 
BURN THE PAGES

by Matthew Morgan

(2nd edition)

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Matthew Morgan

Also available:

"The Future of Fictions" – essays

"We Were Children" – short stories

matthewmwriter.wixsite.com/writer

www.facebook.com/MatthewMWriter

The contents of this e-book are licensed under a  Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Table of Contents

"Overture"

"Music Below"

"The Sin in Hymns"

"Satchmo on the Sound System"

"The Violence of Violins"

"In and Out, In and Out"

"Burn the Pages"

Acknowledgements

OVERTURE

Henry woke with an unsettling failure to locate himself, not immediately recognising the bed he was in, or the window to his right, or the colour of the walls. He sat up and looked around. He recognised the brown duvet and the rug on the floor and the painting on the wall, but he still couldn't work out why they were here – they belonged to another person and another place, somewhere other than his own home. The present and its reality caught up to him, or he caught up to it, along with the weary realisation that he was in somebody else's bedroom. He fingered a line of sleep from his eye and then found the smartphone on the shelf next to the bed. He checked the phone – a message was waiting to be read. He rolled out of bed and dressed, ignoring the phone for a moment. His clothes were balled up under a dress and tangled up in the straps of a bra. Eventually, he turned back to the phone and read his message: _Still up for today? Meet before so know what we're saying?_

Henry tapped at the touchscreen and wrote his reply: _Sure. Where and when?_

Seconds later the response came, instant messaging putting the swiftest angels to shame, faster than gods in winged sandals. The message read: _My place. About 4.30pm. Get the others together, let them know._

Already Henry was being burdened with more than he wanted. He hadn't asked for this crown that made him so uneasy. As a distraction, he read through new emails and facebook messages he'd received while he'd been asleep. There was an invitation to a Halloween party from a friend – it was only the last week of September, but she made the fair point that if she didn't ask him early, he'd make other plans. He replied to the message, confirming he'd be there. Then he went to the kitchen.

There was no one here, so he looked around at eye-level, searching for the most obvious place someone might leave a note. He found it, a pink heart-shaped sticky-note on the back of the front door. He took it to look at: _Make yourself at home._ She had scratched out _Thanks for last_ and finished the terse note with _Call you later. Letty x_. He made himself a strong coffee, drank it and found a pen in the cutlery drawer. He turned the sticky-note over and considered a message to leave for her. He settled on _Might be busy later. I'll call you if I'm free_. These words exchanged between them were just words, and they were more for themselves than the other person. She'd written her note to fool herself that he might answer her call, and he'd written his note ... Why had he written his note? Speaking just to be heard wasn't communication, and this note was only a note. He wouldn't call her later, he knew it like she knew it, but he'd never lied before. Maybe this note was an attempt to force himself to do for her what he felt he should. Forget it – he pushed it into his pocket instead of leaving it in her flat.

Henry left and decided to visit Laura first – one of the other four meant to be joining them later today – because he happened to have in his pocket the CD she'd lent him. He went outside to his bike, chained to a lamppost in front of her building, unlocked it and set off for Laura's house.

•••

Henry appreciated the breeze he created as he sped through the stale air. He knew that by this evening the dry heat would become oppressive, but for now he enjoyed it. After last week's rain, the sudden sun was welcome.

Weaving between the restless cars queued up behind a red light, he hopped onto the curb, crossed the corner of the pavement and then back onto the road, racing the vehicles going this way. He was chasing freedom, tasting it briefly in fleeting realisations that _this was it_ , but he kept pedalling. He pedalled because he had to, because if he stopped he would never have that feeling he was after every time he got on his bike, but if he ever achieved it he would stop pedalling and lose it. He could only keep going.

He hummed a song that had been playing in his mind all morning. It was the first track on the CD he was returning to Laura. He'd copied the album to his computer after the first listen, and he'd played it on repeat. She'd been exactly right when she said the album would be 'totally your thing, Henry'. It was a folksy album by a woman named Martha Tilston. Laura knew his tastes well. _She knew the audience_ , a phrase that made his mind – free from his worries while he was cycling – go back to when he was six. His brother had been working on a college assignment while their dad was out. Henry had waited until the front room was clear and crept in. Then he'd taken every other page from a stack of handwritten notes and hid them under the cushion of the sofa. It was mindless entertainment for a bored six-year old, but his brother had been furious even after he found the pages. As soon as their father had come home, Henry was dragged in front of the man for a telling-off. But Henry's brother hadn't thought about whom he was appealing to. Their father erupted in laughter, partly at the prank and partly at his oldest son's seriousness, and he laughed the whole thing off. Henry's brother should have considered their father's character before telling him anything. _Know your audience_.

Henry arrived at Laura's house, a little bungalow with a purple door. He propped his bike against the runner beans growing along the wall. He knocked at the door, and Laura answered in the green hippie-hoody that she always seemed to be wearing. He handed her the CD first.

'Also,' he said, 'Phil wants us to meet at his place this afternoon, around four-thirty. Can you make it?'

'Fantastic, I'll be there, yeah. We can really iron this whole thing out, sort what we want to say. Cool.'

'Okay, I've got to get off. I'm doing the lunch shift.'

'Oh, if Rachel's in can you tell her I won't be able to swap shifts with her? Thank you!'

Henry said bye and she closed the door. Before taking to his bike again, he checked his phone for the time – yes, he would be at the bar fifteen minutes before his shift, which the boss had insisted on. Henry decided to call a friend who was in town for a while, a young woman called Lucy. He wanted company tonight. He was imagining how tonight's meeting might go, and Lucy was good at removing his mind from the world. He connected so completely with her (sometimes he couldn't decide between sex with her or conversation, she was eloquent in both) that everything else ceased to exist for the duration of their infrequent trysts.

He called her phone, listened to the dial tone and then the ringing. There was no answer. He knew if she didn't answer first time she was busy, and he wouldn't be able to reach her until she got in touch with him. He got back on his bike. As he returned to the main road and the traffic, he tried and failed to regain that feeling he'd as he cycled to Laura's, that feeling of solace in his solitude.

•••

Henry rolled into the staff car park behind the wine bar and hopped off the bike. He locked it up and went inside. He went through the building, greeting the kitchen staff and the waitresses, but the only one here he needed to speak to was Rachel. She was cleaning off the bar with a grey rag and singing along to Damien Rice's 'Delicate'. This song came on at the bar almost every shift, but it never lost anything for Henry. So much was said with so little, a stripped down guitar and string notes and an honest voice.

'Rachel, how are you?'

'Henry! I didn't see you there. Did you hear anything from Phil? He said he would arrange things through you.'

'Yeah, he messaged me this morning. We're meeting at his place at four-thirty.'

'Great.' She lowered her voice and her shifty eyes searched for prying ears. 'I'm getting so pissed off now. It's not on.'

'Well, let's try and get it sorted tonight. By the way, I just saw Laura – she said she can't swap shifts with you ...'

'Fucking hell, Henry!'

He threw up his hands defensively. 'Don't shoot _me_.'

Rachel went back to her cleaning. Hayley, one of the waitresses, came out to the bar and turned the sign on the door over to 'Open'. The lunch hour slipped by quietly, with only a few customers. Eventually, Henry left the bar and went over to Hayley.

'Hayley, have you seen David?'

Hayley was going out with David, the manager of the bar. This went a long way in explaining why someone as rude and inept as Hayley would be allowed to keep her job serving customers.

'Nope. Try his office. Why?' She sounded suspicious.

'Oh, just something I need to run by him.'

'Is it about your holiday?'

'Yes, actually. How did you know?'

Henry had booked next week off, almost three months ago. David had assured him the time would be booked off as holiday. Yesterday, Henry had seen the coming fortnight's rota pinned to the board by the kitchen – he'd been scheduled in for shifts throughout next week.

Hayley seemed guilty and refused to look at Henry. She began straightening out table cloths evasively.

'Hayley, how did you know?'

'Hmm? Oh, I don't know, I might have heard something.'

Henry didn't expect to get much out of her, so he went to check the rota again, wanting to be sure he'd read it correctly before speaking to David. This time he noticed that, while he hadn't been booked off for holiday that week, Hayley had. Henry marched back to the bar.

'Hayley, have you got next week off?'

'Um ... I think I might ...'

'When did you ask for it off, how long ago?'

'Oh, I can't think ... Maybe you should talk about it with David.'

Hayley could be frustratingly incapable of communication. Henry wasn't sure if she was being deliberately obtuse or genuinely couldn't think coherently enough to give a straight answer.

'I will talk to David, but it would help to get all the details. So why do you have next week off, but I don't?'

'Well ... I think David knows ...'

Henry was weary of this dance and retreated to the bar. Rachel handed Henry a glass of amber liquid and directed him to a man he recognised, sitting at a table at the other end of the bar. 'Johnnie Walker for the guy over there.'

He took the whisky over to the man at the corner table. This man had become a regular, and although Henry had not yet got his name, they'd shared brief exchanges that Henry had enjoyed. The man was eloquent and argumentative and certainly not dull. Tonight, he was typing furiously at a laptop, glaring at the screen as if pouring vitriol into his writing. Henry put the drink softly next to him, worried the man might be angry about something, but he smiled graciously at Henry.

'Cheers.'

Henry nodded and said, 'You're a writer?'

'I am indeed. Although I was described by someone today as a writer _and_ polemicist. I thought that was utterly fatuous, as if the two were divisible. How can a writer being anything other than a polemicist? Anyway, my apologies, I'm keeping you from your work.'

'I really don't mind,' Henry said. David came out to the bar at that moment, and Henry seized his chance to speak with him.

'David, are you going to be here this evening? I have a couple of things I was hoping to speak with you about. Actually, a few of us wanted to have a bit of a meeting with you, if that's okay?'

David seemed unconcerned by this news. He simply nodded.

'What time would be all right?'

'Just come and see me on your break, and bring whoever you're bringing.'

Henry thanked him and went back to serving drinks. The shift slipped by, and finally the wine bar closed again. There were a few hours before the bar opened for the evening, and Henry was hungry, so he decided to eat a sandwich on the cathedral green. As he left the bar, his phone began to ring. He let it ring until she gave up, unable to even offer Letty an excuse or explanation for why he couldn't see her tonight. He was offering a lot – for him – to others already tonight. He was selfish, so he told himself, but had made peace with it. He went out to his bike, unlocked it and left.

•••

Henry cycled past a newsagent on his way toward the cathedral, which he could see reaching above the tops of the shops. He jumped off his bike and went into the newsagent to buy a BLT sandwich. Then he returned to his bike and went to the cathedral. He lay his bike down on a spot on the grass and sat and began to eat. The sun began to seep so deeply into his skin that eating became a chore. A woman Henry knew through mutual friends walked by, and he remembered that he was supposed to pass a message on to her. He was getting tired of passing on messages, discussing things he had little interest in discussing.

'Donna!' He stood to get her attention. 'Donna!'

Donna turned back and, seeing him and his ridiculous waving, came back to where he was.

'Henry, how are you?'

'I'm good, I'm good.' He frantically chewed the bit of sandwich still in his mouth and swallowed, irritated that he hadn't waited to take this bite after she'd gone, so he could savour it. 'Aria emailed me – he's loving it out there. I'm supposed to tell you that he'll be back in two weeks, and he will stay with you, if the offer still stands.'

'Of course,' Donna said. 'Let him know he can stay with us for as long as he needs.'

Henry was conscious of a string of lettuce dangling from between two of his upper teeth. He tongued it and tried to hide that he was doing so by scratching his nose.

'I'll pass it on. I'll –' The bit of lettuce came loose, but now it was on the tip of his tongue and for some reason, he didn't want to swallow it. He swallowed it anyway and wondered why he was so disgusted by it. Remembering he'd been saying something, he picked up his thought again. 'I'll be picking him from the airport when he arrives, and I'll bring him to your place.'

'Good of you, and thanks for passing on the message.'

'Not a problem. Out of curiosity, though, when are you going to start using emails?'

'When there's something wrong with pen and paper.'

He smiled at her, thinking she was quaint and knowing she couldn't care less what he thought of her. The serious look on her face broke to offer him a sincere smile. She patted his shoulder once and said goodbye. He watched her leave and then returned to what was left of his sandwich, the final crust and remnant of a tomato.

Henry heard the sound of a choir practising inside the cathedral. Their voices carried meaningless words to the world out here. In this case, style won out over substance. It didn't matter to him what nonsense they might be singing, what past these songs had emerged from. For him, today, they touched something more profoundly within him than sermons ever had. The notes they sung were pleasing to his ears, the architecture they sang beneath was astounding. His mind was not engaged, he simply _felt_.

A withered man in a long, black robe hurried by. He disappeared into the church. Above the heavy door the cleric closed behind himself, sturdy men worked with impressive efficiency, hoisting large slabs of stonework into place. Henry watched the men ascending the scaffolding erected against this side of the cathedral, carrying tools on their belts. Presumably theirs was a constant job of continual restoration. But these men at work on the stone were flourishing where the men in robes had failed; the stonemasons had found something worth preserving.

After sitting for a long time and forming in his mind the words he might use tonight, Henry got up from the grass and took the wrapper of his sandwich to the nearest bin. He saw Andrzej – who had told his colleagues to call him Andrew – walking toward him across the grass. He was the kitchen porter, a hard-working man from Poland, whom Henry suspected was capable of much more than washing dishes. It was likely his broken English had been a problem in job interviews, but he hadn't been here long and was trying hard to grasp the language. Andrew appreciated efforts made to let him in on certain nuances of English, but he was proud and occasionally insisted he be left without help to search his memory for the word or phrase he was after. Henry went to him and the men shook hands, as Andrew always did, a formal gesture entirely at odds with his relaxed and friendly attitude.

'Hello,' Andrew said. 'How are you, mate?'

Andrew liked to say these common phrases often, adding words and expressions he'd recently learned to his repertoire with pride.

'I'm well, thanks. You?'

'Yes, I'm well also. You know how to go? Not "how to go" ...'

' _Where_ to go.'

Andrew grinned. 'Yes! Where to go! Thank you.'

Henry picked up his bike from the grass, and the two of them set off, Henry pushing his bike so he could walk alongside Andrew.

•••

Henry and Andrew arrived at Phil's flat a little later than planned. They'd become lost along the way, Henry had taken them down a wrong street, but between them they got back on track and had found the street they needed. Just before reaching Phil's place, Henry saw someone he knew, walking ahead of them. Her name was Anna and she was the dullest person he'd ever met. She had nothing original or interesting to say, which he found tiresome and made him avoid contact with her when he could help it. So he slowed his pace, waited for her to turn off the street, and then he and Andrew found their way to the front door of Phil's building.

Phil answered the door and they followed him inside. They were told that Rachel and Laura were already here, then they followed him through the building toward the kitchen where the women were waiting. It was a large flat that Phil shared with two other guys (the kind of people who called this place their 'lad-pad', and Henry was glad they had gone out). In the kitchen, Laura was sitting at a table, rolling a cigarette with liquorice paper. Rachel was opening a window, letting in a light breeze of hot air. Laura lit up her cigarette, and Henry and the others joined her at the table.

'All right,' Phil said, 'let's all say, like, what our problems are, and we'll see where they overlap and decide, like, how we want to approach this thing. Henry, got anything?'

Henry did not want to go first, but then he wasn't convinced he wanted to be part of this at all. He must have been whingeing to someone at work. His issues had become tangled up in someone else's, the combination of which had collected other people's problems, and suddenly he was part of this group. He'd prefer to voice his own concerns independently to David, to deal with his own things in his own way. But he was here now, and everyone looked at him expectantly.

'Well, I was promised next week off for a holiday, and yesterday I found out David's scheduled me in, and it looks like he's given the week off to Hayley.'

'Surprise, surprise,' Phil muttered. 'What else?'

'My pay was a week late again, that's two months in a row, and it completely messed up paying my rent and bills.'

'Me too,' said Rachel.

'Same as me,' Laura said.

Phil said, 'So we're all pretty pissed off about that. Right, who else is fed up of this shit about having to be early and staying on late? We got no reason to do it, like, we're not being paid for it.'

The others agreed. Henry silently agreed with them. They were expected to start fifteen minutes before the start of their shift, and most nights they all ended up staying on at least a half hour extra to close up and tidy, but they weren't paid for this overtime, only for their scheduled hours. Still, the music was left on, and Henry always chatted with whomever else was there, and he rarely had somewhere to urgently get to, so he wasn't greatly bothered about this. He could have let it go.

'And the right drinks aren't being ordered,' Rachel said. 'We've got tons of untouched whiskies, just because David likes them, and alcohol for cocktails no one buys. But we haven't got anywhere near enough of the drinks our customers keep asking for.'

'Good, good, we'll raise all of these issues.' Phil passed Laura a dirty plate for her ash. 'How about you, Andrew? Anything to say?'

Andrew stumbled over a few words and eventually managed to say, 'I am thinking these things also.'

'Thanks for the contribution,' Phil sighed. He turned away from the group, grumbling, 'At least learn the language.'

'Leave him be,' Laura said.

'Look, I've not got no problem with immigrants,' Phil said, his double negative causing him to be unintentionally honest, 'but they have to be able to communicate.'

Henry spoke up at last. 'He's trying to learn the language, so give him a break.'

'Yes, leave him alone,' said Rachel.

'I am right here,' Andrew interrupted. 'Thank you, but I fighting for myself.'

They all apologised and the talk went back to the proper topic.

Phil said, 'Look, I'm not happy about the new layout of the restaurant side. The tables are too close together, we got no room for moving. And we need another waitress.'

'We've got enough waitresses,' Rachel protested. 'We've probably got one too many.'

'No, no, no. We need another waitress. I should know, I _am_ the head waiter.'

Henry cut in. 'I'm not sure that's appropriate for tonight. It doesn't seem like anyone else is that concerned about it.'

'What about your holiday next week? That don't concern the rest of us.'

'But that's the original reason I was going to speak with David. You all wanted to join with me to talk to David, and I don't mind as long as the other issues are things we all agree on. Maybe you could talk with David on your own about those two things, another time?'

'Fine, whatever. But, like, the pay and the overtime and the orders, when we talk about them we've got to be firm. No dicking around, we tell him this is what we want and it's got to be this way.'

'I'm not sure that's the best way, Phil.' Laura rubbed her cigarette onto the plate until it went out. 'We should just lay out our concerns and trust David will address them appropriately.'

Phil snorted. 'Don't be simple. You'll just get walked over if you do that.'

'He respects us, Phil. And he is our boss, we should respect him.'

'For Christ's sake ...'

Henry jumped between them with palms held out to soothe the tension. 'How about this: we lay out our concerns clearly for David, suggest how we would like them addressed, and then the ball is in David's court to decide how he'll handle it. That's as fair as we can be. We can't force anyone's hand, but we can have a voice and be clear about what we're saying.'

Phil shrugged, but Laura seemed pleased with the suggestion.

Rachel said, 'I vote that Henry represents us.'

The others all nodded, at last in agreement, though on the only issue Henry had feared they would unite on.

'I knew this would happen. Every time something needs to be said, it falls to me to say it. I sorted out our pay when it was late the first month, I convinced David to let you, Phil, have that weekend off. Why am I your spokesperson?'

'Because he listens to you,' Phil said. 'No one listens to _me_.'

Henry wasn't happy about this, but if it made it any easier to have all of these people and their problems unified by a single speaker, so be it. Besides, he was beginning to feel somewhat selfish about thinking only of what he wanted to say. On paper, their problems were clearly valid, but he was more interested in addressing the two issues that were on his mind. Maybe they weren't as important as he thought. Taking up the concerns of his colleagues might add some gravitas to what he had to say.

The five of them stayed at Phil's for a while and drank coffee. Phil forced them to listen to a band he'd discovered. Phil called them a 'math-core' band. The music was fast and technical, but too aggressive for Henry's taste. It was too much shock to allow any awe. The pounding tempo and crashing drums and the squealing sound Phil called 'pinched harmonics', all competing with the guttural vocals, drew his focus from any meaning that might have been lying beneath this intensity. Phil tired Henry out simply by being himself, and the music was giving Henry a headache, so he left before the others did. He cycled home for a quick shower under cold water, then slowly cycled a long way round to the wine bar for the evening shift.

•••

Henry left his bike locked up behind the wine bar. Andrew was in the kitchen, Rachel was on the bar with Henry. It was a fairly busy evening, and a few hours passed by quickly before Phil and Laura turned up. They sat in a corner, out of the way, talking over drinks. Rachel handed Henry a glass of amber liquid and directed him to a man he recognised, sitting at a table at the other end of the bar. 'Johnnie Walker for the guy over there.'

He took the whisky over to the man at the corner table. This man had become a regular, and although Henry had not yet got his name, they'd shared brief exchanges that Henry had enjoyed. The man was eloquent and argumentative and certainly not dull. Tonight, he was typing furiously at a laptop, glaring at the screen as if pouring vitriol into his writing. Henry put the drink softly next to him, worried the man might be angry about something, but he smiled graciously at Henry.

'Cheers.'

Henry nodded and said, 'You're a writer?'

'I am indeed. Although I was described by someone today as a writer _and_ polemicist. I thought that was utterly fatuous, as if the two were divisible. How can a writer being anything other than a polemicist? Anyway, my apologies, I'm keeping you from your work.'

'I really don't mind,' Henry said, but he returned to the bar and discovered it was time for his break. Time for their meeting. He went over to Phil and Laura, telling them he was going to speak with David now. Rachel would have to stay and mind the bar, but Henry got Andrew out of the kitchen. They followed Henry through to the backroom that David used as an office.

'Right,' David said. He was sitting in a swivel chair. His desk was littered with receipts and a bowl of half-eaten microwave macaroni. There was a radio on the shelf behind David's head, playing something that sometimes sounded like a melody beneath the white noise of radio static. David didn't turn the volume down, though it was loud and distracting. 'What can I do for the four of you?'

Henry stepped forward, knowing the others were watching his back, feeling the pressure to speak on their behalf. David turned side to side on his chair, keeping his eyes locked on Henry.

'We've all been speaking, and we have a few concerns.'

'Go ahead.'

'Okay.' Henry raised his voice to be heard over the nasty sound of the radio. 'I have something of my own to address first, so we'll get that out of the way. My holiday next week – is that still all right for me to take?'

'Let's see ...' David turned over a page on his desk and stared at it. 'I've got the rota here, and you're in next week.'

