Hari Kunzru's novels have the global sweep and worldwide appeal that make him a natural author for Penguin, and his books The Impressionist and Transmission have been critically acclaimed bestsellers on three continents. Concerning himself with the complicated interactions of modern life, Kunzru speaks to us all, and in Noise he brings together several haunting and strikingly relevant shorter pieces of fiction.

Le Pont d'Avignon

The waiter is decent enough. Often they'll hover round you, fluster you as you try to choose. Cheryl speaks some French, though as usual at the moment she isn't saying anything. When the wine comes she makes a grab for her glass, knocks it back and tells him to fill her up again. I'm extremely embarrassed. This is not the Cheryl I know. He says something funny to her with madame on the end of it and she giggles like a bloody schoolgirl. Tosses back another glassful, and then belches. I decide I should say something.

"Pull yourself together Cheryl. You're making a spectacle."

"Shut up," she says. She actually tells me to shut up, right there in the restaurant. And the waiter can hear too. Bastard starts sniggering to the girl who takes your coat.

"Cheryl!" Between my teeth, like. "Why are you doing this?"

As I say it I notice how she smells. She was always a clean girl, Cheryl. I wouldn't have married her otherwise. At first I think it's a new perfume. It's sweet, but not pleasantly so. Rotten-sweet like something you've left out of the fridge too long. It's quite disgusting. And she's sweating. Her face is shiny and damp.

"Look Cheryl. Love. It's obvious you're not well. We'd better be getting home. And she starts to laugh again.

"Not well, is it? Take a look at me, Barry. What is it you see?"

"Don't Cheryl. You're playing games. You know I don't like it."

"Come on love." Just like that. Sneering. "Come on love, answer me."

"I don't know. You, Cheryl. I see you."

"I don't think you see anything at all. But there's someone here, Barry. A human being." And she begins to laugh.

I will never forget how she looks at this moment, her sweaty face split open by that horrible grin. Cheryl, My Wife, looks disgusting, dirty. I get up to leave, trying to pull my wallet out of my jacket. I just want to go. She never uses that sort of language normally. I tell myself she's ill, doesn't know what she's doing. But at the same time I realize there's a side to her I didn't know before, a crude side. And I'm afraid. I don't even notice if she's following me as I stuff a twenty pound note into the waiter's hand.

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