The Invoice Read Online Free Page B

necessary. And, as I said before, we do have a debt ceiling, and once that’s been exceeded there’s no way we can grant continued access.”
    “What’s the debt ceiling?”
    “It’s calculated according to a formula that takes account of age, place of residence, particular experiences, success, proximity to the sea. That sort of thing. Quality of home and relationships, et cetera. Taken as a whole, that constitutes your personal quantity of Experienced Happiness. Your levels will be constantly updated, provided that all information can be verified. It’s all officially administered, of course, but I’m afraid I can’t make an estimate as things stand…Have you had any notable setbacks?”
    I stared at a small mark on the wall opposite the sofa. It had been there for as long as I could remember, and I rather liked it. It felt reassuring. Homely. I wondered if it had been made by me or the previous tenant.
    “How do you mean?”
    “Okay, let me start with this,” she went on. “Are you disabled?”
    “No,” I said.
    “Do you suffer from any illnesses?”
    “No. Well, nothing…no. I get a bit of asthma sometimes.”
    “Asthma?”
    “Yes, a bit. Occasionally, in the spring.”
    “Oh?”
    “And I might be a bit lactose intolerant.”
    “Hmm, that isn’t applicable. Not anymore. Not now there are so many new products and alternatives available…Did you grow up with both your parents?”
    “Yes.”
    “There you go. Yes, that marks it up…”
    Images from my childhood drifted through my head. Mum smoking a Blend cigarette under the extractor fan in the kitchen, Dad bent over the car with the bonnet up, my little tricycle, the broken doorbell. Long grass at the back of the house and the rusty lawn mower that was supposed to cut it.
    “But we weren’t especially rich or anything…” I said.
    “That doesn’t make any difference to the experience, does it?”
    “I don’t know, I think maybe it does…”
    “How do you mean, exactly?”
    “Well, if I’d been brought up…I mean, it was pretty tough sometimes when Dad was the only one working…”
    “But you were happy?”
    “What?”
    “Was your childhood satisfactory?”
    I hesitated for a few seconds.
    “Well, yes, I’d have to say it was…”
    “There, you see?”
    I wondered how old she was. She sounded a bit older than me, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she really was. The slight hoarseness in her voice lent her a certain veiled charm, but she could have been five, ten years younger than me. That sort of thing is always hard to work out. Maybe it was just her official tone, that way of reciting things quickly, or the fact that she knew things that I didn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time. I often felt about seventeen years old mentally. And she was definitely older than that, no matter what.
    “Like you replied to our questionnaires…” she went on. I closed my eyes and tried to focus my thoughts in the heat.
    “Hang on a moment,” I said. “Questionnaires?”
    “Yes, you indicated…let’s see…”
    I sat up a bit straighter on the sofa. I had little beads of sweat on my forehead and temples. I could feel the phone getting damp and slippery against my cheek.
    “What questionnaires?” I said.
    “Our inquiries show that…”
    She paused, and I heard her click to open something on her computer. Now I remembered some questionnaires and forms I’d filled in several months ago. Big things, with all sorts of different questions and boxes you had to tick. I think I did them while I was on the toilet. Then you just had to stick them in the prepaid envelope and put them in the post.
    “I’m getting several results here…Let’s see…”
    I stood up and started to walk round the room.
    “Yes, but…” I said. “I thought filling those in was just a bit of fun…I didn’t really take it seriously.”
    “You didn’t?”
    “No, because then I’d have thought about it a bit more…”
    “You didn’t really