'I booked that time off almost three months ago, and you assured me it would be fine.'

'I said I didn't mind seeing if it would be possible, but I couldn't promise that.'

'With respect, David, that's not what was said. But let's assume you did say that. Why would it be the case that I can't have the week off, but Hayley can?'

Before Henry could get an answer, Andrew stepped forward and said, 'David, I am late to have my pay, like the last month.'

'Your pay?' David frowned as if this was a surprise to him.

'Yes, and I need pay to do my rent and ...'

The others watched Andrew try to recall the word he needed.

'Ah ... _Ja pierdole_ ... My friend in America, he tells me this word. Like bills to pay.'

Henry, trying to move the conversation along, tried to help. 'You mean –'

'No! You must not help. It is ...'

The room was silent – except for the damned radio – as they waited. Henry was frustrated. This was not going the way he'd wanted it to. And he didn't want the issue of his holiday glossed over. Finally, Andrew spoke up.

'Utility!'

'Utilities?' Laura said. 'We don't really say that in England.'

Henry tried to take the lead again. 'The point is –'

'Look,' Phil said, 'all of our pay was a week late, and this is the second time now. It really makes problems for paying rent and other bills, especially the ones that are direct debit for a certain date.'

'Well, that will have to be dealt with,' David said. 'I can only apologise.'

Henry interrupted. 'Sorry, can we go back to the issue of my holiday, please?'

David said, 'Well, Henry, we simply can't spare the bar staff. I need you in that week.'

Just as Henry opened his mouth, the chef in the kitchen next door began yelling at someone. Henry paused and, when the yelling stopped, tried to speak, but this time a sound like a blender started up in the kitchen. It whirred loudly, then rattled, then whirred again, as if competing with the radio to be The Most Obnoxious Sound. Finally, the blender stopped, and Henry only had to be heard over the radio again.

He said, 'Surely you can keep Hayley in to waitress and have one of the other girls on the bar instead. They're all trained and more than able to do the job.'

'I hear you. Let's put that to one side, just for a minute. What else did you need to talk to me about?'

Henry reluctantly spoke again. 'Rachel pointed out that we have a problem with the alcohol we're ordering in, and I have to agree.'

'Sure, sure. She mentioned that a while ago, actually. We'll have a look at what we've got tonight after we close, and the two of you can give me your ideas.'

'Actually, that's another issue, David. We're all doing regular overtime, some nights a whole hour extra, but we're not being paid for it.'

'I agree that's not great,' David said. 'I'm going to address that. Either we'll try and get you all finishing on time, or I might see about paying for that overtime.'

Phil raised his voice again. 'Those tables are too damn close together, David. The layout's got to change. It has to. And we need another waitress, as soon as possible.'

'Phil, for God's sake ...' Henry was losing his motivation for any of this. He wanted to go away and be silent. Discouraged and feeling ineffectual, he tried to reign things in. 'Phil, you said you'd discuss that another time. David, it's the pay, the drinks and the overtime that we want addressed. And I need my holiday sorted out.'

David stood and smiled sympathetically. 'Of course, I understand completely. Thank you for bring these things to my attention. I'll get on this right away.'

He was ushering his staff out of the room, but Phil stood where he was. 'But what are you actually going to do?'

'Leave it with me, just leave it with me.'

Henry tried to be heard again. 'But what about my week off?'

'Well, I've got a lot to deal with here, with everyone else's problems. I'll have to get to those first. Tell you what, leave the matter with me and I'll see if I can move some things around.'

David continued to move them out of the room. The meeting was over. As they began to go their own ways, Henry listened half-heartedly to the alternating complaints and self-congratulations of Laura, Phil and Andrew:

'I think we really achieved something there.'

'Well, we'll see ...'

'No, we did really well. We got our points across.'

'Better now, is better.'

'I'm not convinced. I'll walk if things don't change now. Watch me, I'll leave.'

Phil and Laura left through the back. Andrew returned to the kitchen. Henry went back to the bar, wishing he could sit on the other side and have a strong drink served to him. His phone vibrated in his pocket, a text had arrived. He slipped the phone out and read the message. Letty: _Free tonight?_ He hesitated, considered the sympathy she might show him – through sex, or soft words, or letting him fall asleep while she rubbed his shoulders in front of the television – and he thumbed a reply to her. _I am for you. See you in a few hours._ He dropped the phone back into his pocket and shuffled behind the bar.

Rachel passed a handful of change to the man she'd just served, then she whispered close to Henry's ear, 'So? How did it go?'

Henry was tired and bored and deeply apathetic. He shrugged at Rachel and sighed. 'Who am I to say?'

MUSIC BELOW

Lucy was tangled in the bed sheet, and she was trying to unwrap it from around her. She didn't like being unable to move. Joseph's body behind her was exuding heat that seared her when his flesh touched hers, which made her pull away sharply. The weather had turned warm again – an Indian summer, they called it. Her skin was wet with sweat, and the bed was soaked in sunshine. She listened to the rhythm of a bass line, the metronomic beat from music below Joseph's flat.

'Come here, gorgeous.' His arm wound around her waist. She held onto the headboard and groaned so he would know she wanted to be left alone. He either didn't notice or disregarded what she wanted. It was too hot to wrestle, so she lay out straight, let him squeeze her in a cuddle.

'You're like a child,' she teased. 'Stop cuddling up to me like a kid.'

She prised his arm from her waist to pull away and breathe. She looked at him. He really was beautiful. The signs of ageing on his face and skin and hair were like stamps in a passport, proof of having lived. There was a tiny bit of flesh removed, a scar that was barely noticeable unless she was as close as she was now. He said it was from when he was a young boy, he'd fallen on gravel. The lines around his mouth were accented when he smiled or frowned. The skin around his eyes was dark like coffee, it made him look weary and sexy. This late-thirties man balanced a boyishness with his age, a combination of reckless charm and accumulating experience. It was that which first made her want to fuck him.

'Shall we...?' He lifted the sheet to reveal his erection.

'With this heat?'

'What can I say? You're an aphrodisiac.'

She tried not to recoil too obviously from the embarrassing effort at seduction.

'I need to breathe,' she told him. 'I'm too hot.'

She peeled the sheet from her body and sat up to feel the breeze from the window against the back of her head. She got out of his bed and stood beside it, looking out of the window. Lucy turned away from the view and explored the flat. It had been several months since she had been here last. The white walls seemed closer somehow, as if the space that made up the bedroom, front room, and kitchen was now smaller. The bareness of the walls and the smooth wood floor made the flat feel as if everything in it was within reach. There was no complexity here, everything was close and nothing was hidden – standing by the bed, she could see the kitchen table, the chairs, the Peace Lily, the clothes rail and the clothes hung on it, everything here but the bathroom. There was nothing to explore.

As she gazed across the flat, she heard him stir and turn over. He was looking at her with one arm behind his head, his foot twitching in time to the music from the neighbours. She was attracted to him, but he knew he looked good, posed like that, and it turned her off a little. She had never been aroused by efforts to arouse her – the beauty of somebody simply being themselves always turned her on. Joseph's chat-up lines had not got her into bed. She hadn't had sex with him until they'd ended up at his flat because he'd got into a fight with somebody. She found his split lip sexy and wanted to nurse it. She'd cleaned up the blood, he'd taken his ripped shirt off, and the animosity of what he'd got himself into turned her on. She should have condemned the stupidity of his violence, but knowing it was wrong only spurred the attraction on. Then she had kissed his wounded lip and went to bed with him.

'I've just realised,' Joseph said, 'you haven't told me anything about Paris.'

Lucy returned to the bed but stayed at the bottom end, perching her bum on the mattress and stretching her bare legs over his feet. 'Well, we haven't talked about much, have we? We've been busy.'

He sat up and moved toward her, put a hand on her knee and brushed it with his thumb. His knuckles were hairy. The skin over the joints looked like the sheet on the bed, deep wrinkles bunched up all over.

'What happened to Helen?' he asked. 'Why didn't she come back with you?'

'She got to stay longer. My job ended, hers didn't.'

'That's funny how that worked out, that after you were the one who convinced her to go...'

'I understand the irony.'

'So, Paris kept Helen.'

Lucy slid off the bed and away from him. 'Actually, I don't feel like talking about it right now. I've been telling everyone about it since I've been back.'

He nodded and said, 'I understand,' but he didn't understand. The truth was that Lucy was not tired of talking about Paris and felt like she never would be. She was tired of the way people interpreted Paris, forcing her experiences through their own narrow prisms. She didn't want it distorted or packaged into small homogenous boxes of commonplace sentiments, the kind written on postcards about what kind of food she'd eaten, and what sights she'd seen, and what the weather was like. She tried to illuminate such subjects with observations about subjective details: the strength of the coffee served, the particular shade of grey that she had only ever seen at Montmartre Cemetery, what the frantic and superficially aggressive interactions between people on Paris' streets had taught her about herself. But these things were diminished by patronising attempts to liken these to mere holiday anecdotes. When she told her father about the humbling experience of being truly insignificant in such a large city, that she could walk by so many people and be seen by none of them, he responded with, 'That's why the sodding traffic is a nightmare in cities. Clueless idiots on the road taking no notice.'

Joseph got out of bed, and she saw a change in his eyes. 'Listen to that – they've got their music on downstairs _again_.'

'It's "Ares". It's great.'

'What is?'

He moved toward her, and she casually moved away.

'The song they're playing. It's Bloc Party, I love this song.'

He didn't seem interested in the information. He was busy trying to lace his fingers through hers, but she wasn't playing along. She left her hand limp and their fingers tangled, twisted and hurt, so he gave up. He took his trousers from the floor and slid them on, while watching her suspiciously. 'Why do you seem distant?'

'Do I? I don't mean to.'

'You don't seem to want to touch me.'

'Joseph, we just had sex, how can you say I don't want to touch you?' She knew he was tightrope walking across moods – he might still fall into depression.

'You're right. Sorry.' He did up his belt, and his eyes softened. This was the reason they could not stay in the suffocating relationship they'd once had. It was heart breaking to be letting him down every time she couldn't cheer him up. In the end, letting him down that one, big time in ending their relationship had been the better option. But sex kept them together, kept them in each other's lives. He insisted that he not be defined by his disorder, that she respect that he had the capacity to enjoy his libido.

Lucy's phone began to ring. It was in the pocket of her jeans, which she had kicked off earlier, next to the bed. She picked them up and dug into the pockets until she retrieved the phone, still ringing. She pressed 'silence'.

Joseph yelled at the floor, 'Christ, do they have to have their music _so loud_?' He pointed at her phone, which she was hiding back in her pocket. 'Who was that?'

Joseph's interest in the identity of the caller worried her. She knew his patterns. She told him, 'It was a friend.'

'Oh, right.' He went across the room to the sink in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. 'The guy you were sleeping with?'

'Yes.'

'Are you still sleeping with him?'

'Why are you asking?'

'I can't ask?' he said sharply.

'Yes, you can ask. I just wondered why. Does it bother you?'

He didn't say anything. He still had his back to her. The music below got louder.

'Joseph, you know I have my own life and –'

'Yeah, yeah. You have your own life, and I don't get a say in it or who you fuck. I'm just the "ex". What a joke.'

'What does _that_ mean?'

'I may be the ex,' he said, between self-assured sips of his water, 'but I'm also the one you keep coming back to.'

'How many times are we going to have this conversation? I'm getting bored of it.'

He sighed, measured and even, and then threw his glass into the sink. She heard it smash, but she wasn't scared. She was desensitised to the acts of aggression that accompanied his depressions. He muttered something and seemed to be picking at his hand, still turned away from her. He dropped a small piece of glass onto the counter. She saw a drop of blood on the shard as it danced to its own music, tinkling across the work surface before falling dead. Joseph sucked at his hand. She almost asked if he was okay, but of course he was, and the injury was his own damned fault. He groaned, took his hand from his mouth, clenched it and struck it down on the edge of the sink.

'Don't!' Lucy yelled at him.

'Don't what?' he yelled back, turning to face her. 'Don't love you? Don't want you for myself? I can't do that.'

'You do just fine without me. I know about the girl from Zane's. And what about Stacey? Yeah, you've gone quiet now, haven't you?'

'They don't mean anything, not like you.'

'How lovely.' Lucy had calmed enough to pull on her pants and jeans.

'Don't go.' He had a pathetic grimace on his face, that wounded look that used to work on her. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to smash the glass.'

She laughed, knowing he could not be so stupid as to think _that_ was why she was leaving. As she was reaching for her shirt, he came across the room to her, his eyes seeking forgiveness and leaking weak tears, his voice pleading for sympathy.

'Baby, don't leave. I don't mean these things I say, I don't know why I say them. I'm just scared, I guess. Please don't leave.'

'That's the point, Joseph. I'm going to leave, and you have to be alright with that.'

'What do you mean? Where are you going?'

'Cyprus next.'

'Cyprus? What the fuck is in Cyprus?'

'I'm desperate to go there – you don't get it.'

'Jesus Christ.' He paced away from her. The rhythmic pounding of the neighbours' music got louder again, the tempo of this new song more intense. 'That fucking music!'

'I've had enough. I'm leaving.'

'I didn't mean to throw the fucking glass.'

'Bullshit.'

He went back to the cupboard above the sink, pulled down a glass, and threw it hard at his feet. Shards of it flew across the kitchen as he glared at her. ' _That's_ throwing a glass.'

'Very mature.'

'Fuck you.'

'Fuck you.'

She crashed around the room, gathering up her phone and her clothes, putting on her bra and shirt. He stood where he was and glared at the floor. The destructive relationship they'd once shared had taught her that arguing resulted from getting too close. Since breaking up with Joseph, she had not been close with anyone, and it had worked so far. But he was pulling her back. She was only like this with him, he was the only person who could make her so angry. The four walls of this room could seem like four walls of confinement. Prison. The person sharing this space had become a cellmate. Captor. Punch-bag. She needed to get out of this cycle that threatened to keep her here.

'I don't want this...' she muttered. 'So fed up of it... _Je ne resterai pas ici pour lui. Lazy trou du cul. Bâtard misérable_.'

'What does that mean?'

'Nothing.'

'At least speak in English,' he said.

'Learn French.'

The music was turned up again, this time coinciding with Lucy's words, so they weren't properly heard. Joseph stomped on the floor and bellowed toward his feet. 'Turn it down, or I swear to God I'll come down there!'

'Jesus, leave them alone. You can't control everyone.'

He stared for a minute, then he stomped on the floor again. The music continued.

'You're like a child,' she told him. She didn't want a boy, she wanted a man. She wanted a temporary man, who would do for now and then make way for the next one, in the next place. People were tied to places, so she could not be tied to people.

Joseph marched away from her, so quickly that his feet slipped on the wood floor. He almost slid into the door. He ordered her to stay in the flat, said he'd be right back, and then he left. The door slammed shut behind him.

Lucy went to the door and pulled it open enough to peer through the gap and see the landing outside. Joseph had gone downstairs. She leaned a little further out until she heard a banging below, and she jumped back and pushed the door shut. She could still hear the confrontation downstairs. Joseph was bellowing when another male voice responded, less loudly, less aggressively. A third male voice joined in, this one matching Joseph's angry tone. The volume of the argument increased. Lucy leaned out of the door again to hear what was being said.

'How many times? How many?'

'You don't have to be a dick about it.'

'You know as well as I do, I've told you _too many times_.'

'Back off.'

'Turn it down. Now.'

'Back off. We're going inside.'

'I told you to turn it –'

'Back off –'

Lucy heard a shuffling sound, a slap and a thud, someone yelled but she didn't know if it was Joseph, another thud and more yelling, then a door slammed shut. Feet pounded on the stairs, coming up to her floor. It sounded like more than one person. Joseph appeared at the top of the stairs, but he was far enough down the hall and not looking her way, so she stayed watching him. He stopped to talk to someone who was with him. She couldn't see the other person, but recognised his voice.

'Damn it, Joseph, what is wrong with you?'

It was Joseph's father. She'd met him before. He was a dominating man, the kind who had nothing to prove, whose presence and tone of voice commanded attention without yelling or other flourishes of assertive behaviour.

'Dad, this has been an on-going problem with those neighbours.'

'What's this problem exactly? What have they done so wrong that you think it's appropriate to start fights in the hallway?'

'We didn't fight!'

'Only because I happened to turn up and pull you away. So tell me what was so awful that you had to resort to your usual aggression?'

'It was ... They had music ... It was too loud.'

'Their music was too loud? That was all?' Joseph's father sighed, a loud and long expression of his exasperation.

'And ... I think he's a drug-dealer.' Joseph was lying, trying to justify himself. He'd never said anything about drug dealing to Lucy.

'Don't stand there and whine. You're a two-faced liar. Of all your siblings, _you_ are the disappointment. You seem to love arguing and fighting. And the only reason I look out for you at all is because you're my son.'

Lucy held the handle down as she closed the door, so it wouldn't click. She went back to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The intensity of the argument between father and son had unsettled her, and her anger at Joseph had thinned. She pitied him too much now to feel justified in her resentment toward him. A minute later, Joseph came back into the flat, alone. His eyes had that glazed look they got when his mind was elsewhere, somewhere dark.

Lucy said, 'That was uncalled for, what your dad said.'

He shook his head. 'He's right.' He dragged himself toward the bed. 'And I've never deserved you either.'

'Joseph, don't...'

It was too late – he fell onto the bed, face down, defeated. She had seen this kind of crash before, though it rarely happened this quickly. She felt now that she couldn't leave. This was Joseph in his most vulnerable state. She would have to sit with him and stroke his back or back off, as and when he required either. She looked to the door as she sat next to him.

'Joseph?'

He didn't respond. He was staring at the wall.

'Joseph, do you want something to eat? I could make us some food.'

He mumbled, his face mashed into the pillow, 'Not hungry.'

There was a long pause. She saw that he was trying to get up. There were no movements, but he had a determined look in his eyes that had banished the sadness from them.

'I'm sorry.' His voice was soft, the fire was gone.

'It's alright. I know you try hard to keep it under control.'

'I know you have to leave.' He sat up. 'Just give me a cuddle before you go.'

She laughed softly at him. 'You're like a big child.' She gave him a hug. He held her, his strong arms around her shoulders, and they stayed like that for a while. Eventually, he sank back on the bed and pulled her with him. They were lying side by side, his arms still around her, the music below still playing. She had lost her chance to leave, she was going to stay here now. He had this way of keeping her here.

THE SIN IN HYMNS

As I slouched toward the church, my hangover made each step reverberate with dull pain. It ran through each leg and up my body, into my brain. I remembered – as best I could with fractured memories – the start of last night and the drinking and how happy I'd been. This morning's weary ache was the other side of that coin, the result of my inability to stop when things were as good as they'd get. I'd never been able to handle much drink.

It was raining, and the heavy, dark clouds were low over my head. The air was thick, threatening a storm, but at any minute the clouds might move on and let the sun out. This was early Autumn weather, when you could never tell what it was going to do. The forecast was for a break in the rain later, but the forecast could always be wrong.

I cheered up as I began to see people going to the same place I was headed for. They were all in groups, talking happily. Their clothes weren't formal but were reserved and tidy, all clean jeans and shirts tucked in, low heels and long skirts. Many of them carried a book each, probably copies of the King James' Bible or maybe that horrible New International Version. I say horrible for the desecration of language it contains. I'm no traditionalist, but the King James' version is a thing of art. You can take a good thing too far, and the effort to make the Bible more accessible had removed what I loved most about it: its poetry and poise.

These churchgoers seemed sociable, and that's what I had come for. I had become lost along the way, had taken two wrong streets and had to ask for directions, but I was here now. As I neared the church building, on the other side of the street, I examined its exterior for clues about what was believed inside. I'd asked around a little, and the consensus among those who knew was that this church was not a home to fundamentalism or creationism nonsense. The building was welcoming enough. It looked like it had been a warehouse once and had been renovated to use the large windows for light and exposed girders to imply simplicity. The minimalist style contrasted with the decor of the Christianity within, posters of smiling faces and brightly coloured banners announcing 'You've been saved!' and 'Give Him your problems!'

I waited for a break in the Sunday traffic, and then I crossed the road. I noticed now a man leaning against the large wooden sign for the church, just outside the car park. He looked younger than myself, maybe in his late twenties. Something about him stopped me looking away, maybe his dark eyes, or it could have been his skin, a light brown tone I found smooth and attractive. He was kissing his fingertips, I thought, until smoke escaped his curled hand and I realised he was smoking. He lowered the cigarette and leaned his head back to blow a smoky stream into the air, as if contributing to the clouds above. He looked up at the grey sky as I approached him and the church. As I neared the car park, he looked over at me.

'It's a shitty morning,' he said, apparently to me. 'Let's see how it plays out.'

I assumed he was talking about the weather. I said, 'It's supposed to get better.'

'It's not _supposed_ to do anything. It just does or it doesn't, you know?'

I had nothing to say to that. I looked toward the church, but I didn't know what to say.

'You going in there?' he asked, gesturing with his cigarette.

'Yes.'

'Save me a seat.' He returned his cigarette to his lips and his eyes to the sky.

I only thought about this strange exchange for a few seconds before I walked through the doors of the church and was swallowed into a noisy mass of people. Many of them, I noticed, were relatively young. We were in a large foyer, off of which led a corridor into what looked from here like an even larger room. Around me, people were discussing the week, today's weather, there were a few references to prayers being answered, smiles all around. I wandered and listened and watched. A group of young women, maybe in their late teens, were looking out of the window at the man smoking outside. They were chatting in gossipy tones. There were no actual giggles, but it was clear there was a guilty excitement at seeing this man here. A skinny man with grey hair was also watching the man outside with a pensive, possibly apprehensive stare.

I was approached by a man my own age, a tall guy wearing a Led Zeppelin tee shirt underneath a smart, grey blazer. His hair was heavily gelled and I noticed a broken tooth when he smiled broadly at me.

'Hello! I'm Daniel. I don't think we've met.'

I shook his hand and said, 'I'm new to the city, this is my first time here.' Daniel was still gripping my hand, and our conjoined arms went up and down as he spoke.

'Well, it's great to see you. What made you decide to come along this morning?'

I pulled my hand back as casually as I could. 'I'm what some people call a cultural Christian. I thought church might be a good place to meet people. I don't really know anyone in the city yet, except for work colleagues.'

