James gave up trying to participate, and decided instead to watch them with an ironic detachment. He was older than his companions and so he would act older. He would be calmer than them. It wasn’t very difficult, for it was striking how excitable they all were. It was something of a puzzle: why weren’t they more anxious and deflated? Hadn’t everyone agreed that this was a terrible time to be young? But instead of worrying about global warming and the economic crash and debt and house prices, they just made an amazing amount of noise. Everything seemed to delight or surprise them. They laughed at things that weren’t in the least bit funny, and squealed at things that weren’t frightening, and then laughed some more. It was like being on the night bus.
James got up and tried to find Harriet, but it was surprisingly difficult. The flat was much larger than had first seemed, that was one of the features of post-war social housing, and the long narrow hallway, with its row of white wooden doors, was unpromising. He was very keen not to burst into anyone’s bedroom unwanted, while the bathroom, which James knew might well be a focus for activity, was empty. He tried the kitchen, but there was nothing going on there except a woman sitting at the table on her own, sobbing loudly, with her head in her hands.
James had little direct experience of weeping young women. He had never been sufficiently successful with girls to make it happen very often, and Alice had never felt the need to get tearful about anything, except injustices in the developing world. But he knew that it was a mysterious phenomenon, and that their motives were almost always unfathomable. Women really did weep with joy, for instance, or after reading a nineteenth-century novel. And at other times they were capable of doing it on purpose.
So he could easily get this badly wrong, and it was unlikely to be straightforward – he could be certain that the girl wasn’t crying because her ankle was sprained or her pet cat had died. It was tempting to slip back out, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible. Although almost always the best thing to do, he was unable to watch another human being crying without doing something about it.
With immense caution, he said, ‘Are you okay?’
She paused for a moment and then continued crying, without making a meaningful reply. But at least she wasn’t doing it with any greater intensity, so he could be confident that he wasn’t making things worse.
‘Can I get you a glass of water or something?’
That was even better. She looked up at him and gently shook her head. She was pretty with chaotic black hair, big eyes and dramatic lips, but that may have just been an effect of the crying. It didn’t always come off, but James knew that if done correctly, it could be an ingenious way for a woman to become more attractive.
‘Do you live here?’ said James.
The girl nodded, and then rested her head back down on her arms.
‘So, do you live with Harriet?’ asked James.
‘Who are you?’ she said.
‘I’m James. I’m a friend of Harriet’s.’
‘She’s a fucking bitchface,’ said the girl.
James nodded calmly. She was probably right, even if she wasn’t being very grammatical about it. It was the best explanation for why he was now in a flat in Camden and why they had drunk so many vodkas, almost all of which he had paid for. Of course, she was a bitchface. What did he expect – she was young. That was the whole problem with London: there were too many young people there.
He went over to a handsome red fridge in the corner of the room and helped himself to a can of beer. Maybe he should try to sleep with this girl instead? She was attractive, it was practically certain that Harriet wouldn’t mind much, and the fact that she was so distressed ought to make it a great deal easier. He sat down next to her at the table and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. He tried to speak as softly as he could.
‘Are you okay? Do you want me to do anything?’
‘I really want you to fuck off,’ said the girl.
James realised that in no way was he going to be able to seduce this girl. Yes, she was distressed, but it was the wrong kind of distress. He needed self-pity, defeat and despair to work with, but she was just dysfunctionally angry and there was plenty of venom, but very little sorrow in her sobbing. What on earth had Harriet done to her? In truth, it could be almost anything – slept with her boyfriend, taken her drugs, stolen her money. After all, they lived on a housing estate in Camden, a place where other people’s property was rarely respected, and they weren’t old enough to know any better. Or maybe Harriet hadn’t done anything much at all – that was so often the problem with weeping young women. He took some reflective gulps from his can of beer and returned to the living room.