Clapham, July 3rd

”Simon!” calls Lyla as she sees him stoop to fit his tall frame through the truncated door.

He sees her and smiles, nodding slightly and comes over, his eyes flitting self-consciously to the table of girls who have noted his entry with stares and whispers.

“Hello!” he says warmly, receiving the embrace that Lyla has offered, half-standing out of her chair.

She holds him a moment too long, protecting him, perhaps. He is still her sweet Simon: innocent and unknowing, struggling to figure out his place in this world. Although the sunglasses he places on the table are ten times the price she has ever paid for a pair. She can’t quite see him in the light that most people do, especially the table of girls who are surreptitiously trying to get Simon in the viewfinder of their camera phones.

“It’s like a bloody fishbowl,” says Lyla, not moving her lips in a lazy attempt at her own surreptitiousness as Simon sits down and leans in to hear her.

“Yeah, well, I know,” says Simon, unsure if he wants to get into another discussion about his newly-found fame.

“So, how are you?” asks Lyla, sensing his hesitation, eager also to return to the distilled form of normalcy the two friends now inhabit.

“Good, good,” says Simon. “I’m off for a week in France with Charlotte.”

“Ooo! Whereabouts?”

“Down near Toulouse – we’ve found – “

“Excuse me…”

It’s one of the girls from the table. She is grinning and can’t be more than 16 or 17 years old. Lyla and Simon look up toward her.

“Are you Simon from Seafish?” she asks, her made-up eyes eager and focused on Simon.

“Er, yes, I am,” he says, casting a quick glance at Lyla, who smiles slightly and then looks at the table.

“Can I have your autograph?” She offers Simon a pen and a journal, white with pink flowers on the covers, the first half of the blank pages covered with snippets of writing in different hands.

“Sure,” says Simon, taking the journal and finding the next blank page. “What’s your name?” He looks up at her, eyebrows raised.

“Charlotte.”

“Ah. Same as my girlfriend’s,” he says, and Charlotte giggles, receiving the closed journal and pen when he is finished.

“Thanks,” she says, raising her shoulders to her ears, still grinning.

“No worries,” says Simon, grinning back.

“Bye!” she says, backing away slowly.

“Bye,” says Simon.

“Bye,” says Lyla, after the girl has turned away and is walking swiftly back to her fold.

Simon and Lyla watch her until she sits, the heads of the other girls forming a tent around the journal. Simon and Lyla turn back to each other. They exchange a look that is half-quizzical, half-surprise, which then dissolves into a shared snicker.

“Right,” says Simon, “Where were we?”