'What do you do?'

I filled him in on the basic details of my move here, but I didn't want to talk about myself. I already knew my own story, and I'd come here to meet others. I noticed Daniel glance at the man outside and smile at seeing him.

'Do you know that guy?'

Daniel smiled. He did a lot of that. 'Oh, that's Aria.'

'He was chatting to me before I came in.'

'Yeah, Aria will talk to anyone, he's very easy-going like that. He's full of big ideas and enthusiasm – it's like wherever he goes, excitement follows him. He speaks his mind, does Aria, and doesn't like to do as he's told.'

Possibly seeking common ground with Daniel, I said, 'Neither did Jesus.'

Daniel grinned at me. 'Too right. And everyone gets on with Aria. But to be honest I don't know if many people get close to him, he always seems to be on the move. He's been away for a while actually, and he must have just got back. I'm glad he's here.'

'He's usually a church-goer?'

For the first time, Daniel's smiled dropped, but he quickly regained it. 'He used to be. He stopped coming here a few years ago. But Christ goes with you, wherever you go. I'm sure Aria still has a relationship with God. And you?'

The sudden turn of the conversation onto me, along with the fact that I hadn't prepared myself for answering questions like these, made me hesitate. I was saved by the flow of people moving out of the foyer to go down the corridor, into the other room.

'Ah,' Daniel said, 'looks like it's time to go in.'

I followed him along the throng of church members. The other room was a large space with high ceilings, a room full of light from strong overhead spotlights and tall windows with views of the grey day outside. The walls were yellow, which added to the effect of warmth and light inside. Coloured banners were draped from the exposed girders high above. A wide stage lined the wall to my right. To my left, rows of metal foldout chairs were facing the stage. There were enough seats here for maybe two hundred or more people, and each seat was quickly occupied. I departed from Daniel, who went to talk to the musicians tuning instruments on the stage, and I found a seat in the back row. I took my damp jacket off and hung it over the back of the empty seat next to mine, saving the spot for Aria.

Everybody was now sitting, except Aria, who had yet not come in. A middle-aged man stood at the microphone at the front of the stage before the congregation. He wore green khakis and a beige jumper over a white shirt, which reminded me of a teacher I'd had at school. He spoke into the microphone as those seated murmured to each other, he told us that things would be starting soon, asked if we were all comfortable. The murmur dissipated, but before the man could speak again, Aria walked into the room. A few whispers went through the congregation, and I noticed heads turning to watch Aria stroll through the room toward me, but mostly people tried not to make their interest noticeable, turning away if he looked at them and pretending politely to be having a chat with their neighbour.

I took the chance to examine him more thoroughly as he came toward me. I looked for clues of what others were seeing in him and what Daniel had told me of him. Aria had long, fine, deep black hair that was pulled back tightly into a small bun. His hair was as dark as his eyelashes, which were also thick, a combination that made it look as if he was wearing eyeliner. He was uniquely effeminate, but there was also a masculine wildness about the way he stalked through the room, tall and staring down at everyone seated. There was something of a manic glint in his eyes, which I hadn't seen before. His mouth turned up on one side in an almost smile, framed by a cropped beard. He was dressed in a grey suit with a black waistcoat and a brown neckerchief, a darker shade than his skin.

He took the seat I'd saved for him, and the service proceeded. The man at the microphone identified himself, 'for newcomers', as the pastor. He introduced the worship team, six musicians including a beautiful, folksy-looking women who led the singing into the first song. Everyone stood, except for Aria, who stretched his legs out, one foot over the other. I decided to stand because I didn't have the self-confidence to defy a whole room of people. The music was unexpectedly modern, there was even a brief bass-solo after the first chorus. Aria tapped his foot to the beat and seemed quite comfortable observing the rest of us.

Into the third song, I became uncomfortable with a recurrent theme in what was being sung. These hymns seemed to be about the inherent sickness of humans, a void within us that they tried to patch up with sentiments that soothed, concerned only with what felt good and the truth be damned. Besides, I didn't think we were as vile as they apparently thought we were (without God), I thought we were neutral – a bit of this and a bit of that, but basically somewhere between good and evil.

After a fourth song, the congregation sat down, and the pastor took to the microphone again. Aria had removed his blazer and rolled his shirtsleeves up to the elbow. I noticed an elegant tattoo on his forearm, a grapevine in black ink, made up of fine lines. I'm not a 'tattoo person', but his was quite beautiful. The pastor began his sermon, or maybe they didn't call it that here, maybe a sermon was only given at a more conventional kind of church. This speech had an informal air to it, with members of the audience encouraging him with calls of, 'Amen!' This talk, like the hymns, made a synonym of 'self-acceptance' with 'self-disgust', and 'nuance' seemed to be synonymous with 'nihilism' in the pastor's eyes. He raised questions only to demonstrate that he had answers, but the answers, in their simplicity, missed so much out.

An hour passed. I didn't take in much more of what the pastor said, I simply relaxed in the atmosphere and warmth, allowing the headache that had lingered from this morning's hangover to subside. Eventually, the pastor offered prayer to any takers and announced that there would be tea and coffee and biscuits afterwards, all were welcome to stay. Coffee sounded good, and so did the idea of company. These were people who seemed decent enough.

Aria wandered off before I could start up a conversation with him. He seemed to flow into groups of people, taking up conversation easily, and then moving on to a new person or group. I noticed that often he didn't have to go to other people, people seemed to be drawn to him. There were a few people who followed him to new conversations once he'd swept them up in the wake of his charisma. I went down the hall, returning to the foyer where I accepted a coffee offered to me. As I tasted the bitter, metallic brew and looked for sugar to sweeten it with, someone tapped my shoulder. It was the older man I'd seen watching Aria earlier with such mistrust, or it might have been disdain.

'Hello, we haven't met. I'm Jeremy.'

We shook hands, and he got straight to what he wanted to say.

'I noticed you were sitting with Aria. Do you know him very well?'

'Not at all, I just met him today.'

'Right, right. I hope he didn't put you off our church – or try to.'

'No, of course not. Is that something he's likely to do?'

Jeremy grunted and did not elaborate to let me know what the grunt meant.

I said, 'So you must know him then.'

'I used to ... He was a regular with our church some years back, but he became an atheist. But he's like that, always moving on from things, never sticking anything out. He's volatile.'

'Volatile?'

'Oh, all right, maybe not volatile. But he's up-and-down, has mood swings, and his attention doesn't stick to anything. My daughter – that's her over there, with the blond hair – she calls it _romantic_.'

'What do you call it?'

'I call it being a moody over-thinker.' Jeremy seemed to catch himself, realising that he probably shouldn't be saying this, least of all to a newcomer to the church. 'Obviously, he'll always be welcome, and God will always love him.'

I looked over at where Aria had been talking to Jeremy's daughter and others, but he had gone. I began to feel disappointed, but then Aria was suddenly at my side. He had a shiny blue pack of cigarettes in his hand, and he asked me, 'Do you smoke?'

'No, I don't. But I'd be happy to go outside with you if you're having one.'

He nodded, and he turned to lead me out of the church. Jeremy said to him, 'You know, cigarettes will kill you.'

Aria smirked, a tiny smile he tried to hide to himself, then murmured, 'They might just be keeping me alive.' He saw me watching and waved his hand, frowning. 'Don't read too much into that.'

He seemed to be pre-empting something he thought I might think or say. It was like a game of chess, and he was looking at all the pieces and thinking ahead, trying not to be caught out. I followed him out to the car park. He leaned against a low wall that separated the last parking space from the sidewalk and the road.

'I was told you've been away somewhere.'

Aria lit his cigarette with a flame that flickered in the wind, and after he'd taken a few puffs, he said, 'Tehran. I'm Iranian-English, and I'd never been to Iran. So I figured it was time to get there. I've been everywhere else, so why not see if I've got any roots there that matter to me?'

'Did you find any?'

He closed his eyes as smoke drifted around his head. 'Nothing's ever going to keep me in any one place. I like to move, you know?'

'You said you've been everywhere – including Iran now, obviously ...' I gave the sentence the inflection of a question, wanting to hear more.

'Yeah, when I was younger I sort of lost my mind for a while. I travelled the world, drinking my way through cities and dead-end jobs. I lived on every continent, except Antarctica – not enough to drink there.'

We laughed together. He asked if he was smoking too near me, but I told him I was fine.

'So I started working as a barman in different places, and somehow I developed a love of fine wine and a respect for alcohol that calmed my drinking a bit. But I still do it, I still get drunk, but now it's about the freedom and the creativity it can offer. There's less nihilism in it.'

The pastor had come outside with a mug of coffee. I realised my coffee had gone cold. He came over to us, asked how we were doing, and though he was being friendly, the intrusion slowed the conversation to the safe crawl of small talk. After an awkward pause, the pastor said, 'So what brings you here this morning, Aria?'

Aria shrugged, but there was a cheeky smirk in his eyes. 'Every so often, I like to check I'm still an atheist.'

The pastor laughed. I had to respect that. He asked, 'So church isn't for you at the moment?'

'Christianity is ...' He looked at his cigarette. 'It's like cigarettes. Some people need them, some people don't. Some people get sick because of them, other people don't. If it gets you through the day ... Just don't blow your smoke in my face, you know?'

'Do you need cigarettes to get through the day?' I asked.

'Some days. I don't always smoke, it's usually when my mind's away. It goes into itself for a while, thinking things over. Then it all comes out, and I can't keep it in, I have so much energy and enthusiasm. Then it goes back into itself and things get ... dark, for a while.'

'So where are you now?'

'Not sure. Between the two.'

The pastor tipped back his head to finish his coffee, then tilted it forward and looked into the emptiness of his mug. He asked if either of us would like another drink, we both declined, and the pastor went back inside.

I said to Aria, 'There's a problem in your analogy of Christianity with smoking.'

He frowned. 'Go on.'

'Well, they both might help deal with life to some degree, but smoking doesn't inhibit your ability to keep exploring, it doesn't preclude certain answers that don't fit with your current worldview. The way they seem to interpret God puts a stop to asking certain questions and getting certain answers.'

'I like you. You're right, I was wrong.'

He held out his cigarette, now almost just the butt, and examined it. He seemed to decide there was enough left on it for a final drag, took it, then dropped the butt to the ground and stamped it out. He looked at me with a serious frown – I felt like I couldn't keep up with his mood, the lightness in his voice a moment ago had gone again as he said, 'Do you ever feel like things are scripted? Like a character in a play doesn't know he had no choice to say what he said. You ever feel like that?'

'Wouldn't that need a writer?'

He shook his head as if I'd misunderstood. 'Maybe. But the writer doesn't have to like us, you know? Anyway, we know it's all fixed, stuck in place with laws like gravity. All we can do is introduce some randomness into it.'

'I thought we were scripted?' I said. I was trying not to be distracted by the small group of teenagers that had begun coalescing on our conversation, hanging onto the edge of where we stood. Daniel came out as well, standing nearby and listening in.

'In the big picture, yeah. I'm talking about day-to-day shit.' He lit up another cigarette. 'If I have a dozen conversations with a dozen strangers in a day there are going to be patterns and clichés, stuff everyone says, the boring stuff. But if you get those people drunk or stoned or mugged or something unusual, you're more likely to get something you didn't expect from them.'

I couldn't say I was following him exactly. Some of what he said contradicted other things he said. But he shook his head, just as I was thinking this, and he said, 'I don't know. I'm just trying to work it all out.'

'Wouldn't working everything out remove the randomness? Wouldn't that be boring?'

He smiled then and stabbed his cigarette in the air at me, saying with approval, 'Good fucking question.'

Some of the young people hanging around the edge of our conversation frowned disapprovingly at Aria's vocabulary. Daniel smiled into the distance as if he hadn't heard the word. There was a discordance between the conservative ideology and the rock-concert trimmings. Something seemed strange in so many young people with such traditional ideals, some of which (to do with dress and their visible distaste at certain words Aria used) belonged to my grandparents' generation. But maybe that was just me. I asked Daniel about it.

'I don't think it's an unhealthy marriage. We have traditional beliefs, sure, but we have a progressive approach. We've got to reach contemporary culture.'

'But can you change a timeless message? Isn't the Bible unchanging?'

'Yes ...' He looked confused. 'I'm not sure what to say. I haven't really thought about it before.' Then the confidence returned and he asserted, 'But we're not relativists or anything like that. We do believe in the unchanging truth of God. Do you know that Buddha said he was still searching for the truth? And that Muhammad said he pointed to the truth? But Jesus said, "I am the truth."'

'So you're after certainty?' There was an undertone of ridicule in my voice that I couldn't help. Maybe I was irritated by the preachy tone Daniel had suddenly adopted. But he didn't seem to notice my scepticism.

'I think that's what everyone is after, deep down.'

Aria flicked the top of ash from his cigarette. 'Not me.'

Daniel smiled. 'Are you certain of that?'

'Touché.'

Jeremy was approaching us, glaring at Aria and staring at the blonde woman he'd identified earlier as his daughter. Maybe she was younger than she looked, maybe she was in her teens. She was leaning into the conversation we were having, standing close to Aria and looking at him admiringly. Jeremy joined us and made the effort to appear friendly. Aria extinguished his cigarette under his shoe.

'I'm staying with friends at the moment,' Aria told me. 'We're having some people over tonight for wine, and we'll talk about life, religion, politics – all the things we're told not to discuss in polite company. Do you want to come along? And Daniel, you're welcome as well. And you too, of course.' He was smiling at the blonde teen.

'No, you'll be busy,' Jeremy told his daughter.

'How about you guys?'

I told him I would be there, if he gave me directions.

'Great. And you, Daniel? Jeremy?'

Jeremy shook his head and guided his daughter away, under the guise of her mother needing to see her 'inside the church, now'. Daniel said he'd love to come along. He and I arranged to meet here that evening so he could show me the way.

The evening came, and I met Daniel outside the now closed up and darkened church. I'd brought a bottle of Rioja for Aria, a Spanish wine I thought he might like. We went down some back roads and side streets and came to the house of Aria's friends. On the quiet street, lit by orange streetlights, we stood and looked at the house. The curtains were drawn, but light escaped at the edges. Voices could be heard, laughing and loud, talking across other voices. It was a narrow, two-storey house squeezed cosily between larger houses. Ivy covered most of the front of the buildings. I'd heard that ivy could be terribly damaging to brickwork, but I found it appealingly romantic.

I knocked at the door, and Aria answered a minute or two later. His hair was out of the bun, loose and wavy, wildly falling on his shoulders and bouncing around as he slapped my shoulder and ushered us in. His eyes were gleaming with a teeming brain clearly working away behind them.

'Great to see you both! Come in, come in, don't bother with your shoes.'

I slipped my shoe back on. Aria was alive, his eyes were wide and infectious with enthusiasm. 'You brought a wine – Gran Reserva, fantastic! I was thinking about this the other day, that in this country it's the custom for guests to bring a bottle of something for their host. But when I was in Iran and people had me as their guest, lots of them had their own booze, illegal of course, and they were eager to share it with me. Some of them didn't even drink alcohol themselves. Strange, these differences, you know?'

Aria told us to give him one minute, promising to return with something for us, and I had a chance to glance around the house. Daniel and I were standing in a narrow hall that had a staircase at its end. To my left and right were open doors – the door on my right opened into a kitchen, the door to my left led to a front room. The adjective that resonated in my mind as I took the in space and its decor was 'cosy', but as I noticed details, I thought the words 'nostalgic' and 'artistic'. There were bookshelves everywhere, though not all of them contained books; some of the shelves held trinkets, dusty photo-frames, ornate boxes, a brass compass. Pot plants adorned every space on any shelf they could. There were two Chinese Evergreens in this hallway, and a spider plant draped itself over the top row of books on a tall bookcase. A grey tabby cat prowled around the legs of the other guests.

I looked at the names on the nearest shelf: Hemingway, Fitzgerald – both Scott and Zelda – then a collection of titles by Orwell, then Henry Miller, Anaïs Nin, Joyce, and then it moved into philosophy with Nietzsche, Sartre, Derrida, Montaigne. There was a round side-table next to me with a stack of books on it. I picked them up and, as I looked at the book on the bottom of the pile, something flat and pink fell out of it. Daniel wasn't watching and stepped on the pink thing. I picked it up and saw that it was a flower that had been pressed between the pages of the book. Aria returned and noticed what I held.

'I'm sorry, it fell out, and I –'

'I forgot I'd put that in there. Don't worry about it! Dionysia, that's what it is, I got it in Tehran from an old woman – Don't look so worried! Shit happens, and there are other flowers, you know?'

'What's this?' I asked as he handed me a glass of something dark and sweet smelling.

'A cocktail I made in Barcelona. Try it.'

I sipped the liquid, which slid, sticky, down my throat and made me purse my lips. It was sweet first, then sharp at the back of my tongue, then gave a kick as it hit somewhere halfway down my throat. It was good and I said so. A short and stocky woman appeared behind Aria.

'If that's one of Aria's it will be good. The man's an artist with alcohol.'

'Thank you, Donna. Daniel, here's one for you.'

'No, thank you. I'd rather not drink alcohol. Thank you, though.'

The woman stared at Daniel and spoke to Aria. 'Who are these strangers you're bringing into my home, one of whom doesn't drink? I'm kidding, I'm Donna and you're welcome here. Who are you?'

We introduced ourselves, and she gave us both firm handshakes with a soft hand. I liked her already, but I couldn't say exactly why. She was direct, and maybe I liked that. She had brown hair that was cropped and messy on top. I guessed that she was in her early fifties. There was a purple tie around her neck, and she wore what looked like a green smoking jacket. There was a smouldering cigarillo pinched between her fingers.

'Great to meet you both,' she said. 'But seriously, why don't you drink? Are you a recovering alcoholic?'

Daniel laughed. 'No, no. I just don't like the effect it has.'

Aria said, 'The effect is the best part, after the taste, of course. You'll be missing out on the full experience of the evening, the atmosphere, the way conversation flows.'

'But the experience isn't really real, is it? It's the product of alcohol changing the way your mind works. And it might be enjoyable now, but _I_ won't be having a hangover tomorrow.'

'All right, leave him alone,' Donna said. 'Let's get in there.'

She took us through to the front room. There were about a dozen people here. There was a couple lounging on a leather Chesterfield sofa (I knew the style because it was the one I wanted and couldn't afford for my new flat), and the woman had her legs over the man's lap as he drank wine. Standing behind them was a group of men who seemed like professors of something, with their smart blazers and the way they listened intently or gesticulated as they made a point. They were talking about a book. I thought one of them said _Lolita_ , but I couldn't hear everything they said over the talking of all the other people wandering the room, drinking wine.

Aria began pointing out people in the room. 'Over there is Lucy, lovely woman, and that's Rebecca. And that's ...' I was losing the names as he went through them. I was distracted by taking in their faces and the patchwork of overheard conversations and the music. Aria nodded toward a man in the corner who was ignoring a younger woman telling him something. 'You see those two? He's married, but he has a thing with her. They think nobody knows but –'

Donna slapped his arm with the back of her hand, an affectionate, motherly act. Aria shrugged.

'Blame the drink.'

'Your big mouth takes in a lot of alcohol,' she said, 'but it doesn't need any to speak your mind. Cass! When did you get here?' Donna went off into the room.

I noticed a large gramophone on a table at the back of the room. The music I heard wasn't coming from it, though. The music was coming through a set of speakers connected to an MP3 player. But the gramophone, an impressive and elegant machine, awed me.

'I love the style of Donna's place, it's a great atmosphere in here. Who painted those?'

I pointed to a row of canvases with impressionist paintings (or maybe surrealist – I don't know much about that kind of thing) that were propped up against the wall.

'Alice, Donna's partner. Yeah, I like it here too. But just for a visit, I couldn't live like this.'

'Like what?'

'Trapped in an era that's long gone. Paris at the turn of the last century, the bohemian scene. I mean, it's great but has its limitations. Donna doesn't read anything published after the fifties. This is her thing, it works for her, but I feel like she's missing out on so much of worth in contemporary culture, you know?'

'The MP3 player?'

'Mine, but the music was her choice. Cab Calloway, you like him?'

'I'm a big fan, actually. I didn't think anyone else still listened to him.'

I'd finished the cocktail, so Aria took the empty glass and handed me a full glass of wine. God knows where he'd got it from, maybe he'd had it all along and I hadn't noticed. Then he was drinking his own glass of wine, which I hadn't seen in his hand before, and I wondered if he was pulling them out of his sleeve. I listened in on a nearby conversation about Freud, Nietzsche, and God. There was a joke, and the man and woman laughed. Daniel was talking to somebody behind me. I thought that maybe I should venture out and find a conversation for myself.

There was a pause as the Cab Calloway album ended, and a moment later, something new began to play, something I'd never heard before. There were sharp notes on an acoustic guitar, and then a woman began to sing in a voice that stopped me – it stopped me drinking, stopped me thinking, I couldn't hear the noise of others talking, all I could listen to was this woman expose her soul through her singing. She sung of a lonely road, on which she travelled but had no idea where to. I put down my glass on a shelf next to where I was standing. I wanted to be alone with this music.

Aria passed by me and I grabbed his sleeve. 'Who is this? The music.'

'You've never heard Joni Mitchell?' He was shocked.

'I've heard _of_ her ... This is ...'

Aria understood. He stood with me and listened. He told me to listen closely to the next part. Maybe it was the effect of the drink, maybe it was something in the music, but I was so taken with her voice that I forgot to pay attention to the words. But Aria offered his ideas.

'She _hates_ him, but she _loves_ him, and then there's this self-denying aspect of her love, but she acknowledges it. That's looking life in the eyes and not shying away, you know?'

I didn't answer, but Aria must have sensed my awe. He said, 'I'll lend you my CD copy of the album.'

'Thank you.'

Time went by, maybe an hour, maybe more. The wine was flowing with the conversation, I was alive and happy to be, excited and inspired. I was quite drunk. Eventually, Daniel found me and said that he had to leave.

'It's late, I have work first thing tomorrow.'

'So do I,' I lied, 'but _life_ is happening here.' I was more drunk than I'd realised.

Aria joined us and said, 'I was thinking that you're new to city, maybe I could show you some of the places I know. We can explore the city.'

'That would be great, so great.'

