Page 30 of One Last Try

I almost laugh . . . almost. It’s such a ridiculous notion that he’d be embarrassed about something as trivial and insignificant as this, but the set of his jaw and the crease of his brow let me know he’s earnest. Why would he care so much about what I thought? Or what anyone else thinks for that matter? “No, I don’t think that’s weird at all.”

After a few more moments his shoulders ease and he nods, whether in thanks or acceptance I’m not sure. “What Glasto should we start with?”

12

Thursday 3rd April 2025

Owen

“Twenty seventeen, obviously.” I swivel the chair round and let my eyes drink in Mathias’s chest while I pretend I’m looking at his T-shirt. “Lean forward,” I command. He does, and it gives me a fantastic excuse to inspect the muscles in his back.

Holy fucking fuck sticks.

It’s difficult to make out the band names, at least the smaller bands listed under the headliners. The T-shirt is old, and has obviously been washed and worn and washed a great many times. The writing is faded, and in places—because Iassume his muscles and shoulders are a little broader now than they were seven years ago—the ink has cracked and split.

But I’m not looking at the ink, or the writing, or the band names. I’m transfixed by the undulation of his form. The hills and valleys of his rhomboids and deltoids and trapezius muscles. My mouth is suddenly drier than instant mash. I swallow and force my eyes onto the text.

“How about,” I squeak, clear my throat, sit on my hands so I don’t reach out and manhandle him. “How about Radiohead?”

He sits back, and I just about move myself out of the way. “Sure, what song?”

“Um . . .” I turn my face away from him so he doesn’t see it flame again. And great, now my brain has emptied itself of all Radiohead songs. Come on, they were my favourite band when I was seventeen.

“‘Paranoid Android’ . . . ‘No Surprises’ . . . ‘Creep’ . . . um . . . ‘Karma Police?’” he suggests.

“Ooh, yes, ‘Karma Police.’ A little more obscure, but still genius.”

“‘Karma Police’ it is, then.” Mathias must already own the song, because he doesn’t go to any online music shop. He simply opens a folder and drags a file into the app. I use the time to glance around what was once my study.

It’s much the same. The furniture’s all the same—the desk, the chair, the armchair and foot pouffe. The shelves are the same, but they no longer bear my books and trophies. Instead, they seem to house cameras. All different types, but with one thing in common: they all look expensive as fuck.

“You know Radiohead headlined twice? In ninety-seven and twenty seventeen,” Mathias says. His eyes and fingers are occupied on the laptop, so he doesn’t realise I’m staring at him.

He keeps surprising me with all these hidden layers, all these things nobody knows about him. He loves pub quizzes, he has a surprisingly vast knowledge about melancholic bands from the nineties, he has a collection of cameras, he cares about my daughter’s welfare . . .

I shouldn’t want to know more, shouldn’t want to see how many more layers I can uncover, and yet . ..

I need to be subtle, though. He’s already a flight risk. If I go asking him personal questions, he might bolt for the door. I need to slip them seamlessly into conversation.

“You’re right,” I say. “In ninety-seven, my mates Rich and Nick climbed the fence and snuck in. Back when youcouldclimb the fence and sneak in. Before it was an impenetrable fortress, that is. So, you’re into photography?”

Real fucking smooth, Bosley.

Mathias’s eyes flit up to the gadgets on his shelves. “A little, I guess.” He’s unbothered, I realise. Indifferent to photography. So why all the cameras?

I remember the telescope pointing out of Daisy’s window. “Astronomy?”

“Hmm?” He takes his eyes off the laptop to frown at me.

And then it hits me. He’s not into photography, or filmmaking, or watching the stars, or even watching TV despite the monster screen in the living room. He’s into technology. I look at his computer—silent, powerful, no doubt cost more than Daisy’s car. I spot a drone perched on the shelf by the fireplace. A pair of wireless in-ear headphones are nestled snugly in their case on the desktop. Even on his wrist, he sports a watch fancier than my phone.

I don’t know what to do with this particular piece of information, so I simply tuck it away in my little Mathias collection.

“Okay, that one’s done now,” he says. He plays the clip for me. The opening notes of “Karma Police” play through his laptop’s speakers with crystal clear quality. It cuts out at twenty-six seconds, just before Thom Yorke bellows the opening line. I almost whine like a child being denied a treat. Right before the best bit.

“Damn, that’s such a good song,” Mathias says.

“Please stop giving me reasons to crush on you.”Those words echo in my head. I don’t say them because I’m not fucking stupid. Instead I say, “Never would have pegged you for a Radiohead fan. Aren’t you a little young?”

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