On Beauty by Zadie Smith Read Free Book Online

Who’s that ?’
    â€˜Ah – the son, right.’
    â€˜Pardon? Who is this?’
    â€˜Er . . . look, I need to – this is awkward – I’m Jerome’s father and – ’
    â€˜Oh, right, let me just call him –’
    â€˜No – no – no, wait – one minute –’
    â€˜Â â€™Sno trouble – he’s having dinner, but I can call him –’
    â€˜No, don’t – I – look, I don’t want to . . . Thing is, I’ve just come from Boston . . . we only just heard, you see –’
    â€˜OK,’ said the voice in an exploratory way that Howard couldn’t get a handle on.
    â€˜Well,’ said Howard, swallowing hard, ‘I’d quite like to sound out someone in the family a little . . . before I speak properly to Jerome – he didn’t explain much – and obviously . . . I’m sure your father – ’
    â€˜My father’s eating too. Do you want to –’
    â€˜No . . . no, no, no, no, no , I mean, he won’t want to . . . no  . . . no, no – I just . . . whole thing’s a bloody mess, of course, it’s justa matter of –’ began Howard, but then could not think what indeed it was a matter of.
    A cough came down the line. ‘Look, I don’t understand – do you want me to get Jerome?’
    â€˜I’m right near you, actually –’ Howard blurted.
    â€˜Excuse me?’
    â€˜Yes . . . I’m calling from a phone-box . . . I don’t really know this bit of town and . . . no map, you see. You couldn’t . . . pick me up maybe? I’m rather – I’ll only get lost if I try to get to you – no sense of direction at all . . . I’m just at the station.’
    â€˜Right. It’s really an easy walk, I could give you directions.’
    â€˜If you could just pop up here, it would be very helpful – it’s getting dark already and I know I’ll take a wrong turn, and . . .’
    Howard cringed into the silence.
    â€˜I’d just like to ask you a few things, you see – before I see Jerome.’
    â€˜All right,’ said the voice at last, tetchy now. ‘Well – let me get my coat, yeah? Outside the station, right? Queen’s Park.’
    â€˜Queens . . . ? No, I, er . . . Oh, Christ , I’m at Kilburn – is that wrong? I thought you were in Kilburn.’
    â€˜Not really. We’re between the two, closer to Queen’s Park. Look, just . . . I’ll come and get you, don’t worry. Kilburn Jubilee line, right?’
    â€˜Yes, that’s right – that’s very kind of you, thank you. Is it Michael?’
    â€˜Yes. Mike. You’re . . . ?’
    â€˜Belsey, Howard Belsey. Jerome’s –’
    â€˜Yeah. Well, stay there, then, Professor. I’ll be seven minutes, maybe.’
    A rough white boy lurked outside the phone-box, with a doughy face and three well-spaced spots, one on his nose, one on his cheek and one on his chin. As Howard opened the door, doing the apologetic smile thing, the boy did the uninterested in outmoded social convention thing, saying ‘About fucking time ’, and then made it as difficult as possible for Howard to get out and for the boy to get in. Howard’s face glowed. Why this flush of shame, when it issomeone else who has been rude, pushing you roughly with their shoulder – why the shame? It was more than shame, though, it was also the physical capitulation – at twenty Howard might have sworn back at him or offered him out; at thirty, even at forty; but not at fifty-six, not now. Fearing an escalation ( What you looking at? ) Howard dug into his pocket and found the requisite three pounds for the nearby photo-booth. He bent his knees