042 :: Cooking is not my thing

Peter came up the stairs. Naomi sat at the breakfast bar. Two bowls. Cereal. Milk. Almond milk.

No rice. (Peter)

Peter poured cereal in his bowl. Added milk.

Not cooking. (Naomi)

Okay. So you do not like cooking. What do you like. What is your thing. (Peter)

Tianjin. (Naomi)

Tell you what. I will tell you a thing about me then you tell me a thing about you. Something. Anything. Deal. (Peter)

Yes. (Naomi)

I come from Stepnogorsk in Kazakhstan. My father worked in the mines. He emigrated from Delhi. I came here from Stepnogorsk. I have been nowhere else in the world. (Peter)

Cousin in Kazakhstan. Speak Uyghur. (Naomi)

Some people spoke Uyrghur. My father spoke English. School was in Kazakh. Also Russian. (Peter)

Your monther. (Naomi)

She came from Delhi. Arranged. She was beautiful. (Peter)

Where now. (Naomi)

My dad is still in Stepnogorsk. He will go home when he retires. My mother went back to Delhi when I was three. I do not remember her. Just photos. (Peter)

Sorry. (Naomi)

It is no matter. Other people think it is sad for me. I think it is normal. I say sorry when people say things like their mother was sticky. Or cross. Everyone says rude things about their mothers so I am not badly off. (Peter)

My mother lovely. She die three years past. So i am here. (Naomi)

How did she die. (Peter)

Cancer. (Naomi)

Cancer still kills in China. (Peter)

Women die everywhere. (Naomi)

Yes. Cancer gets you in the end. Just here you live for a long time when you get cancer. Here it is just the poor who die like that. (Peter)

Naomi said nothing.

Sorry. I should not have said that. Tell me something about you. Why you came here. Or tell me about your mother. (Peter)

Mother die. I here. (Naomi)

Naomi was typing on her Skroll so Peter waited.

I was carer. Sister work. Father work. (Naomi)

She die. I go Tianjin. (Naomi)

Waitress tell me au pair job. (Naomi)

I here. I lucky. (Naomi)

Yes. We are very lucky. Tell you what. It is going to be a nice day. We can finish our chores and then relax in the garden. (Peter)

Yes. (Naomi)

Naomi tidied upstairs. Peter cleaned the kitchen. Naomi vacuumed. Peter tidied downstairs. They were in the garden by ten. Peter gave her a blanket. It was not warm enough yet. She wrapped the blanket about her. Looked at Peter. He shrugged. Nodded. They went to the end of the garden. Lay on the patio. Peter passed her a cushion. He sat on the garden bench. His feet on the seat. His knees up. His Skroll on his legs. Naomi held her Skroll up for Peter.

What show we watched. (Naomi)

Peter looked at her blankly for a moment. Worked it out. Touched the side of her Skroll.

Skroll. Search Barneby. (Peter)

Naomi investigated Barneby. Minidocs. Showreels. Photoshoots. Barneby loved talking. Thousands of clips of him talking. Always talking at the camera. Always knowing where the camera was. Clever editing. Clever camera. The AI camera always knew where he was going to look next. Fast talking. Very fast talking. Sometimes too fast for her to read the subtitles. Pause. Read. He was quite beautiful. Fine features. Dark eyes. Big dark eyes. Satin chocolate skin. Bold outfits. Ridiculous outfits. Strange hair. Always different hair. He loved everyone. Love you. Love you. He was rude too. People were scared of him. He showed his worst moments. Him taking a piss. HIm vomiting. Him shoving food in his mouth. Clever. He gave his fans the mundane. People are obsessed with the mundane. The banal. That is how it works. It is not the person who is brilliant. It is the person who becomes the focus. He was followed. Everyone wanted to be him. Wanted to see themselves in him. Look he shits like me. Look he parties like me. London life was all his now. His for free. Celebrities paid no bills. His followers paid. When they devoured everything he did they paid. Stupid. Stupid fun. But Barneby was not just a celebrity. He was scripted. He was his own playwright. A fucking good one. Or maybe someone wrote great scripts for Barneby. And the best roll they wrote was Barneby himself. Probably a writing team.

Nothing was ever as it seemed. Not in London.

043 :: A mother
Naomi and Peter were sitting at the end of the garden. What this. (Naomi) Oh. ...