'Okay. I'm away most of this week, but I'm back Saturday night. How about on Sunday? I'll be free at least until lunchtime, maybe longer.'

Daniel interrupted. 'I was hoping to see you at church again. You're both invited back, of course.'

I was rattled by the division here, maybe more than I should have been, but I didn't like having to make what seemed to be an awkward decision. Besides, I wasn't sure which I would rather do. 'Tell you what, tell you what ... I'll decide when I'm sober. I'll take your number, Aria, in case I decide to go with you. And I know where the church is if I decide to go there. How's that?'

They agreed that seemed a good idea, and Daniel thanked Aria and Donna before leaving. I began to feel unsure on my feet as I wandered in and out of different conversations with people. I spoke with a woman for maybe ten minutes before I realised I'd been calling her by the wrong name. Later, when someone I hadn't yet met asked me my name, I took a moment to remember if I had a name. Before I got a taxi home, I threw up in Donna's toilet.

Aria looked amused as he helped me to my feet, out of the house and into the taxi.

'I've been there before, my friend. In the morning, coffee and a cigarette always helps me. Do you smoke?'

'I don't know,' I mumbled. Aria raised an eyebrow.

'All right. Well, if you find out you do smoke, have a cigarette, you know?'

I got home and into bed and slept.

The week went by, and I spent most of it inside my flat. I justified this at first by telling myself I needed to furnish my home, but it came to a point where I was going to have to go out to find the things I needed. So I put it off, staying safe in my flat. I don't know why I thought of it as 'safe' – did I think it was 'unsafe' out in the city, out in the world? Maybe. Everything was unfamiliar. But staying in became boring by the end of the week, and by Sunday morning, I was ready to go out.

I shut my door and assured myself the key was in my pocket. I zipped up my jacket – the weather had become more bitter during the week. The wind sharpened my mind, woke me to the world. I considered my options: church with Daniel or exploring with Aria. I set off down the lonely road. The world was ahead of me.

SATCHMO ON THE SOUND SYSTEM

Though the wine bar was full of noise – a cacophony of mingled voices and saxophone tones on the sound system – Jonathan's words could be heard above it all. He remained eloquent in spite of Clare's impatience, which he sensed as he led her to the bar. She was mad, but he could fix that. The challenge fuelled and, strangely, aroused him. He turned around to speak to her directly.

'We both know how this will go – we'll argue, I'll convince you, and you'll change your mind. Why can't we skip the middle part?'

She spoke to his chest, refusing to look up at him. 'Because you enjoy that part too much. You want to argue.'

'Why are you so mad about this? Does it really matter?'

'To me it does. We always stay at your place. I miss my home. I want us to stay there tonight.'

They stepped aside to let another couple leave. Despite the noise, the bar was beginning to empty. The music continued to play, but the voices were thinning out, taking with them opportunities for conversation and argument. The night was winding down, and Jonathan wished it wouldn't.

'Clare, you know I love you, but I don't love your place. It's noisy, the neighbours never stop playing music, your bed is smaller than mine. I sleep better at home. So that's my case in favour of my place. What have you got?'

'This isn't one of your debates. There's no point system for winning.'

'Speaking of, you haven't said anything about tonight's debate.'

The debate they'd just come from, held at Clare's university and hosted by the English faculty she was a part of, had given Jonathan a chance to stretch his muscles of rhetoric. Even so, the debate had been too easy, his opponent had been sloppy. The moderator, who introduced Jonathan as 'a pugilist in the world of political and literary criticism', had been irritating throughout. He had taken issue with Jonathan describing his opponent as ignorant, as if there should be rules against being rude. (Besides, it wasn't a mere insult but a statement of truth; the man had claimed that North Korea represented the secular ideal. Jonathan had demolished this nonsense, struck a few further blows and got a laugh at the moderator's expense after he chastised Jonathan for 'coarse language'.)

'Well done,' Clare said caustically. 'You won. Again.'

'Don't be like that.'

'Well, don't smile like that. You think you can charm anyone into agreeing with anything.'

'I've been able to so far.'

'God, you're smug.'

'You find it attractive.'

'No. Well, yes... but it's annoying.'

'Too annoying for me to kiss you?' He moved towards her body and paused precisely at the point where she might have felt imposed upon. He felt her hips shift lightly so that her waist touched his. Reading her movements, he used his body like an angler feeding out line to catch a fish that might be spooked.

'Fine, you can kiss me...' Their lips met. 'Mm, kiss me again... You're good at that.'

' _Merci bien_.'

'But I'm still annoyed!' She stepped away from him.

'Look, let's order our drinks. What are you having?'

Standing at one end of the bar, Jonathan raised his hand and gave a smile to bring the barmaid over to them. Clare asked, 'What rosé have they got?'

'Only White Zin,' Jonathan answered. 'You don't want that, do you?'

'Yes. Why not?'

'Because it's piss. It's the fast food of wine. Look, have the Malbec, you'll love it.'

Clare rolled her eyes. 'Fine. A glass of the Malbec then.'

Her surrender depressed him. If she wanted the rosé, she should order the rosé.

'We'll have a large glass of the Argentinian Malbec and a Johnnie Walker Black, neat. Make it a double, thanks.'

The barmaid left to get their drinks. Clare turned on Jonathan and said, 'I'm not giving in this time. We always stay at your place. I practically live there, and I want tonight to be different. I miss my home. So – we're staying at my place tonight. I'm not arguing about it anymore.'

She became even more attractive to him with this fierce assuredness in her voice, even if her eyes, which gave away that she still feared looking foolish in front of him, didn't match the confidence of her words.

He said, 'Let's have a couple of drinks and talk about it after.'

She shrugged. 'Fine, we'll do that.'

Her voice had become softer, and she sounded like herself again, as if her assertive side had been exhausted. Jonathan desired the give-and-take of debate, of trying to win her over, of thinking on his feet and dancing with language. He was already bored, seconds after striking their truce. He picked up his glass and paid the barmaid.

'Let's find a table,' Clare said. 'Over there, away from everyone?'

'Would _you_ like to sit there?'

Another shrug from Clare. Jonathan pushed harder.

'Tell me where we ought to sit.'

'I really don't mind.'

She went to the table in the corner, and Jonathan swallowed his rising frustration. He wouldn't hold it back for long, but he would give her a chance to prove wrong his worry that she might be too passive for him. Four months, the length of time they'd been together, was too soon for him know a person well enough to judge compatibility. He could evaluate their political positions and tastes in literature, but their character was something entirely different. He'd fallen in love with a Tory once; party affiliation was no indicator of what his heart might feel.

'Jonathan, isn't that ...?'

Clare was looking past his shoulder, so he turned to look at what she was seeing. Three women were sitting at a table on the other side of the wine bar. One of the women was laughing more loudly than the other two. Jonathan noticed the sexy mess of dark hair piled on top of her head, held in place with a chopstick.

'Yes, it is.' Jonathan turned back and saw the expression on Clare's face. 'Don't look so worried! She's not the devil. Well...'

'I just thought you might prefer to go somewhere else.'

'Like hell! I'm not being chased out of anywhere, and certainly not by her.' Jonathan looked back to the women. 'Besides, it looks like she's leaving. Her friends are off.'

'Jesus, did you see her neck that drink?'

'That's nothing to her. She'll barely feel it.'

The other two women put on their coats and left the bar. Jonathan tasted his drink and shifted in his seat so that he was sideways at the table. He could see the woman in his peripheral vision while talking to Clare. The woman could, potentially, see him too. There was no predicting her reaction, her behaviour, especially with Clare here. Had she met Clare formally? He couldn't remember. But Jonathan was curious and itched for antagonism.

'I think she's clocked you. Don't look – Jonathan, don't look! She might ignore us... Too late. Here comes Hurricane Rebecca.'

The woman came over to their table.

'Jonathan! Is that you? That is you! How are you?'

'It's too soon to tell.'

Rebecca laughed.

'The wit's still sharp, I see.' After a pause, she turned to Clare and said, 'I'm Rebecca.'

'Clare. We have met before. At the "Intersection of Art and Politics" lecture last year. We both knew Julie...'

'Of course! I've had few drinks – how many drinks have I had? Either way, the alcohol has done its job!'

Jonathan noticed how Rebecca swayed lightly and her hand touched the table, seeking stability. She was a high-functioning drunk, usually able to hide her inebriation. Her natural disposition was often so manic that being drunk did not make for much contrast. He knew the signs, but he didn't think Clare could tell that Rebecca was well beyond tipsy.

•••

Clare could tell that Rebecca was drunk, she could see it in the other woman's eyes. Clare had been anecdotally warned that Rebecca was frenzied at the best of times, but this was more than that. The slight disconnectedness of her gaze and the way she leaned against the table for support could only be down to alcohol. Rebecca sat herself on the end of Jonathan's bench. Clare watched him for a reaction. She thought being joined without an invitation was rude, unexpected at least, but Jonathan seemed undisturbed. Of course, his composure would never be compromised. Was this 'progressive' then? Would it be too quaint or conservative to take issue with spending the evening with her lover's ex-wife?

'Clare, how did you meet Jonathan?'

'We met at a dinner party. It was for a friend who'd just had a book published.'

'Actually, I didn't know him,' Jonathan said. 'Alas, poor what's-his-name! I knew him not. No, I was invited by a friend of a friend, and I never turn down an opportunity for conversation or wine.'

'Right, so we met at this dinner party, at a restaurant.'

'We had met before, though. I'd given a talk at the university Clare lectures at.'

Rebecca said, 'That's right, you're a teacher! What do you teach?'

'Greek Mythology in Contemporary Culture. Anyway, the first time we really had a conversation was that night at the restaurant. I was so intimidated by him.'

'I don't remember that. You were eloquent and kept me on my toes.'

'I barely spoke, Jonathan. I was worried I'd say something dull.'

'Well, something attracted me to you.'

'You were drunk.' The three of them laughed at this. Clare stifled her own laugh after realising she found it strange to be sharing such a casual moment with Rebecca. She didn't want to share anything with her. 'You were drunk but still on top form. The table was centred on your conversation. I could tell you weren't even trying. I was almost put off by how charming you were.'

'Really?' Jonathan frowned as if in disbelief.

'Yes! I thought that even if I got close to you and didn't make a fool of myself, I would be competing with other interesting people for your attention.'

'As soon as we started speaking I knew you were someone special.'

'Nonsense. You barely noticed me until I got drunk enough to speak freely.'

'No, I definitely noticed you. And before you were drunk I asked you to join me for dinner another night.'

'Drinks. You asked me to go for drinks with you.'

'No, we had dinner. We ate at Zane's.'

'We came here for drinks,' she said. 'Zane's was a few weeks later.'

'I'm not sure that's right.'

Clare knew she was right. She remembered the date of the night they met and the date they ate at Zane's, which was the night she first slept with him. Throughout dinner, they had playfully and self-consciously tried to one-up each other with literary references and witticisms until it became so pretentious they had to laugh at themselves. Then Clare took him to her favourite place for dancing. It was a small club that, once a week, played Latin music (usually tango, her favourite). She had wanted to go there because she was feeling good, and dancing was her first choice for such good moods. More than that, though, she thought she could impress Jonathan. She was a great dancer, and she'd also decided to seduce him that night. Dancing made her feel as sexy as she knew it made her look. The dance floor was the place she felt most confident in life, just as the centre of attention was where Jonathan was most at ease.

Jonathan didn't dance, but he watched her dance. When she sat with him, they talked to some of her students who had turned up. They were full of alcohol, ego and recycled ideas from pop-philosophy and _Das Kapital_. Jonathan tore them apart, left them floundering for rebuttals to his side of an argument about Trotsky. It seemed to give him a second burst of energy, and he barely stopped speaking during the entire taxi ride to his flat. There, his books overwhelmed her. They filled every shelf, were stacked in corners, and in every room there was at least one book left face down to keep his page. Jonathan had turned on his stereo, and jazz began to play.

'Who is this?' she'd asked.

'Satchmo. There are better musicians and better albums, but nothing touches me in quite the way he does. Whatever else is going on, I hear his voice and it makes me feel...' That was the first time, possibly the only time, that she'd seen him lose his words, unable to articulate this feeling. Since that night, the music of Louis Armstrong had taken on the same quality for her. His voice forced an emotion inside her that she couldn't describe, let alone understand. It was something like happiness and the sensation of perfect sense, something logical and geometric fitting perfectly into place. It didn't matter if she was depressed or angry or tired, this music made her feel this way, and she became open to possibility. 'No' became an effete reply to anything. Jonathan had described it as the Pied Piper Effect. She called it Orphean.

Jonathan had picked out a book from a shelf and read something to her, a poem she'd forgotten now. She realised his eyes weren't following the lines on the page.

She interrupted him. 'You're reciting from memory.'

He smiled, a cheeky and self-assured grin. 'I didn't want to show off.'

She took a step toward him and dropped her coat on the floor. 'Go on, show off.'

He dropped the book on a chair and continued reciting the poem, even as she approached him and then pressed herself against his body. She almost broke off from the kiss that followed to tell him to keep reciting poetry because it turned her on. Instead, they went to his bedroom.

Clare realised that Jonathan and Rebecca had been speaking while she had been lost in her memory. Jonathan's glass was empty, he'd finished his drink quickly, perhaps catching up to Rebecca. A waiter passed their table, and Jonathan ordered a triple Jonnie Walker Black. Clare sent a warning look his way that she hoped Rebecca wouldn't see, an expression of her discomfort at his drinking.

'I'm celebrating a good result at my debate,' he insisted.

'Oh, of course,' Clare said, feigning nonchalance and fuming in her mind. She didn't enjoy being unable to express what she really thought, restricted by Rebecca's presence. 'Maybe take it slow. All things in moderation, after all.'

Jonathan said, 'Moderation means having less of something than you'd like, a principle I'm fundamentally opposed to.'

'Like staying at my place?'

'I'm not against staying at your place, but I'm in favour of staying at mine. Any sane person would be.' He turned to Rebecca and said, 'I have a memory-foam mattress,' as if that ought to settle the matter. Clare resented that Rebecca now knew what their bed at Jonathan's flat was like, and enjoyed less that Rebecca was being invited into their private argument.

'I wish you would stop acting so cocky,' she told Jonathan.

'God, he does that a lot, doesn't he?' said Rebecca.

Clare kept her words directed at Jonathan. 'You're not the gift from God that you think you are. You can't win everyone over to your side on everything.'

'Clare, this is getting a little old.' Jonathan finally sounded earnest. The teasing tone was gone, and he looked her straight in the eyes. 'I play up sometimes to this arrogant character, but you can take it too far. It seems like you really believe it, like you don't know that I'm open to being proven wrong.'

Clare wanted to attach herself to this sincerity he'd extended, so she offered some to him in return. 'To be honest, I make jokes about you winning everyone over because it's often true. You have this way... Even my parents' dog loves you! He hates new people, but you – although my parents were a different story.'

'Your parents love me.'

' _Now_ they do. I didn't tell you, but they sat me down when we visited them, while you were on the phone. They weren't convinced by you. They thought you were bad news, but they didn't really explain why. Anyway, I told them you were good for me, and we are good together, and I love you. They were impressed by my speech and let us leave together with their blessing.'

'Well, I'm glad you stood up for yourself.'

'That's your influence.' She smiled at him. Then she set her face into a frown. 'Damn it, you're doing it now. You're winning me over and making me think I should give in and stay at your place.'

The argument subsided and nobody spoke. She noticed the music on the sound system had changed. Satchmo was singing, 'Oh... What have you done to my heart?' Tonight, for the first time, she understood the feeling that his music gave her. It was the feeling of knowing who she wanted to be, something which she had no words for but which this music and this voice described inside of her.

Clare asked him, 'Don't you get tired of having everything your way?'

'He's very good at getting what he wants,' said Rebecca.

Jonathan looked at Rebecca as if she had reached into his pocket and taken out his wallet without shame. 'Are you serious? Do you think I _ever_ got my way when you and I were together?'

Clare asked Rebecca, 'What do you think went wrong between you two?'

A clumsy moment of uncertainty and hesitant vowel sounds passed between them. Even Jonathan looked stunned that Clare had asked this. That made her feel proud of herself. But her victory was interrupted by the shrill ringing of her mobile phone in her pocket.

•••

As Clare searched for the phone in her coat, Rebecca was glad for the distraction. She was, unusually for her, stuck for an answer. Clare's question had caught her unprepared, and even Jonathan appeared lost for a response. Clare had her phone in hand and asked to be excused while she took the call. The waiter brought a Jonnie Walker to the table, and Jonathan swallowed a large amount as soon as he'd paid. Rebecca told Jonathan that she was going outside for a cigarette.

The air on the street was almost tangibly cold, it felt like a physical object pressed cruelly against her skin. Autumn was finally on its way, and warmth was now a memory. She pinched her cigarette between her lips and searched her pockets for a lighter. It wasn't there. Then Jonathan came outside. He lit up his own cigarette and offered her the lighter. Once the tip of her cigarette was glowing, smoke sliding down her throat and into her lungs, she dropped the lighter into her pocket.

'That was mine,' Jonathan said.

'What was? Oh, right.' Rebecca shuffled her hand around the pocket as if searching for the lighter. 'Are you sure you need it? I don't have one.'

'Becky, I'll have my lighter back.'

'Alright, alright. Considering how well you're doing, I thought you could spare a ninety-nine pence lighter.'

'That's not the point.' He took it from her hand.

'You've changed, you know that? You've got more bite than you used to.'

'I've always had a bite, Becky. I should have used it with you a little more often.'

Rebecca liked this strength he was showing. When she'd met him fifteen years ago – was it fifteen? Jesus, it was – he'd had a reputation as a bad boy. She had heard about his boisterous drinking and bawdy conversation, as well as having lost his job at a magazine over an ill-advised affair with the editor. It turned out the last rumour was untrue, and as for his drinking, his argumentative and bold nature was often mistaken for being drunk. Rebecca had been startled to find, however, that he was a novice in love. His own emotions toward her seemed to catch him off-guard. His confidence vanished when they were alone, and he became eager to impress her.

'Why weren't you more assertive with me, Jonathan?'

'You really want to have this conversation?'

'Why not have a peek at our past? We were strolling down Nostalgia Avenue with Clare. So, why weren't you more assertive with me?'

'I was young and naïve,' he answered. 'I thought that's what love was – giving someone else the power.'

At first, his sweetness had been cute. It became cloying after they'd been together for a year, and she had hoped that after accepting his proposal he would bring his backbone into their relationship. When they were with other people, the public Jonathan took over, and she pretended that this was her Jonathan, the one she shared a home with and woke up every day next to. After they were married and it became clear that he wouldn't change, she hated being alone with him.

'God, I wanted you to be that Jonathan that took charge and didn't take any shit.'

'You realise, of course, that most of any shit I took came from you.'

She looked at him through the smoke she exhaled – he was smiling, so she knew he wasn't really upset. Besides, if she had been so awful to him, it had started because of his apathy. His passive way with her had allowed her to act out at first. Eventually it provoked her into it. She was screaming at him for passion, deliberately taking advantage of his leniency and pushing him around to make him push back. This became a series of transgressions with an ex-lover, which Jonathan found out about and forgave. Not as easily as that – there were fights and nights when it seemed like it was all over, but Jonathan forgave her. She let him find her out on three occasions, and Jonathan got upset for a while, but eventually he caved each time.

But the third time, in the midst of a three-day fall out over her cheating, she had started throwing out his books. She tore pages from them until Jonathan bellowed at her and grabbed the book from her so hard he almost pulled her over, and she thought he might hit her – she wanted him to. She immediately knew she should not think such a thing, and he would never do that anyway. But he had told her, a new strength to his voice, that this was it: if she ever acted this way again, ever cheated on him again, that would be the final time. He wouldn't take any more. For a time, this worked, but eventually she grew bored again and began an affair with a new man at work. When Jonathan found out, he left immediately. He boxed his books that evening, then a duffel bag of clothes, and by the end of the week, all traces of him were gone from their home.

'There you are.' Clare had come out to the street. 'I had to take that call.'

Clare was speaking to Jonathan, not acknowledging Rebecca. She sounded tense. Rebecca recognised the tone that lovers employ to let the other know that things aren't all right without having to argue in public.

'What's the plan?' Rebecca asked. 'Are you two up for some more drinks?'

Clare spoke without looking at her. 'We didn't invite you to join us in the first place.'

'That's a "no" then?' Rebecca was still able to laugh at Clare's temper, but she wouldn't be spoken down to by this woman.

'That's "fuck off" then.' Clare faced Rebecca, but Jonathan decided to intervene. He stepped between them, facing Clare, and told her to calm down.

'I won't calm down, Jonathan. Why the hell are we out here talking to your ex-wife?'

'You are not acting like yourself tonight.'

'I'm acting like you. That's what you want, isn't it? Someone who will give you a run for your money? I'm not stupid, I know you think I'm too quiet. And you –' Clare turned on Rebecca again. 'You really messed him up, didn't you? And you think you can still mess with him. Well, if he won't tell you to fuck off, I will.'

Rebecca tossed her cigarette end into the gutter.

'See you around, Jonathan.'

•••

As Rebecca left, Jonathan waited for her to disappear around the corner. He knew Clare would not say any more until they were alone. At the corner of the street, Rebecca looked back at him. He turned away from her, back to Clare. She appeared calmer, but he really couldn't tell. He was on unfamiliar ground here, so he tried to coax things back to a steadier dialogue.

'Right,' he said to Clare, 'I'll call a taxi to take us to mine.'

'Bollocks to that. We're not staying at yours. I'm not, anyway.'

Clare set off down the street while Jonathan finished his smoke and waited for her to change her mind. She continued to walk away. She didn't look back. It took him longer than it should have to realise that she meant it this time. Impressed, he couldn't help himself smiling as he stubbed out his cigarette under his shoe and then followed her up the street, toward her place. As he caught up to her, she chewed her lip to disguise a brief smile, but he'd seen it. They walked together, hand in hand. She had got her way, and he had got his.

THE VIOLENCE OF VIOLINS

Tonight, he was Superman. He didn't feel the costume best described him, but everything else at the shop required a mask, which would have made his head sweat. He'd considered coming as Sartre, big pipe and glasses, but without the lazy eye it didn't work. He ascended the stairs to their floor and rang their doorbell. Catwoman answered.

'You made it!' she said, inviting him inside. 'Lovely, you can leave your coat in the office, just over there.'

