She shifts again, and then remains still. Her gentle, sleep-heavy breath soon becomes rhythmic and smooth. I stare at the blackness around me.
I do not sleep well. When I finally wake, pummelled by a bruising sequence of unremembered dreams, I glance at my clock. It is eight o’clock. Anna is long gone.
In the kitchen is a note.
Sorry I didn’t wake you, Matthew. Couldn’t do it, in the end. You looked so peaceful, I couldn’t bear to disturb you.
Hope you don’t mind. I’ll call you this evening from the hotel. Have fun. Wish me luck!
A
PS It’s Noon’s birthday on Saturday. Can you please send her a card from both of us? Thanks. (She’ll be 93.)
Noon is Anna’s grandmother. Everybody in her family dotes on her, which I find bemusing, as she is the most vituperative, cantankerous old crone I have ever met. Still, sending the rebarbative old trout a birthday card won’t kill me, I suppose.
I make myself a cup of tea, wishing that Anna had woken me before she left. This isn’t the first time she has gone abroad on business, of course; she’s flown all over the world in the past few years. But this trip feels different. Her absence needles me. It may be due to the lack of fond goodbyes, but I cannot help wondering whether there is something wider than just a stretch of water between us now.
I walk back into the bedroom and open the wardrobe. Anna’s work suits are hung neatly in a row, a palette of demure pastels, muted greys and blacks, and one or two startling blasts of primary colour. I find yesterday’s choice, an elegant charcoal trouser suit, and pull it out. My fingers dip fleetingly into the suit, as nimble as a pickpocket’s. As I perform my search I hum tunelessly to myself, as if this were quite the most ordinary thing in the world. There is a book of matches in the left jacket pocket, glossily embossed with the name of a restaurant near the Barbican. I open the flap. Four matches have been pulled out from the right hand side. Four cigarettes after lunch? Perhaps more. Maybe less. I stare at the matches, willing them to reveal their meaning to me. What conclusions should I draw from this? What do four post-lunch fags actually mean? Shouldn’t Anna have mentioned that she went out for lunch yesterday? Who did she go with?
I hang the charcoal suit back in its place. This amateur detective work is ridiculously self-destructive. It just sends me into vertiginous tailspins of bewildered despair. But I am powerless to resist the call of those untended pockets; every day, the possibility of new information draws me back, like the cruellest addiction.
I wish Anna were here now. There is so much I want to talk to her about. We used to have endless, earnest conversations which stretched on long into the night, as we forgot the time and the rest of the world – everything except each other. But those talks are a thing of the past; all Anna wants to do now in the evenings is collapse on the sofa with a glass of wine and watch television until it’s time to go to sleep.
I open my saxophone case and begin to practise for this evening’s rehearsal, but I cannot muster any interest for the pretty patterns of notes that I am producing. The saxophone keys feel heavy beneath my fingers. I am relieved when the telephone interrupts me. It is Sean.
‘Hey, fella,’ he chirps.
‘Sean. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. But the six million dollar question is how are you?’
‘All right, I suppose. Anna’s gone to Paris for the rest of the week, and the world hasn’t exactly been set alight by the publication of Licked, but other than that I’m fine.’
‘Shouldn’t lose too much sleep about the book,’ says Sean carelessly. ‘These things take time. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know. Has Anna gone to Paris on business?’
‘No, Sean, she’s gone with her fucking knitting circle,’ I snap. ‘Of course she’s gone on business.’
‘Anyway, listen,’ says Sean blithely. ‘I’ve got some news that’s going to make your day.’
‘OK,’ I say, seriously doubting this.
‘I’ve arranged a reading for you.’
I almost drop the phone. ‘That’s fantastic, Sean! Where?’
There is a pause. ‘In a bookshop.’
‘OK. Where’s the bookshop?’
‘Look,’ says Sean, ‘before we go any further, can we discuss dates?’
‘Sure. I’m available pretty much any time.’
‘Ah. Footloose and fancy free. Lucky old you.’
‘When is this all fixed for?’ I am delighted. One thing is for certain: Neville never would have dreamed of arranging anything as vulgarly populist as a reading. Good old Sean. For a moment, I find myself almost liking him. Thanks to him, I’m going to get to read my work to a real audience. Who, at the end, will clap.
‘Probably in about a week or so,’ answers Sean. ‘There or thereabouts.’
‘Great! Where’s this bookshop?’
‘And I think we can safely assume that you’ll be guaranteed a good reception. I’ve been talking to the manager of the shop, and he’s very keen on the book.’
‘God,’ I exclaim. ‘Someone’s actually read it. Miracles will never cease.’
‘Oh, he hasn’t actually read it,’ replies Sean, ‘but he loves the idea of it. The whole, you know, stamp thing.’ Sean is on thin ice here, since he hasn’t read it either.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Stamp enthusiasts are OK. I’m not fussy. If my audience calls, then I must go. Where did you say the bookshop was again?’
‘And this, I would think, will be the tip of the iceberg. Once you get a few readings under your belt –’
‘Sean,’ I interrupt. ‘Where’s the fucking bookshop?’
There is a long pause before Sean finally says, ‘Preston.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Pardon?’
‘It’s in Preston. The bookshop.’
‘OK,’ I say evenly. ‘Why Preston, precisely?’
‘Well.’ I hear Sean weighing up his excuses. ‘Basically, they’re the only place so far that’s agreed to have you.’
Jesus. A fine time for him to start telling me the truth. ‘I was hoping for something a bit more, I don’t know, local. At least within the M25, say.’
‘All in good time. Everything comes to he who waits. But at the moment it’s Preston.’
‘Christ.’ I take a deep breath. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’
‘Oh good. Stuart will be pleased.’
‘Who’s
