The Liar's Dictionary

‘Winceworth! Thank you, thank you: twenty-seven years young!’ the birthday host hooted, unprompted. They were still shaking hands. Winceworth stared at their wrists rising and falling. He congratulated Frasham on attaining membership to the society.

‘Oh, that.’ Frasham pumped their hands and drew their heads together. ‘I

formed the club on my return. Had a word with my uncle—’ He opened a palm towards a man sitting by the window who had exactly the same air of charismatic gentility as his nephew. This depressed Winceworth, who had privately hoped that this demeanour might be pummelled out of Frasham by the progress of time.

Frasham continued, leaning in too close: ‘My uncle and I managed to secure these rooms – not a bad set-up for a soirée, don’t you think?’

Heaven knows the rooms’ intended purpose before Frasham and his uncle appropriated them for this ridiculous society. There were phantom yellow nicotine stains on the ceiling that spoke of masculine company, with corresponding grubby haloes above the armchairs. There were cartouches and black bulb-buttock Hermes statuettes dotted about in alcoves. Frasham had presumably added some small props to convey the society’s claims to the outré

: Winceworth almost tripped over an elephant-foot umbrella stand on the way in. He was also fairly sure that Frasham must have family connections with Kew Gardens who were not above loaning out some specimens from their Palm House – scattered about the wide room were swathes of potted reeds and long grasses, so thick and lush they could conceal a panther.

From what Winceworth could remember from previous conversations, Frasham’s uncle and the family money had something to do with rhubarb – rhubarb jam, preserves, conserves and marmalades shipped all over the world from a family estate. Winceworth never completely understood the difference between all of these things, but the emphasis was on cloying sweetness and teeth-on-edge, sour, tongue-curling congealments.

‘So,’ Winceworth said, smiling brightly, too brightly, consternation already broiling in his stomach. He worried that if he had to keep forcing this smile, the corners of his mouth would meet around the back of his head, and that then his head would detach and roll away. ‘So!’ he said again. ‘You are not only a member and founding member, but also, in fact, the sole member of the 1,500 Mile Society?’

‘One of two thus far, dear boy, one of two.’ Frasham beckoned a waiter to his side and Winceworth was suddenly holding a warmish exclamation mark of champagne. ‘When you manage to fling yourself further than Battersea you will be able to join us up there, what do you say?’

Winceworth followed Frasham’s extended hand – the man seemed incapable of pointing with a finger directly, gesturing instead as if he was taking part in a louche, dandified version of a Renaissance court dance – and let his eyeline be trained towards a wooden plate on the wall. It looked like a School House Prize commendation board.

In gold lettering, there was Frasham’s name (Cantab

) above that of Ronald Glossop.

Glossop was at that moment stationed by the door and making sure everyone signed their name in a guest book as they entered. Winceworth must have walked right past him without noticing, and certainly without being asked. As he watched, Glossop passed his lime-green handkerchief across his face and caught Winceworth’s eye. He raised his glass, Winceworth sipped his champagne, Frasham quaffed. A clock struck somewhere.

A band was playing in a corner of the room, punctuating the air with occasional blarts of oboe. Winceworth considered making some uninformed compliment on Frasham’s choice of music, but even as he opened his mouth, Frasham was buttonholed by another guest and steered away. Thankful for the lull, Winceworth relaxed into his usual social routine – counting paces as if he was in a cell.