He knew where the office was. He'd carried into it the desk on which he now placed his coat, next to a pile of other jackets. Back in the lounge, fictitious characters danced, drank and made conversation. He saw The Tin Man talking to a scarecrow. Catwoman began shifting her bodyweight from foot to foot as Superman stood in front of her, saying nothing. He noticed how good she looked, though she must have had some years on him. Last year, he'd noticed his own hairline receding, and it hadn't stopped since. Sweat tickled his forehead.

The Tin Man came over to them and shook Superman's hand.

'Hello, _good_ to see you.' A brief dimming in the lights of The Tin Man's eyes admitted he had forgotten who Superman was. 'How _have_ you been?' The Tin Man emphasised words for no reason, a linguistic flare used as if style could substitute for substance.

Superman mumbled some of the stock-phrases he used to make polite conversation, words that were clichéd and safe. The Tin Man made him nervous. When they'd first met, here in this flat, he'd heard a violin playing softly in the lounge. The Tin Man had asked him if he liked Bach's _Sonata for something or other_. Superman had been forced to say he hadn't heard it. The Tin Man had smiled, a grown-up with a silly child, and said, 'This is the fugue.'

As they now made their way into the lounge, The Tin Man looked back over his shoulder. 'Well, help yourself to _drinks_... ' Somebody else had arrived at the party and was at the door behind them. 'The wine and glasses are over on that table.'

The Tin Man followed his own glare to the unwelcome newcomer with Catwoman. Superman looked back and saw it was a woman dressed as a hippie. He went to the drinks table. The wine was red and intimidating, but that was fine. He just needed a little buzz, something to take his mind off the patches of sweat forming in the armpits of his costume. The room was alive with noise and movement, vibrant colour and the smell of sophistication (which, to him, was wine and oak and fresh paint – this was a combination he associated with success). Those in costume had taken the opportunity for self-invention through varying degrees of expression and disguise. Superman speculated about what the guy in the centre of the room was saying with his choice of Viking costume.

'Happy Halloween!'

Superman turned to see The Hippie smiling at him.

'Happy Halloween,' he returned. 'I like your costume.'

'Thanks.' She continued smiling and watched him. He thought he was expected to say something else.

'Sorry, my name's – '

'You can't tell me your name! You are Superman, after all.' Then she took his hand before it was offered and shook it as if she was parodying the action. She laughed, he didn't know why.

'I almost came as Sisyphus.' He was confident for a moment, thinking that the reference might impress her, but she smiled with less enthusiasm now. 'I mean with a boulder to push...' The Hippie was frowning, lost. Superman was embarrassed. He retreated to the safety of small talk. 'How do you know the hosts?'

'I don't really know Catwoman, but I know her husband.' She looked across at The Tin Man, who had his back to her. 'And you?'

'Funny story, actually. I live on the floor below. They were moving stuff in a couple of weeks ago, and I passed the moving men on the stairs. I gave them a hand with a desk. She thought I was working for them. She didn't realise her mistake until I introduced myself – after I'd moved half of their stuff in. She was mortified, I guess. And then she invited me to this party.'

The Hippie turned away to look at someone waving at her from across the room. It was a mermaid, shuffling in an impractical outfit that turned her legs into an unconvincing fishtail. The Hippie said, 'I have to talk to my friend, but find me later, yeah?'

'Sure.' Superman backed off into the chattering, dancing masses and felt himself disappear. The clock ticked toward eleven. The Hippie was out on the small balcony off the front room with a friend, sharing a joint.

Eleven o'clock arrived, and Superman drank a little more (the wine was strong and he was not). The Hippie returned from outside, still with her friend and joined by the Viking, who was pretending to listen to her while flexing his arms. Superman wished his own workouts would pay off like that. He ran, he ate well, usually, and he had a set of weights at home which were in use, perhaps not regularly, but it was hard to keep motivated when he stayed scrawny and awkward. His posture was terrible, always hunched as if he was cold. He only wore the Superman outfit because it was padded, comically enough that he wouldn't look like he was really trying to fool anyone, and yet thick enough to disguise just how shapeless his upper body was.

The Tin Man strolled over to Superman, a glass of wine in his hand. He seemed comfortable in his inebriation. He put his hand on Superman's shoulder, as though they were old friends.

'What do you _think_?' He nodded at the Hippie to indicate the subject of his question. 'I saw you talking to her earlier.'

'She's certainly different.'

The Tin Man watched him. He seemed suspicious of something in the response. He took a look dramatically around the room as if checking for spies.

' _Look_ , I don't want to talk badly behind someone's back. She's trouble. She's really messed up. I didn't even want her here tonight. I'm not sure who invited her.'

'What do you mean, "trouble"?'

'She's a liar. She gets really attached. Possessive. She's kind of _wild_. It's not always a good thing.'

'Are you warning me away from her?'

'No, I just want you to be aware, _that's_ all.'

'Right. Well, consider me aware.'

The Tin Man smiled. He wobbled and said, 'I'm going to see where my beautiful wife is.'

Another hour passed. It was midnight on All Hallow's Eve, but there were no saints to be seen yet. From the orgy of people dancing in seizures near the stereo, The Hippie made her way to Superman. She was laughing and misplacing almost every step, daring gravity to topple her.

'You need another drink,' she told him.

'I'm fine, thanks.'

'You're not! Have you spoken to anyone else tonight?'

'Yes, a few people.'

She leaned in and whispered theatrically, 'Who do you like the look of?'

He shrugged. She regarded him with impatience. The nuances of flirting were a mystery to him, but he was sure he had missed a cue to say something witty, or cute, or any of a set of adjectives that did not describe him.

'What do you do for work?'

She sighed. 'You can do better than that. It's Halloween, we can be whoever we want. We can go a little crazy!'

'Okay. Let's do something crazy.'

She flashed a wicked smile. She scared him a little.

Catwoman interrupted their conversation with an offer to refill their glasses. Superman shook his head. The Hippie extended her glass and watched Catwoman with a look of interest as the wine was poured.

'Are you two lovelies hitting it off?' asked Catwoman.

'We might be,' The Hippie responded.

The two women regarded each other with painful smiles full of intent. The Tin Man jumped into the now silent group.

'What are we talking about?'

The Hippie smiled at him. 'Nothing much.'

The Tin Man turned to Catwoman, but kept glancing back to The Hippie. 'Babe, I _could_ use your help in the kitchen. I can't find the ... you know, the what-do-you-call-it.'

The Hippie watched them go, and The Tin Man didn't look back. Superman watched her throat move as she swallowed barely concealed feelings. She strained for a smile and returned to the conversation with Superman.

'We were just saying we should do something crazy,' she reminded him.

'Any ideas?'

'Let's find somewhere quieter.' She looked to the closed door of the office. 'Somewhere private.' Then she bit her lip and tilted her head, an overtly sexualised gesture. He immediately followed her away from the lounge, to the office door, where they feigned a conversation. When they had a clear moment, they slipped into the room. The Hippie closed the door behind them.

The office was dark, though a lamp was glowing on the desk. The room was rich in its décor of oak furnishings and hardwood flooring the colour of dark tea. The walls were lined with ceiling-high shelves filled with books. The spines of the books filled every space, some books were turned on their sides to slide into odd gaps. The small window behind the desk was partially obstructed by a violin propped up on the sill. There was a stack of boxes which – The Hippy pulled back a flap to look inside the top box – were full of more books. Superman went to the chair behind the desk and sat down, moving aside the pile of coats. He lifted a pen, slid a page across the desk as if he intended to write. He felt he had become someone else, as if through some metamorphosis, someone educated and respectable.

The Hippie was still opening boxes. She'd moved onto the bottom box of the pile and looked disappointed to find more books. She moved aside the top few titles and came out with some loose sheets of paper. With renewed interest, she sat on the floor and began to read.

'Are you looking for something?'

She didn't look up. 'Just curious.'

She tossed the papers back in the box, though she left the other boxes out of place. She came round to Superman's side of the desk and opened drawers. This looked like more than curiosity. He stood and moved away from the desk. Something felt wrong now, and he wanted to get out.

He said, 'I might return to the party.'

'Fine.' Again, she didn't look at him. She was reading the address on an envelope she'd found. She touched the torn edge of it as if she didn't understand what it meant. Superman went to the door. The handle turned, and The Hippie dropped the envelope. In came The Tin Man.

'You two? What are you... ?'

Superman looked back at The Hippie, not knowing what to say. She looked guiltily away from both men. Superman understood that whatever had been between The Tin Man and The Hippie was between them again now, but in some new way. The Tin Man was glaring at The Hippie, but when he looked back to Superman, his face was friendlier. Superman wanted to stand protectively between them, to take the force of the glare and anger. He wanted to save her.

'Sorry, I noticed your books earlier when I put my coat away. I wanted to have a look at the titles. I didn't mean to be rude.'

The Tin Man stared for a moment. The Hippie still looked away.

'Not at all, have a good look. Are you a _literature_ buff then?'

Superman shrugged. 'I like to think of myself as reading widely.'

'I think it was Vizinczey who wrote that being well-read is great for dinner parties, but not for _understanding_ literature.' The Tin Man sloshed a little of his wine over the edge of his glass as he spoke.

'I'm trying to understand the fundamentals. Read the classics. Eventually, I'll focus on refining my knowledge.'

The Tin Man nodded approvingly. He went to a shelf and stroked the edges of spines until he tipped a book out into his hand. He passed it to Superman. It was _Being and Nothingness_.

'Have you read Sartre?' The Tin Man asked.

'Yes, I'm a big fan. I enjoyed _Nausea_ – '

'I prefer the existentialism of Camus, of course.'

Superman was silent. How was he supposed to respond? He would not return the 'Of course'. He noticed The Hippie rolling her eyes at The Tin Man, so he took up the rhetorical sword.

'Of course,' he said, 'Camus wasn't an existentialist.'

The Tin Man looked shocked. 'I'm _sorry_ , he was. I've studied philosophy.'

'Was that a while ago?' Superman asked with faux innocence. 'Camus rejected the label. He said that both he and Sartre were always surprised that they were seen as of the same school.'

'And what's _your_ major in? Or your degree?'

The question hit Superman with the blunt pain of a miserable yet honest observation.

'I didn't go to university.'

'Ah,' said The Tin Man. 'So you studied at A-level?'

'Actually, I dropped out of college.' His defiant tone was not convincing.

'Right.' The Tin Man looked back at The Hippie and, when she finally met his eyes, he said to Superman while looking at her, 'If you'd like to borrow any of my books, be my guest. I'm _always_ happy to encourage education.'

'I'm going to get another drink.' He didn't offer to get drinks for the other two. He escaped and didn't look back. A sailor staggered past him, going to the bathroom with a drink in hand. His eyes were sunk into a grey face, and he looked at Superman longingly, begging for something he couldn't give him, something he didn't have. The man sought his answer in his drink. He looked into the liquid at the bottom of the glass and said, 'It's a void.'

Superman looked back to the office, at the closed door. He felt taunted by it being closed, as if opening it would be to raise his middle digit above a defiant fist. He could have what was behind the door if he just took it. He approached the office, the door, took the handle and turned.

The Tin Man was holding The Hippie's arm awkwardly in the air, as if announcing her the victor of something, but he was angry. She was absorbed in watching the performance of his rage. The Tin Man saw Superman standing uninvited in the doorway. He let go of her arm, which stayed where it was for a moment, then the fingers uncurled and reached for The Tin Man, but he'd already stepped away. He was looking past Superman's shoulder. Superman turned and saw Catwoman behind him. The anger passed from The Tin Man to his wife. She stared, and it became a glare.

'Just a friend?' Her voice broke. 'I knew it.'

The Tin Man began to speak, and she tore away. The Tin Man rushed off after her. Superman sensed a collective holding of breath – there was a moment in which the conversations from the front room lowered in volume, then ceased completely, and the stereo was left filling the void of absent voices. It played something modern with a frenetic synth chorus that sounded out of place in the moment. Silence would have been better. Superman looked at The Hippie, who looked away from him. The noise returned to the front room, and the party resumed. The Hippie spoke at last.

'They'll be fine. He'll convince her there was nothing going on. It's not as if she actually saw us doing anything...'

'I don't know, she seemed pretty mad.'

'No, he'll get her back. Women believe him. He convinced me he was going to leave her.'

'Oh. So you two –' He left the sentence there to sit awkwardly unfinished and untouched. There was no need to complete his thought. The night was over at this point, at least for him. Whatever followed would involve leaving this room, and then – as there was nothing else here to interest him – leaving the party. He felt that he was almost at the peak of his discomfort. He might as well push to the top and see where it got him.

'Look, you and I have more in common with each other than we do with anyone else here. And I know you have feelings for him, but he's an ass.'

The Hippie laughed. Superman continued, encouraged.

'He's so pretentious! And I bought into it, that's why I'm here. Can I tell you something really embarrassing? I wanted their approval. But I don't need it. You don't need it. We can leave here and have an infinitely better time without playing up to anyone else's expectations.'

The Hippie's smile was weaker, and her eyes looked more at the floor than at him. He pushed harder.

'I live downstairs. I have a few beers in the fridge. We could just talk and be ourselves. Do you fancy it?'

The Hippie said nothing. Superman waited, but she'd already given him an answer. He counted to three, so he wouldn't seem impatient, and then told her he was going to go home.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I need to be on my own.'

Superman left the room. The party continued, though a tension in the air was subduing it. A few people were leaving. Superman looked around the front room and saw The Tin Man and Catwoman on the balcony. They were arguing in mime, mouths moving with no sound, arms waving and faces flexing to show anger and concern. Superman went to the front door and left the party.

He descended the stairwell, returning to his flat. He smelled his body odour before he lifted his arms, and when he did he saw the dark stains of sweat. He ceased to care about what would have ordinarily embarrassed him. The smell didn't matter – no one would be near enough to him to smell it. He would throw the costume in the wash tonight. In the morning, he would iron the creases out of the cape, knowing it would be wrinkled and need ironing again soon, but then it would be somebody else's problem. Returning to the store tomorrow would be the only reason to go outside. There was nothing and no one else to leave his flat for. He would spend the rest of the day telling himself he should read (his stack of 'currently-reading' books was growing faster than he could read them) and would instead watch shit television and feel guilty about it. He reached his floor, his door was ahead of him. There was a shuffling sound from upstairs.

'Are you down there?' The Hippie's voice called down to Superman. 'Hey, are you there still?'

He went back to the bottom of the stairs and looked up between the alternating sets of steps. The Hippie was leaning over the railing and looking down at him.

'Will you come back up here? I left my bag inside, and I don't want to go into the flat again.'

He tried to hide the smile that grew on his face. He frowned seriously and nodded. He would go up there again. He had another chance at... at what? He thought it was happiness, or maybe love, or maybe sex. He would settle for even a few more minutes of conversation delaying the inevitable return to his own flat. He took to the stairs again.

IN AND OUT, IN AND OUT

As the women entered Harriet's front room, each of them pulling balls of yarn, wooden needles, and incomplete scarves and jumpers and socks from their bags, a war was televised in the corner. Guns shook silently as a man in the foreground mouthed words at the screen. Harriet wanted to take the set off 'mute' but a conversation had started in the group. Susan was nodding earnestly as Cathy and Diana chattered about the traffic that afternoon, about some pile-up on the ring road that had made them both minutes late for this meet-up. Harriet's hand went slowly to the remote on the oak coffee-table as she tried to read the headlines crawling across the bottom of the screen. She'd mislaid her glasses, the headlines were unintelligible, so she pushed the button to turn the set to black.

Harriet turned to the three women removing outdoor clothing and taking seats. Diana wore that self-important tweed jacket of hers (poppy pinned in place on the breast) and a ridiculous hat that was a garish nest of feathers and flowers above a wide brim, as if she were going to Ascot. She placed the hat gently next to her armchair, on the hardwood floor. Susan, as always, kept her coat on, wrapped around her small shoulders and draped over her knees, which were nervously knocking together. A twitching leg was her anxious tick. She had pinned a red poppy to her lapel. Cathy looked the most normal, which meant she was dressed the most like Harriet. She wore a pair of gray flannel trousers and a navy wool jumper over a red checked shirt. The main difference between her outfit and Harriet's was that Cathy wore a pair of browline glasses. That, and the obligatory red poppy on her jumper. Harriet looked at these women, whom she would probably describe to others as her 'friends', and wondered what they were doing in her home. While the way they looked accurately portrayed their personalities, Harriet's appearance and home – with its gilt framed family photos and perfectly aligned furniture, everything at right angles and sensibly square or rectangular, the ugly vintage tea set (an anniversary gift from God-knew-who) on the mantelpiece – represented nothing within her. She looked around at the women and her home, and she felt like she was not the hostess but the visitor, and she couldn't wait to leave. But where would she go?

The women were discussing children now. Diana was soon to become a grandmother, so the world for her (and subsequently for everyone else in conversation with her) was made up of children, the very young kind, and all of the ways in which women served them.

'I've told her to breastfeed, of course. I breastfed each of mine, best thing for them. And not too much television, there's far too much of that these days. Mothers ought to be engaging their children more often, conversations as often as possible.'

Conversations? What was there to talk about with a child? Until their teen years, their interests were fleeting and narrow; Harriet's youngest daughter once babbled for five minutes about the leaf in her hand, which she dropped to examine a woodlouse, which became the topic of her next manic stream-of-consciousness. And once children had become teens, they were the ultimate solipsists. Teens didn't realise others weren't as interested as they were in the minutiae of their daily lives, teens assumed _everyone_ was fascinated in the tweet some twit just tweeted to them. This had been the primary obstacle to Harriet fully embracing motherhood. She had done what she could, offered them every material good her children might need, hugged and loved them adequately, but she was forced to accept that she was never entirely interested in them. Not any more interested than she was in the lives of her friends: she cared, and tried to help, and thought about them, but once they went to their own homes, she felt no shame in turning her thoughts to herself. Her children rarely visited, and she assumed they would drop by or take her up on one of her tentative offers to go see them if they were upset by the distance. But as it stood, she would next see her four grown-up children at Christmas.

Susan tried to bring Harriet into the small talk. 'How's your week been, Harriet? How's Richard?'

This was how they asked each other about their lives, and it was how, in return, they each spoke about their lives: through the lens of what their husbands were doing. It never seemed to occur to the others that in doing this, they cast themselves as supporting characters in their own lives. She recited a standard response about her and Richard both being well, adding that he was away on work for a few days, and watched for the awkwardly hidden reactions from the other women. She used to find Diana's averted gaze – there it was – and Cathy's puckered lips – also present – and Susan's simper – oh, that had changed, today it was a pat on Harriet's shoulder – infuriating. She tried for a while to ignore these responses. Finally, she accepted such gestures as humourous expressions of their own inability to think _about_ their responses. As the women moved on to other issues, some silliness of local gossip, Harriet considered her answer to the question of how Richard was, as if the question had been intended as something more searching than a common pleasantry. How was Richard?

He was fine as a father. Was that an acceptable thing to say of someone, that they were simply 'satisfactory' at being a parent? He wasn't awful enough to say he was a terrible or abusive parent – surely that made him just as good as any other non-abusive father. She wouldn't describe him as excellent, but who was? God knew she had her own failings as a mother. But she was aware of them (not that this knowledge always effected change, caused her to be better), whereas he had always displayed a profound lack of self-insight. He was always righteous, in his own eyes. He had a reason for everything he did, a 'but' that qualified any near-admission of anything less than saintliness: 'Sure, I had to take the belt to the boy when he was younger, but I explained to him why he'd got it, so he'd understand what he'd done wrong.' Actually, he'd struck their son with the belt only once, when Harriet had been out shopping, and when she returned and heard the sobbing, saw the small, red streak across the pale buttock, she screamed at Richard in a way that he would never have allowed a man to rage at him. He apologised, then recanted with a sombre, patronising explanation of the merits in spanking, and she yelled at him again with her now-hoarse voice. He never disavowed striking children, but he'd never done it since, either. The truth was, she wasn't happy about how she'd addressed the incident. She tried to justify her screaming as being the only thing he, with his aggressive masculinity, would respond to. But she heard herself thinking this, heard it in a detached, third-person way, and she sounded like Richard justifying his outbursts of anger. The boy had been angry and spoke back to his father; his father was made angry by this and lashed out at the son; she was furious at this and had lashed out at the father, her husband. They were each chained to violence, with chains of different lengths so that each could feel more free than those with a shorter leash.

Her evaluation of this man as a husband – the word 'lover' felt, as she tried it on, empty, clumsy, left shoe on the right foot, a word for others, for people not her and her husband – was less middle-of-road. As a husband, he careened from one side of the street to the other. Every six to nine months, they had a renaissance of passion, a sudden renewal of interest shown in her that had the exuberance of something completely new being discovered or invented. He almost seemed to believe in his infatuation with her, as if he were seventeen again and didn't know everything he knew about her and about sex and about marriage. But with each year, her response was a little less enthusiastic, as she was unable to portray with equal vigour the blissful naivety of someone in love, or even simply lust. It was probably much easier for him to act his part so well, given that for the previous six to nine months he'd been fucking – and then disappointing while he grew bored – someone else. He was essentially a bachelor, sleeping around to get whatever he wanted wherever he could get it, except that he returned to one particular woman every so often.

As a young man, he'd been impulsive, a romantic quality that had led to adventure and turned the commonplace into something exciting. As he'd aged, that impulsiveness had become thoughtlessness. With the same foolhardy (no, simply foolish) abandon that had once led to sex in a park, selling his clothes to pay for a trip to Morocco, moving in together, marriage, he began diving into every nearby bed with every willing girl. Yes, she thought of them as girls deliberately, making a point of their relatively few years compared to herself; god forbid he be at least original in his philandering, maybe bed a few pensioners. Not that she knew of every affair he'd had, and it was possible that one or two of those she'd accepted as having been committed might never have happened, but in all of those that she knew had taken place, the other person had invariably been roughly twenty-five years younger than Harriet.

