The Flatshare(82)

Almost can’t look at him – it’s too painful seeing the fear in his eyes. Somehow, from somewhere, I manage an encouraging smile when he looks at me and Mam. They put him in a glass box and close the door behind him.

We wait. Journalist succeeds at plugging in phone, and continues to scroll through what looks like the Reuters homepage, despite enormous sign forbidding use of mobile phones directly above his head. Smoothie-bottle girl is now pulling loose threads out of fluffy scarf.

Have to keep smiling at Richie. Gerty is here, dressed in that ridicu-lous outfit, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the lawyers even though I’ve seen her eating Chinese takeaway in my kitchen. I feel myself bristling just at the sight of her. It’s something guttural, instinctive now. Have to remind myself over and over that she’s on our team.

Wizened robed man: All rise!

Everyone stands. Three judges file into the room. Is it generalising to point out that literally all of them are white middle-aged men whose shoes look like they are worth more than my mother’s car? I try to quell my rising hatred as they settle into their seats. Flick through the paperwork in front of them. Look up, finally, at Gerty and the prosecution barrister. Not one of them looks at my brother.

Judge 1: Shall we begin?





59


Tiffy

Katherin is a tiny, black-clad stick figure on the stage. Behind her, blown up to terrifying proportions, she’s repeated in close-up – one screen is just her hands, so viewers can watch how she uses the crochet hook, and the other two focus on her face.

It’s amazing. The whole crowd is rapt. We’re so overdressed for a daytime event about crochet, but Katherin insisted on the dress code – despite all her anti-bourgeois values, she bloody loves an excuse to wear something fancy. Women in cocktail dresses gaze up at Katherin’s enormous face, immortalised on the big screens beneath the vaulted ceiling. Men in tuxedos chuckle warmly at Katherin’s witticisms. I even catch one young woman in a satin gown copying the movements of Katherin’s hands, though all she’s holding is a miniature goat’s cheese canapé, no crochet hook in sight.

Despite all of this, all its distracting absurdity, I can’t stop thinking about Richie and the way his voice trembled on the phone.

Nobody would notice if I just sneaked out. I might look a little incongruous for the courtroom, but maybe I could head via my flat, and pick up a change of clothes for the taxi ride . . .

God, I can’t believe I’m considering paying for a taxi.

‘Look!’ Rachel hisses suddenly, poking me in the ribs.

‘Oww! What?’

‘Look! It’s Tasha Chai-Latte!’

I follow her pointing finger. A young woman dressed in a subtle lilac cocktail dress has just entered the crowd, a staggeringly attractive boyfriend in tow. An intimidating man in a tux follows the two of them – their bodyguard, presumably.

Rachel’s right, it’s definitely her. I recognise the chiselled cheekbones from YouTube. Despite myself, I feel my stomach flutter a little – I’m such a sucker for a famous person.

‘I can’t believe she came!’

‘Martin will be ecstatic. Do you think she’ll let me take a picture with her?’ Rachel asks. Above us, the gigantic Katherins on their screens smile out at the crowd, and her hands hold up a finished square.

‘It’s the big man in the tux I’d worry about, if I were you.’

‘She’s filming! Look!’

Tasha Chai-Latte’s impossibly handsome boyfriend has pulled a compact, expensive-looking video camera out of his satchel, and is fiddling with the buttons. Tasha checks her hair and make-up, dabbing a finger along her lips.

‘Oh my God. She’s going to put the event on her YouTube channel. Do you think Katherin will mention you in her thank-you speech? We’ll be famous!’

‘Calm down,’ I tell her, exchanging a look with Mo, who is currently working his way through the large pile of canapés he has been hoarding while everyone else is too distracted by crochet to capitalise on the food.

Tasha’s boyfriend lifts the camera, training it on Tasha’s face. Immediately she is wreathed in smiles, all thought of hair and make-up forgotten.

‘Get closer, get closer,’ Rachel mutters, shooing Mo in the direction of Tasha. We shuffle along, trying to look nonchalant, until we’re just about close enough to hear them.

‘. . . amazing lady!’ Tasha is saying. ‘And isn’t this place beautiful? Oh my God, you guys, I feel so lucky to be here, and to be able to share it with all of you – live! You know how I feel about supporting real artists, and that’s exactly what Katherin is.’

The crowd bursts into applause – Katherin has finished her demonstration. Tasha gives an impatient gesture, telling her boyfriend to do another take. I guess they’re warming up for the live stream.

‘And now a few thank-yous!’ Katherin says from the stage.

‘This is it,’ Rachel whispers excitedly. ‘She’ll definitely mention you.’

My stomach twists. I’m not sure I want her to mention me – there are a lot of people in this room, and an extra few million who will soon be watching via Tasha Chai-Latte’s YouTube channel. I adjust my dress, trying to inch it a little higher.

I needn’t have worried, though. Katherin starts by thanking her entire network of friends and family, which turns out to be extensive to the point of absurdity (I can’t help wondering if she’s taking the piss a bit – it would be just like her). The crowd’s attention shifts; people begin to move around in search of prosecco and tiny food.