The Last Kings of Sark Read Online Free Page A

read. Most of it anyway, before I’d left it on a bus.
    â€˜No, the whole Recherche. It was Esmé’s.’
    I was nodding.
    â€˜I also like Borges,’ he went on.
    â€˜Yes,’ I said. The name was familiar. ‘Excellent choice.’
    â€˜Only in translation, so far. I don’t always like magic realism but I do like Borges. What do you think of Ficciones? ’
    â€˜Hemingway?’ I segued, ‘I like Hemingway.’ I had A Moveable Feast in my bag; I’d had it on my lap in the plane. It was a second-hand Penguin copy with an orange spine. I’d been carrying it around for a while, put it on the table when I sat in cafés.
    Pip said he hadn’t read Hemingway. I said he should, because he was really good. I think I even said he was one of my favourite writers. I got out the book and showed him the cover.
    That was when Sofi burst in without knocking and called us into the kitchen for cake. I found myself wanting to say ‘Pip and I both like reading,’ so she knew we hadn’t been sitting there silent, but I was perturbed by the size of the slice of cake she’d cut for me.
    â€˜I know, ’ she said, ‘and it’s not even nice. Fucking put salt instead of bicarb. And I was so lonely I also made quiche.’ She said it ‘quish’ and put a tablespoon of cake in her mouth. Two chews in, she puffed out her cheeks and reached for the kitchen roll. ‘Oh fuck, it’s rank. No one eat it.’
    I should say now that Sofi doesn’t come across quite right on the page. Writing it down, it’s not accurate. She did say ‘fuck’ a lot, but she said it lightly, like a laugh. It felt right when she said it. ‘Do you know what it is?’ she told me later, when we were standing close to each other over pink drinks at Dixcart Hotel’s karaoke night. ‘It’s because I can’t help looking at people’s lips when they talk to me.’ It was true, she’d look at your lips, even to see if you were listening. Anyway, right now she was rubbing at hers with kitchen roll and glugging my water.
    â€˜Ah, cake!’ said Eddy, walking in, red polo shirt spotted with sweat rings. He had a bagged-up tennis racket in his hand and took a swing at an imaginary ball. ‘Six–three. Too easy.’ He clasped Pip’s neck with his hand, which was supposed to be affectionate. ‘Do you play?’ he asked me, and then, before I could answer, ‘Cake. Lovely. Lemon?’
    â€˜It needs icing,’ Sofi said quickly, taking it away and putting it under a silver meat cover in the corner. ‘And it’s almost lunchtime. You can have a beer instead.’
    There were days when Sofi’s abruptness would make him bristle, but Eddy had just won his game, so he laughed, unbuckled his hand from Pip’s neck and took his beer into the shower with him.
    We ate lunch in the front garden, under a gazebo to the left of the croquet lawn. There was a slight slope, so Eddy looked a lot taller than Pip or me, who sat side-by-side opposite him, careful not to bump hands reaching for the salt. Sofi brought out a dish of hams; Eddy took most of it onto a plate with his spoon. I ate slowly. I composed small mouthfuls on my fork, held it up to my mouth then put it down again. I bade my time until the plates were cleared. I looked at other people’s food, the quiche crumb on Eddy’s lip, Pip’s face when he swallowed, a wasp circling the salad bowl. The sun hit the table but the gazebo kept our heads in the shade.
    Those first meals, I remember that the food tasted as if it had come straight from a fridge. The water made my glass mist, and the tomatoes were so cold they hurt my teeth. It’s coldness I remember. Eddy asked me how the first lesson had gone, and we talked about Pip as if he wasn’t there. When Sofi brought coffee, I said thank you without looking at her.
    We were always slightly