Sometimes she longed for a more conventionally mundane relationship, the kind where they could form a rut which, along with the boredom and claustrophobia, at least came with enough structure to know where she was. She was tired. She'd once played the game, she used to get angry, heartbroken, righteously furious about his perfidious wandering. She screamed and cried, she threw him out of the house, she even once (hot shame flushed through her face at the memory) threw a tin of tuna at a woman who'd condescended to Harriet that they were 'sisters' who had both been wronged by this man. It was the first Harriet had heard of this particular affair, the first time her suspicions had been vindicated, laid out with no room for doubt. Harriet was paying for groceries at the supermarket, aware that the gaunt, spotty boy scanning her cheap bra and box of tampons was watching, that others in the queue behind Harriet and this young woman talking at her were watching. Perversely, Harriet found she wanted every detail, but she didn't want to have to ask, to actually engage in talking with this woman (this girl, this not-much-more-than-a-teen, this saccharine voice and sincere smile – Harriet might have imagined the braces – this collection of ridiculous attributes pretending to be a whole person). While acting as if everything were perfectly normal, smiling inanely and not looking directly at anyone, she stared at the can in her hand and noticed it was tuna and not the baked beans she'd meant to pick up. As she realised this, the girl patted her shoulder in a way that might have been intended as an act of solidarity but came off as presumptuous, and in the act of tossing the can into the empty basket at the end of the lane, Harriet pulled away sharply from the touch and the can flew past the girl's head. It hit no one, landed harmlessly on a bag of peas, but there was a theatrical hiss from the onlookers, tutting at what they thought was an outburst of anger, and then Harriet did get angry at the collective stupidity of the voyeurs around her, eagerly leaning in to see something they could judge.

Everyone had an opinion on how she ought to live her life. But she thought, with something of a thrill at her own acerbity, _Fuck you, you don't have to live my life_. She knew these women thought she was weak or lacking in self-respect for putting up with her husband's well known extra-marital dealings (although she wasn't sure about Diana, who had never brought up the issue and changed the subject every time Cathy, trying to proselytise, discussed Richard's adultery). None of them knew the truth of why she had not left him, why she seemed to have given up on chastising him for his deceits, did not seem to want to change him and his ways; the truth was, she didn't know now how to react to his cheating, because she didn't know who she wanted to be anymore. She didn't know if she was still, or wanted to remain, a wife, in which case why get angry at the man she might well leave? At the same time, kicking him out or leaving before she'd thought things through could land her in a difficult place, practically speaking. Her parents had both died early of cancers, and she did not want to burden her kids with putting her up, or burden herself with being in their pockets, and how would she support herself? She supposed she could get a job, but what would a life-long housewife do for an income now?

Harriet realised that the other women were looking at her expectantly, as if she were somehow in charge, as if she were supposed to give some order to proceedings, to say, 'Ready, and ... knit!' They treated her like this every time, probably because it was her home where they convened, possibly because they were content to follow, wanted someone else to lead.

'Anyone fancy a drink? Kettle's just boiled if anyone fancies a tea or coffee. Or there's juice.'

'Ooh, what kind of juice?' Susan asked.

'Um ... I think it's pomegranate?'

'Sounds lovely.'

The other two agreed, so it was three glasses of pomegranate juice for them. As Harriet left for the kitchen, she wondered why she felt relieved to be away from the group for a moment. She didn't need to invite them round if she didn't want to see them. Why had she? Just because she hadn't bothered to cancel? And why hadn't she bothered? She knew why – because there would be questions, they would want a reason for the cancellation, and she didn't have one to offer them. Nothing that would make sense to them anyway.

She went to the fridge and removed the carton. Richard had torn the corner of the top, graceless as ever, and she could picture him tipping his head back to pour the juice down his gullet. She huffed as she took a pair of scissors from the cutlery drawer and poked a hole in the top of the carton. This stopped the juice glugging out in waves that poured over the glass and the counter, but Richard never bothered with it. She told him every time to poke a hole but – no, she refused to have the argument right now, especially as he wasn't even present for it. She poured the juice into glasses, then put the drinks onto a tray. As she lifted the last one, her fingers slid along the glass, pushing it between her wet fingertips, which met as the glass suddenly flipped through the air.

' _Fuck_ ,' she hissed. The glass had not cracked, but the juice in it had been thrown over her feet and was soaking into the crack that ran along the join between the linoleum and the counter. She knelt and lifted the glass, dropping a tea towel onto the puddle, watching the dark stain spread across the cream cotton. 'Shit.'

She had recently taken up swearing. She smiled a little, a sardonic, get-over-yourself smile, at this phrasing – as if she had adopted a habit as tangible as pilates or smoking. But there was no other way to express it. Swearing had never been a feature of her vocabulary. There were the half-hearted yet thrilling moments in teenage years when she experimented with 'shit' and 'damn', nervous excitement at rebelling against her conservative parents. But it was a benign rebellion because, of course, her parents never heard it. And her friends were mostly of the same background but, unlike her, eager to emulate the adulthood of their own parents, so they weren't receptive to this kind of language. So that never went anywhere. Then the children began arriving in her early twenties, and for a time – when the first was learning to speak and Harriet, for some anomalous reason, released a 'goddamnit' – she consciously refrained from any aggressive language. And Richard never liked Harriet to 'speak like a sailor' (a received phrase he often used), so she didn't swear when they were alone, or when the children began leaving home. In reality, swearing was not a big deal, not something she missed or had to work that hard to abstain from. But a month or so ago, during a stressful day of tedious home-chores that wouldn't go right, she noticed she was swearing in her internal monologue: _Fucking sweater, and fucking moths. Why won't they die?_ She felt a spasm of pleasure, not because these were curse words, but because they were new. This was a new attribute, small but somehow defining, in the way that each chip from a slab of stone was only a cut, an angle, a line here or there, but combined and seen at a distance they described a complete figure.

Still crouched over the damp tea towel on the floor, she noticed the silence in the other room. Harriet waited, knowing they too were waiting, but something stubborn made her stay kneeling and quiet, forcing their hand.

'Harriet? Everything okay in there?'

Harriet stood and put the glass into the sink. She called back that she was fine, no, she didn't need a hand, carry on and she'd be with them in a moment. They began speaking again, leaving her to it.

Harriet heard knocking at the front door. She didn't know who it was, wasn't expecting anyone to be coming by. She called out, 'Can somebody answer that, please?'

'I've got it!' Susan replied.

As Harriet poured a fresh glass of juice into a new glass, she heard the door open, voices speaking in jovial tones in the hallway, footsteps, then group chatter in the front room, the others greeting the newcomer. Harriet fantasised briefly of slipping out of the house through the back door, so no one would know she'd gone, and getting in a taxi, maybe then a train, or even a plane ... But she stopped there, saving the fantasy for later, when she had more time to herself for imagining such things, maybe while she did some ironing. Harriet lifted the tray and slipped back into her role as hostess.

•••

'Anyone fancy a drink? Kettle's just boiled if anyone fancies a tea or coffee. Or there's juice.'

'Ooh, what kind of juice?' Susan asked, a little too eagerly, hoping to cheer up Harriet, who had seemed troubled by something for the last few minutes. She was probably fretting about Richard's absence. Everyone knew he wasn't to be trusted around other women.

'Um ... I think it's pomegranate?'

'Sounds lovely.'

As Harriet vanished into the kitchen, Susan took a seat and listened to the other two chatting. Diana looked fantastic, as always. Susan liked the hat she'd had on when they arrived, all those colours. Susan could never pull off anything like that. She wouldn't like to draw that much attention to herself. Still, at least she was pleased with her lot. She didn't envy Diana's clothing, or wish she herself were different. She was who she was, and that was fine. Shame today's young women couldn't feel that way. There would be less of this cattiness, the competing with men in binge-drinking (there was a headline about it yesterday), and competing with other women, placing work above the home, putting off having kids and complaining when it was too late. Yes, there was that egg freezing that was becoming trendy, but it wasn't natural. Susan knew not to say this out loud, because Cathy tended to snigger when they discussed what was and wasn't natural, as if Cathy couldn't see these things for herself. Cathy had funny ideas about nature and nurture.

The idea of 'nature' reminded Susan of the carrier bag between her feet. Inside were some eggs, a few with feathers stuck to them, six muddy carrots, some knobbly broad beans, two thick leeks, and two potatoes. The potatoes were too small, she suddenly wished she hadn't been so mean in selecting them. Still, this was what she had to offer, and Harriet was never ungrateful. And it wasn't as if the others ever brought gifts for the group or the host. These had come from her own garden, grown with love and care, picked (and laid, in the case of the eggs) only this morning. And when she didn't have anything from the garden, she brought chocolates or little nibbles for everyone to share. Not once had any of the others thought to do this. These were the little things that held communities together. It was the lack of these things in the city that had so many people visiting their town every weekend, crowding their farmer's market and racing ridiculous cars along the narrow roads to the outlying countryside.

She was going to take the bag through to Harriet when they heard the sound of something hard hit the floor in the kitchen, then a splash.

' _Fuck_ ...'

The women in the front room froze when they heard the curse word. Susan winced when Harriet, more loudly, said, 'Shit.'

Cathy called out, 'Harriet? Everything okay in there?'

'Fine, I'm fine.'

'Can I give you a hand with anything?'

'No, please carry on, I'll be with you in a minute.'

Cathy lowered her voice and said to the group, 'What do you think's got _her_ stressed out?' She was thinking of Richard. Diana shrugged, and Susan didn't know what to say. Poor Harriet, it couldn't have been an easy situation. And it wasn't made easier by others trying to tell her how she ought to handle the situation. He was _her_ husband, after all. Cathy had made it clear she thought that anything less than righteous anger and immediately kicking Richard out was a betrayal to women everywhere. She was a bit of a feminist like that. To be fair, Harriet had been like that, once. She'd had some very public arguments with her spouse, and had stayed in Susan's guest room twice, years ago, when she'd been considering divorce. And there was that awful scene in the supermarket, somebody had told Susan about it. Apparently Harriet had screamed at some woman who'd been involved with Richard and threw some tins at her head. Still, she'd calmed down in recent years, and perhaps things were working out in her marriage now. It was Harriet's business, no one else's.

Susan brought up the topic of this year's Royal Christmas Message. She talked about what she anticipated the focus of the speech to be, and she lamented the ignorance of those who ignored the tradition.

'I was speaking to someone just the other day,' she said, 'who had _never_ seen a Christmas speech. _Never_. I didn't know what to say.'

'God, I can't believe Christmas is already on everyone's minds.' This was Cathy, of course. 'The stores begin stocking for it earlier every year. I saw a pack of Christmas crackers for sale in August.'

'It's a very important occasion,' said Diana. 'Not that anyone remembers what it's really about.'

'It's not important to everyone,' Cathy retorted.

Susan was not enjoying this turn in the conversation, but before she could correct it, there was knocking at the front door.

Harriet called from the kitchen, 'Can somebody answer that, please?'

Susan got up from her chair. 'I've got it!'

She left the room and went to the front door in the hallway. She could make out the shape of someone standing on the other side of the stained glass door, a distorted person of spring greens, autumnal ochre, summer yellows, and winter blues. These were also the colours of the wools she had with her, the pretty names printed on the wrapper that held them together. She opened the door to a young woman and an icy breeze. The sun was already setting at four in the afternoon.

'You must be Collette,' she said, stepping aside to let her in. 'I'm Susan.'

'Yep, I'm Collette. Letty, actually. I'm glad I found the right house, I wasn't sure if I'd remembered the right address. Should I take my shoes off?'

'No, I think it's fine. You can hang your coat there. Come on through, meet everyone.'

Susan pulled her own jacket a little tighter around her thin body. She always felt the cold, even at home where she kept the heating turned up, despite her husband's grumbling about the electricity. This time of year, she also need the fire lit in the lounge. The wind that slipped in when she'd opened the door chilled her bones.

Collette followed her into the front room, where the young woman was greeted with warm, if slightly hesitant, smiles. Susan had not thought Collette would turn up, so she hadn't mentioned anything to the others. Still, it wasn't as if there was an entrance policy. They were just friendly women who met up to knit and chat. Everyone was welcome, probably.

'This is Collette – sorry, she prefers Letty. Letty, this is Diana, and this is Cathy. Harriet is in the kitchen – oh, there you are.'

Harriet had brought in the drinks on a tray. She placed them on the coffee table and shook Collette's hand, which seemed a little formal to Susan. Harriet offered her a drink, but Collette said she was fine without one. Susan turned back to the introductions to explain what had happened.

'I know Collette's – Letty's – mum, we went to school together. I bumped into her last week, and she told me her daughter was interested in knitting. I invited her along.' Susan hesitated, feeling as if she ought to ask the others directly if this was all right, but she changed her mind. Instead, to say something as her mouth was hanging open and the others were clearly waiting for more, she said, 'Letty lives in the city.'

Nothing more was said for a few minutes as Collette took a seat on the wicker chair between Susan and the sofa on which Harriet and Diana were sitting. Nobody seemed to have thought about offering Collette a starting point with knitting, or even if she had the required tools. Before Susan could speak, Collette swung her canvas bag onto the floor and pulled out three balls of wool and a pair of knitting needles. Just like that, the five of them were quietly seeing to their own projects.

Susan was halfway through a winter blue jumper. As she set to work on a purl row, she looked around at the others. There seemed to be something of a spotlight on Collette. She stood out without trying. It was her age. The four regulars to the group were not all the same age: Cathy was leaving her forties behind, Diana was greeting her sixties, and Susan and Harriet were both somewhere in the middle. Still, the new woman was so much younger that there seemed to be only two age groups at the meeting: young and old. A girl and some women. Apparently Collette had finished university a couple of years ago, so she was in her early twenties. She wouldn't have told anyone, but Susan had forgotten that she'd made the invitation through Collette's mother, and it hadn't been particularly sincere. She hadn't really thought the invitation would be accepted, so the offer was extended without consideration. Now that Collette had turned up, Susan wished she had kept her mouth closed. She didn't want another city person arriving in her neighbourhood to exploit the so-called 'quaint' aspects of her life. This group was not some silly, anti-trendy fad for young people to attach to their lives like their ridiculous hairdos and lifestyle choices. Not long ago, there had been an article about hipsters in the weekly magazine Susan read. Susan wondered if Collette was a hipster. It was difficult to tell. It seemed to come down to a sense of irony.

'I like your dress,' Susan said to Collette, who was wearing a blue floral dress and red cardigan, with grey wool tights.

'Thanks, I got it from a brilliant vintage place near where I live.'

Why did she shop at vintage stores? That sounded like a hipster thing. Was it a statement? Still, it was a very nice dress.

Harriet said, 'How long have you been knitting, Letty?'

'I got into it at uni, I found it really soothing, a good way of relaxing between lectures, after exams. It was that or binge-drinking every weekend.'

Diana raised an eyebrow. 'You don't drink alcohol?'

'Oh, I drink, obviously. I just don't like getting trashed.'

'Ah.'

'I mean, I'm not an idiot. I pay attention to the news, I know all about my generation's drinking, all the problems we get ourselves into.'

Cathy glanced at Susan, who noticed this and that the other two dropped their heads suddenly, self-consciously staring at the knitting they were doing. She knew why they were uncomfortable and wished they weren't.

Susan had only had one child. She and her husband had tried for three years to get pregnant before she finally did, and she had never succeeded in having any more. Her husband had talked about doctors for a long time, but she didn't want to hear it. She didn't want to know what was wrong with her, if something was, because hearing it wouldn't change it. If she couldn't have any more, she couldn't have any more. She was more than happy with her beautiful daughter, Penelope. She knew when she named her that it was a bit of an old fashioned name, but Susan liked it and thought people could call her Penny, which they did. Five years ago, Penny passed away. She was twenty-five, and her boyfriend had driven them off the road, killing them both. The police said something about alcohol. Susan didn't know if they meant Penny or the boyfriend had been drinking, but she asked them not to say any more. Whatever else had happened, her daughter was dead. Susan had a knack for seeing what information was vital, and cutting away all the nonsense others got obsessed with.

For the first year after Penny's death, Susan's friends rarely spoke about their own children, or did so tersely. Maybe they thought it would upset Susan that their kids were still alive. Of course, Susan did not hold it against them that their children were alive. She was too busy too be bitter, she was getting on with what mattered to her: contacting Penny in the afterlife. Susan knew people who went to see mediums, and at first she'd shied away from it. She told her friends it seemed like it might be wicked, one of those things she had been raised to believe were of the devil. But she soon realised that this was a kind of religion she didn't believe in anymore, the kind from America that put God at the centre of everything. God, to Susan, was a kindly figure whose existence was irrelevant, because what Susan needed was the church and its members, the fabric of her social network. She realised that what she really feared was the possibility of actually hearing from Penny, although she didn't know why that scared her. Eventually, she decided to face her fear and give it a go.

At the first few meetings she cautiously attended, she only stayed for the readings and left before people began mixing and sharing stories. She didn't speak to anyone beforehand either, when others were expressing their hopes that Uncle Bill would forgive them, or Joey would simply say hello. Penny never came through. But Susan saw other things, readings that hit the mark for others, and their tears were proof of the medium's abilities. So she attended more meetings and became a regular. Once she opened up and began telling others about her daughter, Penny finally spoke to her. It must have been because Susan had dropped those defensive walls that had prevented Penny connecting. She didn't stay long, but she told her mother she was happy, and that she loved her, and then she was gone again. This instance inspired Susan to help others like her find the solace she'd found. And she continued to try to speak with Penny, even if the contact was brief, or if Penny said the same things, which she did the next few times a medium received her. So Susan didn't need sympathy or pity, and she wished these women didn't feel so awkward about the topic of Penny, because she could still talk to her daughter.

To be fair, Diana wasn't always hypersensitive around her about the issue of children. She often spoke of her own kids, and the coming grandchild. She was a proud mother and rightly so. Susan admired her commitment to her maternal role. Cathy, on the other hand, had very different ideas about motherhood. She was always insisting that she didn't want kids, that she never had and never would. Susan thought of that saying from Shakespeare that people often recited about the lady protesting too much. A long time ago, Diana had asked Cathy something that Susan herself had wondered. After Cathy had told them that children held no interest for her, Diana said, 'Can't you have children?' Cathy had pursed her lips, which she did often, and ignored the question, which seemed a bit rude. It was a fair question. If she couldn't have kids, that would explain her vocal opposition to having them. It would be a way of protecting herself from the pain of being unable to be a mother herself. To be honest, Susan had assumed that Cathy must have tried already for kids and discovered she couldn't have them. As Cathy had never answered the question, they didn't know if they were wrong.

Susan's attention returned to what the others were saying. She realised that the conversation had resumed and had been going on for the last few minutes, while she had been lost in her thoughts about Penny. She looked down at the jumper she was knitting. It was coming together nicely, and it was Penny's favourite colour. Susan had another meeting with a medium tomorrow evening. She left the women to their talking and knitting, while she thought about what she hoped to hear Penny say tomorrow.

•••

'I like your dress,' Susan told Letty. Diana liked it too, appreciated the whole outfit, the cute blue dress with the flowers printed on it and the poppy red cardigan, though Diana would have preferred her to wear an actual poppy. Harriet was not wearing one either, but she was at home and was not expected to wear hers round the clock, as long as it was visible to proudly proclaim its message when Harriet was outdoors.

'Thanks, I got it from a brilliant vintage place near where I live.'

Letty was also wearing wool tights, a touch that suggested a modicum of modesty, especially as they were covered to the knees by the dress, which went against this awful trend of wearing leggings as trousers and exposing one's underwear wherever possible. It was sad that this girl needed to find a vintage store for clothes like that, especially as Diana could remember buying clothes just like that from Woolies in her own early twenties, or making them with her mother. These days, young people were stuck with buying flimsy scraps of fabric with hideous logos, and there was no chance of them sewing anything for themselves. Look at Letty – for her, a basic skill like knitting was at best a hobby, a quirky pastime that set her apart from her peers.

Harriet asked, 'How long have you been knitting, Letty?'

'I got into it at uni, I found it really soothing, a good way of relaxing between lectures, after exams. It was that or binge-drinking every weekend.'

Goodness, now she abstained from alcohol? The more Diana found to like about this girl, the more she resented the direction in which society had been heading for almost fifty years, away from traditional values, from those stalwart traits of Britishness which had served them so well for so long. As much as Letty was to be commended for these qualities, it was shameful that she stood out for that which ought to be the norm. Diana wanted to know more about what had led Letty this way. 'You don't drink alcohol?'

'Oh, I drink, obviously. I just don't like getting trashed.'

'Ah.' Diana was more frustrated with herself than with Letty – she ought to have known better than to have such easily shattered illusions about today's youth.

'I mean, I'm not an idiot,' Letty continued. 'I pay attention to the news, I know all about my generation's drinking, all the problems we get ourselves into.'

There was a sudden silence, and Diana suspected the others had gone red or were avoiding eye-contact with Susan, but she couldn't be sure because her recourse had been dropping her head to stare intently at her knitting. She was working on a purl-less rib for a long, moss green scarf. After a safe minute, she looked back up and reached for her drink, taking a sip of the juice. Susan seemed to be deep in thought, somewhere far from here. Then again, she hadn't fully been 'there' since Penelope had died. Susan had stopped when that had happened. Her life halted, and she became fixated on psychics and the nonsense those charlatans foisted onto the grieving. Diana had tried several times to have Susan meet with the parish priest, for a lesson against the fraud of mediums and their ilk, and perhaps some Christian comfort too.

'What are you working on?' Diana asked Letty.

'Well ... it started out as my first attempt at mittens,' she held up one finished mitten and one unfinished bundle that could become another mitten, 'but somehow they've ended up different sizes.'

'You can always start again.'

'I will, but I've started this one now, so I'll finish, then make another pair of odd sizes, then match the mittens up.'

'That seems a difficult solution to the problem,' Diana said, frowning.

Cathy said, 'I think it's quite clever. You'll have two pairs at the end of it, and you'll have practiced making mittens of different sizes.'

'There isn't any difference in method,' Diana argued. 'There's no harm in starting over.'

