the screen.

“Mum,” he tells me.

“Are you not going to answer it?”

“No point. I know what it’ll be about.”

“And what’s that?”

“She’ll be saying that she’s going out for the night and has left me five quid on the table for a McDonald’s.”

His answer couldn’t be more perfect. No one’s waiting for him at home.

“Is that a regular occurrence?” I ask, recalling how Hannah brought me up with a similarly cavalier attitude toward nutrition.

“Sometimes,” he says quietly, perhaps not wanting to sound disloyal to his mother.

“Can you even get a meal for five pounds?” I ask.

“Oh yes,” he replies, more confident now. He obviously knows his fast-food menus. “Burger. Chips. Shake. Chicken nuggets.”

“Something for you to look forward to, then,” I say. “Where do you live, anyway?”

He tells me. It’s about a ten-minute drive east.

“Oh wait,” he says suddenly, pointing to my right as we pass Ramleigh Crescent. “You’ve just gone past it.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I don’t need to go there right now. I’m looking at a house for sale tomorrow and wanted to be sure I knew where it was in case I got delayed on my way. I’ll drop you home now if you like.”

“Thanks.”

“But, if you don’t mind, can we just stop at mine first? It’s on the way.”

He says nothing but starts fiddling with his fingers. “I’m not holding you up, am I?” I ask.

“Well…”

“You probably have plans for the evening. Meeting your girlfriend or whatever.”

I glance toward him and watch as a blush spreads slowly from his neck toward his ears.

“No,” he says, awkwardly.

“You don’t have a girlfriend?” I ask, doing my best to sound surprised.

“No.”

“A handsome boy like you? I thought you’d be fighting them off.”

He gives me a shy look that mixes pride with discomfort. His right leg has started to bounce up and down, and he rests his hand on it as if he’s trying to keep it steady. His legs are slim with golden hairs sprinkled around the calves.

“Sorry, Rufus,” I say. “Have I embarrassed you?”

“No,” he replies. “It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“My best friend, he has a girlfriend,” he says quickly, raising his voice a little, and I’m not sure why he’s telling me this. Perhaps it’s to make it sound as if he’s connected to the world of sex in some way, if only at a one-step remove.

“Is she getting between you?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, she’s nice.”

“Do you mean that you like her too?”

“Well… not in that way, no.”

“All right,” I say. I would have preferred him to be a bit more negative about her, to tell me what a bitch she is, how she’s destroying their friendship, but admire the fact that he’s as loyal to his friend as he was to his mother. Again, a good boy. The best kind. The safest kind.

“I should probably get home,” he says.

“Hungry?”

“Yeah. And, you know, homework.”

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll just make that quick stop at mine and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Actually,” he says, as the lights before us turn red. “I can just get out here and jump on the bus.”

“Absolutely not,” I insist, prepared to press the child lock if necessary, although I’d rather not do something that might frighten him. “A deal’s a deal. I promised you a lift, and a lift is what you’ll get.”

When we arrive at my building, I swing into the underground car park and the barriers lift when the camera reads my license plate. I can see that this impresses him. Pulling into my spot, I turn the engine off.

“I’ll wait here, will I?” he asks.

“No, come upstairs. It can be dangerous sitting in car parks on your own. You never know who might come along and, I don’t know, try to molest you or something.

” I laugh and he looks down at his feet.

I notice his eyes open wide as if he’s holding some complicated internal conversation with himself.

“It’ll only take a few minutes. I’ll show you where I live.

A famous footballer used to live in my apartment, you know. ”