A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks Read Free Book Online

overall Parallax economy could be ironed out by raising game subscriptions, taxes and shop prices for the less sophisticated. The financiers' gains were theirs to keep, but their losses were democratically shared.
    Most of the gamers, though, Jenni noticed, still preferred sex. She checked on the progress of Miranda's house and found that the builders had completed it overnight, a week ahead of schedule. The tiles in the swimming pool were slightly bluer than she'd imagined and there were rather more caged parakeets in the marble entrance hall than she remembered ordering, but otherwise it was perfect. Miranda's bedroom overlooked the river, and in the shining white bathroom were pink curtains with embroidered daisies on the hems. A breeze blew through the French doors that opened on to the balcony.
    Round the new house was a thin tape, a bit like those used at a crime scene in reality, which said 'NO ENTRY' at intervals. Some people left their houses open, unattended, but Jenni didn't want just anyone snooping round Miranda's bedroom.
    When she'd finished her tour of inspection, she left the gated community on which the house had been built and went for a walk through some ruins on the edge of the encroaching and still gorgeously untouched rainforest.
    She had not gone far before she encountered a man. He had cargo pants to the knee, bare torso and multiple piercings. His skin was light brown, though most of it was covered in tattoos; he carried a Uranium credit card (the highest rating) and a submachine gun in his right hand.
    Jenni sighed. This was not the kind of man she would have chosen, but she had learned that it was pretty much standard dress for men in Parallax. Most of the maquettes were scary and you just had to remind yourself that they might in reality be women or children - you absolutely could not rely on appearances; you had to disbelieve your eyes.
    She knew the man had seen her because she found herself being messaged.
    'What your name?'
    'Miranda Star.'
    An answering legend appeared automatically (you couldn't message and withhold your own identity) above his maquette's head: 'Jason Dogg. Age 35. Pisces. Adventurer/ Prospecter.'
    'What you doing?'
    'Looking at my new house.'
    'That your's? Then we are neighbours!'
    Jenni noticed his English spelling. Most of the gamers were American.
    'Great,' she wrote, feeling a twinge of exhilaration.
    'Can I visit your house?'
    'Not til I know u better.'
    'Lets go clubbing tmw. I know a good place.'
    'Is it expensive? Only 15 vajos left,' typed Jenni.
    'Not if you do'nt drink. How long you in Parallax?'
    'Two years.'
    'You'r so cool.'
    'Why u have machine gun?'
    'Tell you when we know eachother more. Clubbing tmw?'
    'Maybe. Must crash now. Am tired,' Jenni wrote. 'In TL, do you live in England?'
    'Yes. London. Wot time u come on?'
    'Working late tmw. Maybe Tuesday night?'
    'See ya then.'
    Jenni felt excited at the thought that someone was going to take Miranda clubbing. She'd have to get some new clothes tomorrow - a dress at least - and she wondered what the stores were like in Caracas. In what the gamers called 'TL' or True Life, she was on the second shift on the Circle Line, so she'd have time.
    * * *
    John Veals's wife Vanessa at that instant poured herself a large gin and lime. She was dreading her husband's return because he had said he'd take her out to dinner. Although half American herself, Vanessa retained an English deference towards waiters and restaurants, with their snooty manner and demi-French menus. She always asked politely for something listed and was quick to accept that her request had been unreasonable if told that it was no longer available.
    John and his colleagues, with whom she was occasionally obliged to dine, didn't even look at the menu. They'd summon the waiter and tell him what they wanted.
    'Right, we'll start with a plate of ribs in the middle of the table here. Then I want carpaccio of beef with a thin mustard sauce. What? No, I'm not