'And there's no harm in doing it her way,' said Cathy, who must have been in one of her moods. She and Diana occasionally clashed, but they were capable of enjoying each other's company and had learned to avoid contentious subjects, such as contraception for teens, integration of Muslims into British culture, abortion, and any of the many other topics liberals liked to complicate for God knew what reason. There was a reason there were only ten commandments, not because the list was exhaustive, but because they distilled morality into its essential elements and demonstrated that the good life was, at bottom, not that complicated. Childrearing was yet another matter on which they disagreed, and on which Cathy was very vocal with her opinion. The group had heard often about how annoying Cathy found it to be, as she saw it, constantly seen as a baby-making machine by society at large. She went on and on about having no interest in children, in wanting to do more with her life, as if being a mother was a second-rate existence, and eventually Diana got fed up of having her own life choices condemned. She was tired of being made to feel as if she had let down her gender because she wasn't a feminist – which was itself ironic, that feminism was supposed to liberate women, and yet it constantly trampled over her right to accept the traditional role for herself as a woman. One could only be a true feminist, a true woman, if one chose what the feminists approved of. All of this frustration finally needed somewhere to go, and so after listening to a list of reasons Cathy would not have children, she asked her, 'Can't you have children?' The effect was immediate, Cathy went silent, and Diana felt satisfied at last. _If you can't take it_ , she thought, _don't dish it out_.

'Do you have any music?' Letty asked.

Diana looked up from her scarf. 'We don't usually ...'

Cathy said, 'We could listen to some music. Harriet, do you have a CD player in here?'

'In the kitchen.'

Letty picked up her canvas bag. 'I have an iPod and speakers.' She pulled the iThingy out of the bag, as well as a pair of gourd shaped devices with a wire wrapped around them. She placed the strange speakers on the floor at her feet, unwrapped the wire and plugged it into the shiny rectangle in her hand. Diana actually owned one of these, a gift from her children years ago, but she hadn't taken it out of the box, and wore her ignorance of these things with pride. She had no real problem with the thing itself, but she found the immediacy of modern life distasteful. Everything had to be now, now, now, and that was why the quality of things was in decline: it didn't matter if these toys were rubbish, the next would be along now, now, _now_.

'Is folk music all right?'

The older women nodded. Folk music was all about violins and cellos, traditional lyrics, mellow enough to be inoffensive, ignorable. The group continued to knit as the music began, not too loud, so they could still talk with each other.

'I like this,' Cathy said. 'Who is it?'

'Her name's Anaïs Mitchell. I thought this song suited the group because of the "in and out" line, like knitting, and she talks about sewing a party dress.'

'I like her voice,' said Susan.

'It's unique, isn't it?' said Harriet.

'I like the sharpness,' said Cathy, having to have one up on the others again, having to demonstrate that she was thinking more profoundly than those around. 'It's a bit sarcastic, this song. Can you play it again?'

The song started over, and they all listened quietly, knitting left aside for a few minutes.

'I like the way she's trying to be everything for this guy, and then when he leaves, she's trying to be everything he doesn't want.' There went Cathy again, unable to take things as they were, unable to enjoy a pretty song for being nothing more than a pretty song. 'She can't win, she's defining herself based on what he wants or doesn't want. It's sad. You wish she could define herself on her own terms.'

Diana tried to remove the pressure on Letty to think of the music in these analytical terms, to reassure her they were not all as stubbornly dull or confrontational as Cathy was being. 'Well, I think it's a very pretty song.'

Cathy cut in, 'Yes, it's that too, it's lovely. And that it makes you think as well is commendable.'

'Yes, but sometimes one doesn't want to have to think deeply about everything one listens to. Sometimes it's nice simply to enjoy things.'

This time Letty answered. 'I guess for some people the enjoyment is in analysing the music, or the book, or the film, and for others that gets in the way. I don't think there's a right way to approach it. At least, that's what I got out of my A-level course in English Lit. There are no right or wrong answers.'

Diana appreciated the tactful way she had sought a middle ground, and she was happy to take it if it meant no more of Cathy's nonsense. But something about the phrasing – 'no right or wrong answers' – made her itch the way she did when she heard the word 'tolerance' in the media; she was forever being admonished to 'tolerate' this and that about other people and their strange ways, including their more destructive tendencies. What irked her about this was that the word 'tolerance' was used synonymously with 'acceptance,' when the first meant to put up with in spite of differing opinions, and the second meant to truly feel the tolerated thing was good. As long as she felt something was wrong, she could not tolerate it. This was what it meant to have values, a sense of morality, that there were indeed, despite current trendy ideas, such things as right and wrong.

It seemed as though Harriet had fallen for the nonsense of tolerance with regard to her husband's breaking of the wedding vows. There had been a time when she showed passionate abandon in her arguments with the man, and these displays were the talk of many people in the area. But in recent times, there was nothing from Harriet, not a reaction or word, despite the fact that it was common knowledge that Richard was still offering it about as if he were a younger, single man. Richard's behaviour was of the kind that fell into the 'wrong' category, _definitely_ wrong and not simply wrong in Diana's _opinion_. The solution was as clear as the immorality itself: they ought to see a marriage counselor, work on whatever issues were at the heart of Richard's behaviour, and agree on changes to address the problem – on his part, he could be more honest about his needs, and on her side, she could ensure a home he would _want_ to return to. Crucially, this should have been done in private. None of this business of yelling at each other in public, certainly no more attacking women in supermarkets with tinned food. Some degree of modesty, of shame (another untrendy concept, God forbid anyone should have felt shame or guilt), of – all right, it was what Diana really thought – propriety. When clear rules were put in place and every member of the community agreed to them and acted in accordance with them, and when those who broke them were punished, rather than dismissed as having had a 'troubled childhood,' then these complications would not arise. Not that Diana would ever tell Harriet any of this; that would contravene the principle of keeping one's place and keeping one's silence on matters that were someone else's concern. But she knew Harriet was not doing as Diana believed she should, there was no marriage counselor, because that would have become a topic of discussion in the group. No, Harriet's current silence was only because she had nothing to say. She had given up on right and wrong within her marriage.

She realised, as she finished the rib she'd been working on, how frustrated she felt. It was clear that Cathy was in one of her confrontational moods and was gearing up to something, perhaps a recruitment drive for whatever women's lib group she probably volunteered for, and today Diana felt like biting back. It went against everything she believed in, and she would not be as direct as some others, but she would not stand for any nonsense. Not today. Today, somebody ought to make a case for real values, for right and wrong. If Cathy wanted to argue, they would argue, but Diana would do it with some grace and style.

•••

'I like this,' Cathy said of the music playing. 'Who is it?'

'Her name's Anaïs Mitchell. I thought this song suited the group because of the 'in and out' line, like knitting, and she talks about sewing a party dress.'

Susan and Harriet agreed that they liked the singer's unique voice, which was certainly different, but Cathy was more interested in the lyrics. She told Letty, 'I like the sharpness. It's a bit sarcastic, this song. Can you play it again?'

The song began again, and Cathy paid close attention to its message, her knitting put aside for the moment. The song was somewhat at odds with the picture of femininity that Letty portrayed, at least as she presented herself here today. The anachronistic dress, the bow tied at the back of her head, the dainty, impractical shoes, these gave the impression of a young girl impersonating her mother. Her vibrant red lipstick was unsubtle, and the pink blusher gave her doll's cheeks. There was also her saccharine voice, which sounded affectedly 'cute,' and the off-putting way she used upspeak, turning each sentence into a question, as if she were too timid to make a declarative statement. Cathy's concern was that Letty appeared to have bought into ('internalised' was the popular word, she believed) conservative notions of femininity, the damaging kind that Cathy had rejected and yet been constantly subjected to her whole life. She wanted to warn Letty, because things were only going to get more difficult as she got older. Cathy knew this firsthand: she was not only a woman, an offence for which the punishment was having one's tongue metaphorically cut out, she was an _older_ woman, the fairer sex past its culturally ascribed best-by date. For these two combined crimes she was, as far as society was concerned, mute. Barely seen, not heard.

Wanting to explore Letty's views on such issues, Cathy used the song as a prompt. 'I like the way she's trying to be everything for this guy, and then when he leaves, she's trying to be everything he doesn't want. She can't win, she's defining herself based on what he wants or what he doesn't want. It's sad, too. You wish she could define herself on her own terms.'

Diana huffed, 'Well, I think it's a very pretty song.'

Cathy said, 'Yes, it's that too, it's lovely. And that it makes you think as well is commendable.'

'Yes, but sometimes one doesn't want to have to think deeply about everything one listens to. Sometimes it's nice simply to enjoy things.'

Christ, something was rubbing Diana the wrong way this afternoon.

Letty said, 'I guess for some people the enjoyment is in analysing the music, or the book, or the film, and for others that gets in the way. I don't think there's a right way to approach it. At least, that's what I got out of my A-level course in English Lit. There are no right or wrong answers.'

After a half hour of knitting to the accompaniment of Letty's soft music and an occasional comment on someone's progressing project, the women began questioning the group's new member on her life.

'Do you have a boyfriend, Letty?' asked Susan.

'No. I was seeing somebody, but that didn't go anywhere. I thought it was more serious than it was.'

'Plenty more fish, though.' Susan genuinely believed in the power of platitudes.

'I guess I'm not interested in casual dating, I'm a bit old fashioned really.'

Cathy noticed Diana's arched eyebrow and wondered if that was a sincere smile or a smirk on her face. Susan pressed on for more.

'Would you like a family one day?'

'I have a picture of how I'd like to be one day,' said Letty, the blusher on her cheeks fading into the red that spread over her face. 'It's silly, but I'd like a little cottage and a dog, and I would like to be married.'

'How many kids would you like?'

'I don't know about kids. I'm not sure if I'm the mothering type. Not that I'm saying never, but I'm not in a rush.' There was an uncomfortable pause in which Diana and Susan looked to each other and then back to their knitting, and Cathy saw Letty trying to understand what she'd said wrong. Then she said, 'Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm a feminist.' Letty pulled a face, tongue poked out in distaste. 'I believe everyone is equal, and it doesn't matter what gender you are.'

Cathy spoke up. 'Feminists believe that too.'

'I guess ... But I don't agree with the way feminists blame men for everything. Shouldn't part of being a strong woman be taking responsibility for yourself, not blaming the other sex for all your problems?'

Cathy shook her head, unable to unpack everything that was wrong with Letty's last statement, unable to decide where to begin. How could somebody who grew up with the benefits of all that Cathy's generation had struggled for be so ill-informed about what that movement stood for? But all eyes were on Cathy (except for Letty's – she went on knitting, oblivious to the tension around her), the other women were anticipating some kind of outburst. Cathy knew what they thought of her, and she knew that sometimes her passion could become obnoxious; rather than provide them any satisfaction, she simply cleared her throat and returned her attention to her knitting.

Diana wouldn't leave the original matter alone. 'Just don't leave it so long to have kids that you regret not doing it sooner.'

Harriet said, 'No need to rush it either.'

Cathy was pleased that this had been said, and more pleased that it hadn't been left to her to say it. Honestly, she got tired of saying the same things over and over to people who didn't seem to take any of it in. She'd had entire conversations with strangers (the fact that they had just met never proved much of a barrier to invasive questions about uterine matters) which ended with the other person walking away knowing nothing about Cathy other than that she had no children, and possibly, if they'd paid attention, her reasons. (She prefaced these reasons with the wasted assertion that she did not need a reason _not_ to have children, for her it was enough that she had no reason to become a mother.) It was as if there was nothing more to know of her, that her character was entirely fleshed out by that one detail. This was especially frustrating as she did not encourage this, and when others wanted to show her a slideshow on their touchscreen phones of children she'd never met doing the same thing in a dozen microscopically different poses, she never gave the false impression that she was interested in even one more photo. Despite this disinterest in their children, they were invariably fascinated by the non-existence of hers. Aphoristic advice came from everywhere, and was the same no matter who said it, but it changed as she aged: 'You'll feel different about kids when you're older,' developed into, 'Time is running out, you should start getting serious,' and had changed more recently to a question, 'Do you regret not having children yet?' Her partner, Timothy, also received the same kind of unhelpful, unsolicited opining, except for him it was, 'Of course you don't want kids, you're a man.' God forbid she and he have their own opinions, that they not match exactly to majority experience, that anyone accept their views at face value.

But Cathy abandoned these thoughts when she saw that Diana was frowning in confusion at Harriet, who rushed to explain why she'd said what she had.

'You don't get a second chance to decide if having kids was for you or not. Once you've had kids, you've got them. It's not like trying on a piece of clothing.' This time, Harriet went red. 'Not that I think you would see it that way, of course. You're obviously an intelligent young woman.'

Still,' said Diana, with the stern tone Cathy had heard her use with her children, 'I suspect far fewer people regret having had children than regret not having them.'

'You're probably right,' conceded Harriet, 'and I don't regret having had my children. But I think young women need more room to make the choice for themselves. It's not easy to know if you want to be a mother because you want to be a mother, or because you're expected to be a mother.'

Diana looked offended in the pantomime-like way she looked when she recounted to the group the article she'd read about a paedophile getting a suspended sentence, or an immigrant family receiving benefits. And now just as then, Cathy pitied and resented Diana's ignorance as she turned on their host.

'It's all well and good for _you_ to say this, as you've had children and don't have to live with the what-ifs of missing out on motherhood.'

Harriet and Diana locked eyes for a moment that lasted a second or two at most but seemed to hold its breath and wait an eternity, and Cathy dropped a stitch as she waited for the outcome. Harriet had it in her to speak her mind, to be truthful and forceful, to demand that others respect her. But that seemed like a Harriet from years ago, a younger Harriet, perhaps a less life-weary Harriet. Cathy remembered hearing about the incident at the supermarket, and though she wouldn't have wanted the can thrown at that other woman's head to connect, she was proud of Harriet's fury. But it went nowhere; Harriet had never followed through and removed that man from her home and life. She seemed instead to have accepted her lot and grown apathetic. Cathy found herself willing Harriet – as if they shared some telepathic bond, a unity of the spirit of strong women – to stand up for herself, not to back down from her position.

'I _do_ live with what-ifs, Diana. I wonder all the time: what if I hadn't had kids, and instead I'd travelled? What if I hadn't married so young? What if I'd seen more of the world, discovered more options? What if I hadn't spent my twenties cleaning up shit and piss, hadn't married the first man who came along, had spent a little time _alone_?'

Diana's eyes bulged, Susan had drawn her coat tighter around herself at the swearing, and Letty was avoiding looking at anyone. Cathy wanted to support Harriet, to let her know she was not on her own.

'I'd like to point out, while we're on the subject, that I don't have any what-ifs at all, regarding children. I know you do your best, Diana, to disbelieve it, but some women don't need to live exactly the way you do.'

Diana turned her glare to Cathy and snapped, 'Why do you hate children?'

This was not the first time this assumption had been made of her, and it was one she'd heard levied often at her pro-choice friends when she was younger and more active in her activism. Usually, it failed to offend, too ridiculous to have a serious impact. But this came from Diana, and though they had disagreed in the past, it seemed as if they were heading toward a friendship. They at least had a friendly truce. Today, she seemed to be particularly bitter about everything Cathy said. This stung all the more deeply because Letty was witness to it, which injured – oh, god, this was embarrassing to realise – her pride. She wanted to impress this young woman, and she suspected it was not only to encourage her to question patriarchy.

'I don't hate children. I adore children. I love being in their company. I just also enjoy having them leave again, so I can focus on myself.'

'And isn't that just the point of everything?' Diana's head snapped up to stare Cathy in the eye. 'It's all about yourself, isn't it? When you don't live for someone else, or something higher than yourself, life is all about me, me, me. That's fine if it works for you, but don't make the rest of us feel like sell-outs for being able to commit to a child, or a husband.'

Silence fell on the women, most of whom looked shocked, while Cathy and Diana glared at each other. This was not the first time Diana had been so rude to Cathy, though her disdain for Cathy's beliefs was usually of the snide and offhand variety. Cathy still, from time to time, rehearsed the retorts she wished she'd slapped Diana's smug superiority with when she'd asked Cathy whether her decision not to have children was due to infertility. Annoyingly, she'd been so surprised at the sudden vindictiveness in the way the question had been asked that she said nothing, and then she was stunned by the sheer ignorance, at best, stupidity at worst, of the question. Diana didn't accept that Cathy could be sincere about the logic she had laid out, the rationale behind her decision, believed that at some level Cathy was being disingenuous and that she must _really_ feel the same way that Diana (and all other women, of course) did about children. Her choice to remain childless could not be based on reason and seeing the world differently, it must be emotional, a bad reaction to being unable to be a 'whole' woman. Well – and there was no more eloquent way to put it – _fuck that_. She imagined saying that to her face, then asking, _How's_ that _for an emotional response?_

The sound of keys grinding into the lock on the front door caught everyone's attention. Harriet frowned, then stood and swooped out of the room. Voices in the hall signaled a conversation between their host and the newcomer, and Cathy identified the low, male grumbling as belonging to Richard. The rest of them got on with knitting, though Cathy noticed Diana wasn't looking at her work but glaring at a wall, and Susan's knee was shaking so much it seemed to vibrate. With a sigh that interrupted the silence in the room, Cathy wondered (not for the first time) why she still attended these meetings. If she stopped coming along, she would almost never have to see Diana, and as nice as Susan was, Cathy's life would not suffer greatly in her absence. But Harriet was a good friend, and with the other demands on time their lives made, these fortnightly meet-ups were often the most time they were able to share together.

Harriet returned, and through the door, they saw Richard pass through the hallway. He stopped to wave uncertainly at the women, apologising for the interruption. He was home from work a day earlier than planned, but he promised to stay out of their hair. Before he left, he noticed Letty in the room and sent her a smile. At this, the women all stared as one at Richard. They weren't united in their reasons for this reaction, but it had the satisfying effect of visibly unnerving the man. He asked if anyone wanted to introduce him to their friend. No one said a thing. Letty glanced around at them nervously, picking up on the tension.

'I'm Letty ...'

Richard's foot had only just landed inside the room, but before he could trespass further, Harriet asked to see him in the kitchen. Richard smiled at Letty and followed his wife out of the room.

This seemed to be the moment the women took as a cue to leave. Diana stood and put on her absurd hat. She asked the remaining women to thank Harriet for having had her there and explain that she had just remembered something that needed attending to. A minute later, Susan told the group, 'Do you know, I'm not feeling all that well. No, no, I'm fine, don't worry. But I think I may go home and have a lie down. One of my headaches. It was lovely to meet you, Collette. Letty.' As she stood, her foot brushed a plastic bag she'd left there. 'Oh, I almost forgot. I brought Harriet some vegetables from the garden, a few eggs as well. Cathy, would you make sure she gets them? Thank you.'

Ten minutes later, Harriet returned from the kitchen alone and looked at the two women left in her front room. Cathy passed on the messages from the departed women, and Harriet raised her hands, palms up, shoulders lifted into a shrug, as if to say, _What do we do now?_

'Actually,' said Collette, 'I didn't know how long we would meet for, so I assumed an hour and arranged a lift with a friend. He'll be here soon.'

After Collette, Cathy left with her needles and wool, thanking Harriet for having them at her house and insisting she would call Harriet in the week, so they could meet for a coffee. Harriet smiled and agreed that would be nice. Neither woman admitted to themselves that this likely wouldn't happen.

•••

Harriet went back inside her house, closing the front door against a cold wind and approaching rain. Along the street, meals were being prepared and, with the workday done, the men were returning to their homes. The women waited for their husbands. From the street outside, the houses were identical, and inside these homes the meals all the same, the greetings between spouses performed just as they were every weekday evening: a key in the door, woman in apron standing in the hall, chaste kiss and, 'How was your day?' Every day it was like this, always the same, in and out. And the people in these routines were summed up just as easily: the men were husbands, fathers, and the women were wives and mums.

BURN THE PAGES

At the office of the magazine she wrote for, Anna had her own desk. Of course she had her own desk, she'd always known she would. She'd always known, of course, that she would write for a magazine, and it would not be a magazine any less cult-trendy than _ReverbiNation_. (She knew the title was crass but no longer disdained it. Language didn't matter, as long as it fit the reader's expectation. Without readers there was no writing because, well, why write if no one was reading?) Of course Anna was doing well. Until today.

Until today, she had known exactly what to write, because she knew exactly what was expected of her. She produced her five-hundred word titbits on time and on subject, never polluting her pieces with original ideas or opinions. Mark, her editor, was always satisfied with them. Anna opened a recent email from Mark, re: the last piece she had written for the print edition. It was, the email told her, 'another fine article' and her 'usual standard', and Mark wanted 'more like this'. Except he had then changed the rules. He had offered her space on their website, a blog of her own, supposed to be filled with thoughts of her own. Now she was expected to do something new. Different. Unique. 'Yourself,' her editor had demanded. 'Give me something of yourself.'

Anna left her desk to wander aimlessly around the office. She worked on one of the top floors of a tall, modern building of glass. Inside the building, the office was built like a rectangle with a smaller rectangle at its centre. The inner rectangle was also made of glass and half of it was Mark's office. There was a smaller room next to his, where photocopying was done. Anna drifted over to one of the windows to look outside. Rain was falling against the glass, landing in front of her nose like gobs of spit, running down the building in melancholic lines. She looked to the street far below, at the tops of umbrellas hiding people beneath. The circles of colour moved quickly around each other, never colliding, but occasionally brushing against the edges of other circles, then moving on as if the contact hadn't happened. She watched a woman without an umbrella running for a store with her coat pulled over her head. Anna watched the woman as if she were on television, through glass that turned her into an imaginary character. Anna turned away, bored, when the woman's foot sunk into a puddle she couldn't avoid. Anna was glad that she was dry and warm in here. She wandered back to her desk and sat down.

With a blunt pencil, Anna scratched her name into the edge of her desk, trying to dig the letters into it as if the longevity of the graffiti would bring her solace. It didn't work – the pencil wouldn't scratch the surface – but she continued to try. She used to do this at school, but the childish act would not be condemned now as it had been by teachers, because her workplace was supposed to be a creative environment. The knick-knacks that littered the office were meant to prove this: the glass partitions dividing work spaces and desks; the records hanging from threads tacked to the ceiling; the bean bag in the corner; the section of one of the glass outer-walls where they could write lyrics on it in coloured pens; the coffee area where they could sit on a purple sofa and work on their laptops; these were all the idea of the previous editor. He'd seen these things in the offices of a rival magazine and had replicated the stereotypes here. Anna's own desk was fairly minimalist, but she did have a photo of herself with her girlfriends (she liked her hair in the photo) taped to the glass partition in front of her desk. Next to the photo was a piece of paper on which she had copied out a quote, the words of Virginia Woolf. It read: '... a writer of such English as shall one day burn the pages.'

She opened the little drawer beneath her desk, where she kept pens and a notebook, out-dated tools of writing. The notebook was thin and soft-covered, blue on the outside with thick lines within. It was in this notebook that she was writing a short story. It was a secret so far, written for herself, but she intended it to be read eventually. Her reader, she imagined vaguely as she wrote, was somebody like herself in style and beliefs and was able to appreciate what she was doing with her writing. But this faceless, nameless reader was also unlike herself, in that they were somebody she hoped to be, though she didn't know who that somebody was. She had dozens of these notebooks at home, and other short stories and pieces of music and literary criticism on her personal laptop. She'd submitted some of these to editors she'd hoped would publish the pieces with enthusiasm. All of the pieces had been rejected. Anna flicked through the notebook for no reason, then returned it to the drawer. She saw the novel that had been pushed to the back of the drawer and forgotten. It had come from a writer-friend who used a print-on-demand service. It was one book of dozens like his, churned out by different friends and passed on for her to read. Everyone was a writer these days, self-publishing had seen to that.

The phone on Anna's desk began to ring, but she let it ring on without answering. She knew the caller would hear her voice reciting the humourous message she had previously heard on someone else's answering machine. It didn't seem so funny now, it had lost the charm of spontaneity. Anna would have loved the distraction of taking the call, but the urgency of her deadline worried her too much. She needed to think, to write. She turned to her laptop and opened the window that was always displaying her facebook page. She wrote her status: 'Need inspiration' and attached an emoticon that homogenised her doubt and confusion and frustration and worry and indecision into a little face with a wobbly line for a mouth.

The truth was that she already knew what she was going to do. She would do what she'd done to get her job at the magazine two years before: she would listen and repeat. She had listened to colleagues, to other writers, to people in the know, who knew what she thought she already knew but had not found the words to express. She felt, somewhere in her gut, where her sense of self resided, that she was the sort of person with interesting thoughts and opinions but not the ability to communicate them to others. So she listened to others and repeated what they said, with a mixture of styles she admired, the blend of which she passed off as her own style. Years of writing things that no one read had disarmed her of quaint notions of literary integrity. She had done the penniless-writer bit, but that had got her nowhere. So she began writing standardised articles for magazines, using pre-approved phrases, political leanings and subject matter that did not matter to her – but the readers, evidently, couldn't get enough of it. She was curious, at first, about how little this selling out bothered her. She shrugged it off when she began to see her name under headlines. Better to be heard saying someone else's words than ... Well, she didn't know what else there was. Silence?

This was the way she got hired to write for _ReverbiNation_. Mark had approved something she'd submitted for consideration, and eventually she was taken on as an in-house writer. She wanted her name in print, and he needed content. In the end, she had got her way, and he had got his. She sold this way of life to herself with the justification that it paid bills while her real writing did not pay, and it would put her in a better position to find a home for the real writing. But the real writing was becoming more difficult, she had less time for it, and she was losing her voice. The more rubbish she repeated each month for the magazine, the less her real writing came to her. It didn't flow anymore. But she had a readership, a small but real readership that came from writing for the magazine. That mattered to her.

Mark had read some of her honest writing after he'd given her a job with the magazine. He'd turned it down, saying that it wasn't what their readers wanted. So she couldn't start her blog with the work in her notebook – but she could begin with the usual thing Mark liked and gradually introduce her real writing. For now, she needed something safe and publishable.

Anna turned her attention to the room around her. Somebody in the office was listening to a radio station. The host was talking over the end of a song, inviting listeners to text and tweet their opinions ('We want to hear from _you_!') on some scandal involving some celebrity. Anna wondered why anyone listened to radio anymore. She had playlists lined up on countless websites to play only the music she liked and to fit whatever mood she was in. The radio host's voice subsided into the sounds of the office. Anna watched people pass by her desk, others sitting at their own desks, she listened to the drone of voices. At first, it was noise. She tuned her hearing to the conversation the receptionist was having on her phone. The voice on the other end may have been saying something interesting, could have been contemplating a new philosophical position on the cosmos, but the receptionist's side of the dialogue was made up of dull nothings, broken by silence as she waited for her turn to say, 'Mm? Yes, I know. Oh, I know. Mm.'

Anna moved on to Nathan, sitting at a desk across from Anna's. He was telling a temp how to make coffee the way he liked, handing back the first attempt. Having dismissed the temp, Nathan plugged headphones into his ears. A new guy, whose name Anna hadn't asked for and wouldn't until it mattered, passed Nathan's desk. He leaned over the glass partition around the desk and asked what he was listening to. Nathan withdrew one of the headphones from his ear and jerked his head back at the new guy.

'I asked what you were listening to.'

'Oh.' He slid his iPod across the desk to pointedly press PAUSE. 'I'm listening to _Echo_.'

'The Tom Petty album?'

'No, the Leona fucking Lewis album.'

'Right. It's a good ...' The new guy nodded casually to finish the sentence that Nathan had already stopped listening to. Both headphones were in place, and Nathan had pressed PLAY. The new guy wandered off, and Anna looked around the office for others to listen in on. She considered getting a coffee. Coffee would help, would sharpen her mind, would give her a chance to come across other conversations, material for her blog. Yes, coffee would help. She turned back again to her facebook page to write a new status: "Coffee break." This was accompanied by a smiley face.

Anna heard the sound of the lift arriving on her floor. She couldn't see it open from where she was sitting, it was behind her desk, and a tall, fake plant obscured the view. From behind the glossy, never-dying imitation leaves, she heard a laconic voice call out, 'Good afternoon.'

'Good afternoon!' replied the office. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed. Phones began buzzing, because people had stopped answering them. Her colleagues were looking and moving toward the lift and the person who was coming into the office as if he were Christ on the donkey. This was when Anna saw the man for the first time.

She began at his eyes – fierce needles of sharp blue that scorned everything around him. He was tall, so he could be seen even with others around him, asking for his time, hoping that he would stop and listen when they told him, 'Hi!' He indifferently returned pleasantries and handshakes, but convinced each person he spoke to that they were, for that moment, the centre of his world. His smile rose, and the eyes softened as he directed a smile at each person in turn. His skin was soft, small wrinkles appeared over his prominent cheeks as they revealed a smile. Then he turned away from that person, and in the brief moment before the next demand on his time, the smile fell and the eyes found no purchase, nothing to fix on. She could see his stare had turned in on itself, a mind contemplating its own existence. Then a new distraction, a new person with a mind of her own wanting to be contemplated by _his_ mind. Anna laughed at these simpletons, disdained them along with the man because, unlike them, she had the insight to see that they were pathetic in their need for attention. Though she had yet to meet this man, she felt she understood him – and he would understand her.

Gareth, the sub-editor, came over to Anna while watching the arrival of the tall man.

'Have you met Cass?' he asked Anna.

'Cass?'

'Short for Cassius – we don't pick our parents, do we? I can see why he shortens the name.'

She had heard his name before. Cass was something of a legend in the office, almost mythical in the way he was referred to by her colleagues. He had worked for the magazine before she had started here, and though his name came up, this was the first time he'd come in while she was here.

Gareth said, 'He's a good-looking guy. I mean, I don't mind saying so and all. The women in the office certainly say he's good-looking.'

'Good looking ...' This man was _beautiful_. This man was a woman and a man and a boy and sexy and soft and rugged. 'Good looking' was a feeble approximation of what this man was, the best attempt with an effete vocabulary to capture beauty that was beautiful by virtue of its inability to be understood.

This man, this Cass, passed by Nathan's desk. That new guy who had bothered Nathan was following Cass closely, who continued to stroll without pausing as he called to Nathan, 'What are you listening to?'

Cass was much further along the office when Nathan stood to respond, calling out after him, 'It's _Echo_.'

'Tom Petty, good album,' Cass said.

The new guy snorted, 'It's obviously not the Leona fucking Lewis album.'

Cass stopped and, looking down at the new guy, smiled insincerely and laughed without passion, but the sound was still pleasant to Anna's ears. She could see this new guy was attempting to get in with Cass, who seemed repulsed by the effort. Cass stepped a little away from him and asked, 'You know where Mark is?'

'In his office, I think. Do you need to see him?'

'I'm on the hunt,' Cass said. He left the new guy and went to Mark's office.

Anna remembered the coffee she'd planned on getting, still wanted, but she was fixed on Cass. As he neared Mark's office, she stood without intending to, trying to keep him in sight. She told herself to go and get coffee, to think about her writing, but she stayed. She watched Cass. He had this way of keeping her here. She wanted to be in his inner-circle, to have him invite her into the world she had already fully imagined he was part of.

Cass knocked on Mark's door and waited. He knocked again, then poked his head around the door. He came back out looking frustrated. He spotted the receptionist, who was the only person in the office that hadn't expressed some pleasure at seeing Cass.

'There she is!' Cass called to her. He went to the reception desk and leaned against it, facing away from her. 'How are you, darling?'

'Can I help you?'

'You know you can.' He turned back to direct a smile at her, but she stared ahead at a computer screen. 'No, right. You don't know where Mark is, do you?'

'I'll call his office.'

'Just been there, he's not in.'

'I guess you're on your own then.'

'Come on, darling. Help me out.'

She glanced at him. Her eyes went straight back to the screen, but Anna noticed that the glance seemed to have broken something in her. When Cass turned away now, the receptionist snuck further looks at him. Finally, she smiled, a reluctant turning up of her mouth that she seemed to be resisting, and said, 'Try next door. He was going to see someone there.'

'Darling, you're brilliant.' He leaned over the desk and kissed her cheek. The smile broke out into a genuine grin on her face, but she put it away quickly and hid behind the phone she picked up to make a call. Cass left her pretending to dial a number – once he'd gone around the corner, she immediately put the phone down.

Gareth was still hovering around Anna's desk, apparently having just finished texting someone. He must have been watching the interaction between Cass and the receptionist as well.

'Ooh, a bit of history there, I think.'

Anna concealed her interest with a bored sounding, 'You think?'

'Well, Hell and fury and scorned women and all that.'

Anna nodded. Cass had gone out of her sight, and she was determined to see her again. She excused herself from Gareth's company and followed the path Cass had taken through the office, around the corner. He was heading for the large glass doors at the other end of the office, which led through to another office that mirrored this one. In there was a different magazine with the same office layout and similar adornments to the decor as those in here, but reflecting the fashion-oriented content of that magazine.

Cass had passed through the doors, into the other office. Through the glass that had closed again behind him, Anna saw a small group of women swan and swarm around him. She couldn't hear what was being said. She went to the glass doors and tried to see him through her own reflection cast by the bright strip lights above. The distracting reflection of her own face was in the way. She noticed a strand of hair had fallen loose from where she had tucked it behind her ear. She made adjustments until she was pleased with what she saw, and then she used the tip of her pinkie to adjust a tiny smudge in her eyeliner, at the crease of her left eye. Then she saw, in the same pane of glass, Gareth coming up behind her. _What did he want now?_ Anna pushed through the doors and approached the crowd around Cass (ignoring that Gareth had followed her into this office).

'You're Cass?' said one female voice. 'The girls have mentioned you, but I'm new here. Do you _really_ know that Bowie guy?'

Another voice said, 'Can I get you a coffee?'

Another said, 'I listened to that album you recommended.'

And someone else asked, 'What are you doing tonight?'

Cass answered each call for attention with the requisite information about himself: 'I'm all right for coffee, thanks ... Good, it's one of my favourite albums ... Tonight? I'm going to a gig with the editor of _The Sound_.'

The editor of _The Sound_ was no small deal, even if Cass made his statement as if it were nothing. Anna would love to write for _The Sound_ – more people read it. It was leading the market and had been for some time. She had also heard the rumour about Cass and Bowie, and his numerous other friendships with those in places she would like to be. Cass was not just beautiful, he was useful to Anna. That increased her attraction to him. She imagined standing with him in groups of influential people, having them see something of themselves in her, and she could become one of them. She had never been happy with the idea of living as her parents and all of their friends had, with the men being husbands and fathers, the women being wives and mums. She could see a future worth pursuing, and it seemed now as if the world was ahead of her.

Gareth was still at her side. She asked him if he was going to say hello to Cass, and he took up the suggestion. She followed as he approached the group and made his way through it. He patted Cass on the shoulder. Anna watched them swap greetings.

'Gareth, how are you, mate?'

'Better for seeing you. What brings you back here?'

'I'm after Mark. You seen him?'

'He's upstairs with Jen. A meeting about something. But go on up, they'd both love to see you, I'm sure.'

'Cheers.'

They chatted some more, and Anna desperately fought for something to say but thought of nothing. She didn't want to say anything inane and have him think her dull, she didn't want to blend with these fawning fans of his, she wanted to stand out. But her mind was blank, words wouldn't come. She had to say something. If he left and they hadn't met, she might not get another opportunity. She had to say anything if it got her noticed. She could be witty and charming and original later. _Come on_ , she told herself, _say something. Say anything. Whatever works_.

'Anyway, you go upstairs and find Mark. Did you want a coffee? I'll get it for you.'

Anna jumped in here. ' _I'll_ get it for you.'

Cass didn't notice either of the twin offers, said nothing about whether he wanted coffee. He turned back, passed by Anna and went through the double doors again. Anna followed. Cass pressed the button to call the lift, but he impatiently left it after only a few seconds. He went to the stairwell outside the office. As Anna pushed through the door into the stairwell, he was already almost on the next floor. He seemed eager to conclude his hunt for whatever it was he was after. She followed him upstairs, through another door and onto the next floor. They were in another office space, one she hadn't seen before. There was a more professional tone up here – no wacky knick-knacks or chatter among colleagues, just phones ringing, a polite murmur and a lot of heads down at desks.

Mark was coming toward them. He was alone and lit up when he saw Cass approaching.

'Cass, you bastard! How are you?'

The men embraced, each with one arm around the other person, like an arm-wrestle with their whole body.

'I'm fantastic, as usual. You get my message?'

'I did, I did. Shouldn't be a problem.'

'I appreciate it.' Cass pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Mark. 'Here's his card. I'll let him know to expect a call.'

'What's your angle?'

'Sweet little piece from the sixties – Maestro Echoplex.'

'No! Is it working?'

A smile from Cass, which was a little smug and very sexy. 'Working fine. He wasn't going to sell it to me until I suggested putting him in touch with you.'

'Jesus. You'll have to let me see it then.'

'Of course.'

'He can write?'

'Not as well as me, but then who does?' Cass grinned, and Mark punched his arm.

'Arrogant bastard. Yeah, I'll take a look at his work. If it's up to scratch, I'll run it in January's issue.'

'Cheers, Mark.'

Mark told Cass he had business to finish up here, they agreed to get drinks, and Cass said goodbye. He took to the stairs again. Anna counted thirty seconds, and then went back down to her floor. Cass was not there. She strolled across her side of the office, looking around as if for some piece of information or a note she'd left on her desk, but she couldn't see him anywhere. She went around the whole office and through to the next, but he had gone.

The last hour of the working day passed. The office slowed, her colleagues left, the lights dimmed, the sky outside was already dark, and it was still raining. Anna's mood dropped and continued to drop as she checked her facebook, responded to emails, pretended to write something important and stared at an honest, blank document on her screen. The janitor arrived. She hadn't realised they still employed a cleaner. It seemed like a job that no one would do these days – who grew up wanting to clean instead of sing, or act, or go on X-Factor? The janitor nodded at Anna, she nodded back, and he proceeded to clean. He had headphones on, the ancient kind with a thin strip of bendy metal that went over his dirty, matte hair. Anna guessed they might have even been connected to a portable CD player. She watched this figure of obsoletism (a word she'd heard from Mark and took every chance to repeat) and thought about leaving the office.

The lift doors suddenly opened, and out came a man made into silhouette by the bright light behind him and the dark room he was coming into. The doors closed, the light was gone, and her eyes adjusted to see that this was not just a man, this was Cass. He didn't see Anna at her desk. He went to the janitor and asked if he had a key to the photocopy room, he'd forgotten to copy something important. The janitor found the key on a chain of keys he kept in his pocket and let Cass into the photocopy room, which was right across from where Anna was sitting.

She spied on Cass through the glass walls of the room. He turned on the light and put the pages in his hand next to the copier. He lifted the lid on the machine and looked at it as if expecting it to explain itself. She watched him play with the keys, pushing buttons and scowling at his inability to produce a result. He looked out of the room at the office, and she ducked behind her laptop. She was hoping he wouldn't see her, but she didn't know why. She was suddenly shy. She still had nothing interesting to captivate him with.

'Is somebody here?' he called out. The janitor had gone around the corner. There was only her.

'Somebody's here,' she answered and immediately felt stupid – what an inane way to respond to this man. But when he spoke again, his voice was not mocking or cruel.

'Come help me with this machine.'

She stood and went to the office. Again, Cass was lit from behind by light, but as she stepped into the small room, she was able to see him clearly. He was more beautiful up close.

'Are you Anna?' he asked as if he had expected her.

'I'm Anna.'

'Thought so. You're the only one I don't know in this office. Gareth mentioned you.'

'He mentioned me?'

'Yes, only good things, don't worry.' He smiled. 'So, can you work this thing?'

They went to the copier, and she showed him where to put the page for copying, how to close the top, and which buttons to press for the required function. The copier hummed loudly and filled the silence that had settled between them. He needed several copies of several pages, and while they were standing there waiting, he said, 'You're a writer?'

She nodded. 'I'm a writer.'

'A good one?'

She shrugged as if being modest, to suggest, _Who am I to say?_

'I'll be honest with you – I haven't read a copy of the magazine in at least a year. So I don't think I've read your work. Unless I just don't remember.'

He'd said the last part with a laugh, he was only teasing, but she shrugged. 'You probably _don't_ remember.'

'Come on, I bet you're a good writer. Show me your stuff.'

'My stuff?'

'Something recent. Or something you're working on, whatever.'

Her silent mind was suddenly roaring with ideas. The thought of using his position for her to be seen from returned, and she dashed off to her desk, returning with the notebook she kept in the drawer. On the first few pages were scrawled notes for the blog she was supposed to write, nothing of worth there, but the notebook also had three drafts and a final version to be typed of the short story she had been secretly working on. She was going to take a chance with Cass. She couldn't show him her stuff that got printed in the magazine, though it was good enough for Mark and the general public. No, she needed to show him herself, her voice and her writing, the work she felt was of worth and was waiting for its chance. She turned to the page and handed him the notebook. Cass leaned against the humming copier as he read. His face gave her nothing. His eyes scanned the lines to the bottom of the page, returned to the top and read them again, then once more. He finally put the notebook on the copier and looked directly at her.

'You want some feedback?'

She said nothing, waiting to hear what he had to say.

'You want honest feedback?'

'Honest feedback.' She was nodding.

'I've read this before. A lot. And I'm guessing you've written it before, because it's competent. But that's all it is. You could read this in any university lit-magazine. Hell, this could be on some student's blog. It's by-the-book writing, cliché after cliché, and no passion at all. Do you _want_ to write?'

She tried to lower the pitch of her voice after the first sharp, offended note in her speech when she said, 'I – I want to write.'

He raised his eyebrows. She hated him, that was already in her. 'You want write? I mean _really_ want to write?'

' _I really want to write_.'

'Well, I wouldn't have guessed it based on this. This reads like you want to be a writer more than you want to write. That's a difference that matters.'

_And what about you, you pretentious son of a bitch? You vain, arrogant fuck. You_ – none of these words would come out of her mouth, they stayed in her head. She glared at him, wondering why he was becoming blurry, then she blinked hard, refusing to release the tears she realised she was producing. She snatched the notebook from the copier and left the room. He called something after her in a patronising tone, but she wasn't interested. She sat at her desk and rubbed at her eyes until they were sore but not crying. Cass left the photocopy room with his papers and fled the office without giving her a second look.

Now alone, she grabbed the small, metal bin from under her desk and put it between her feet. She tore out the pages of the notebook, squeezing them inside her fists into balls that she threw violently at the bin. She shredded some of the pages with feral fingers, her nails painted red because the colour complimented her; now she saw the red as the colour of her hatred, until she saw that this was a cliché. As she took another page out of the notebook, she saw the quote from Woolf that she had taped to the glass front of her desk. '...a writer of such English as shall one day burn the pages.'

She went into the drawer of her desk and found the lighter she had never used but had kept anyway. She took the edge of a tattered page, rolled her thumb over the wheel of the lighter and lit a flame under her words. The page took light for a moment, then smouldered, an unsatisfying orange that quickly went out. The paper was charred, nowhere near burned enough. She lit the flame again, and this time the paper burned. She dropped it into the bin, wanting all of her words to burn away, burn away the shame she felt. And then she thought about the smoke alarms and the sprinkler, imagining loud sirens and flashing lights and fire fighters and ridicule. She would look insane, she would be mocked when everyone found out. She stomped on the burning pages in the bin and got her foot stuck. She pulled her foot out, then grabbed the bottled water from a nearby desk and poured it over the glowing, smoking paper, poured it until the smoke had dissipated and she was sure the alarms wouldn't be set off. She looked at the pathetic mess she'd made. The janitor came around the corner, obliviously listening to his music, and she felt embarrassed.

Anna left the office that night and never returned. She didn't work any notice and never received a reference. She never wrote for anyone else again, and she couldn't bring herself to write only for herself, so she never wrote. The office went on without her. There was no reason it shouldn't. She was replaced by somebody who wrote the articles she used to write and the blog she never started. Her voice remained on the answering machine because no one bothered to change the message. There was a photo of Anna with her girlfriends still stuck to the glass partition, until the new occupant took it down. Anna's name was scrawled in pencil on the edge of the desk, but no one had noticed that.

Her voice remained on the answering machine because no one bothered to change the message. Anna's name was scrawled in pencil, but no one noticed it fading.

Her voice remained on the answering machine because no one bothered to change the message. Anna's name was fading.

Her voice remained on the answering machine because no one bothered to change the message.

Her voice remained on the answering machine.

Her voice remained.

A voice remained.

Acknowledgements

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the two most important women in my life: my partner and first reader, Lauren, and my indefatigable editor and friend, Sue. An early draft of this collection was read by Wednesday Batchelor, whose insights and comments were invaluable. Many thanks also to Cracked Eye, who first published 'Satchmo on the Sound System'.

More of Matthew Morgan's writing – stories, essays, and blog – can be found at matthewmwriter.wixsite.com/writer and at www.facebook.com/MatthewMWriter
