true. The script wasn’t in. The cash wasn’t coming. I hadn’t written a single usable word of it. Still – this was my mess, and my job to fix it. Imogen didn’t need to know how bad the mess had become.
‘Good stuff, Quinn,’ she said. ‘So what’re you doing now?’
Good stuff, Quinn. A twist of guilt grabbed my stomach. I pushed it away.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry. I’m here. What did you say?
‘What are you doing now?’
‘I’m watching you sleep.’
‘Oh God, you’re not, are you? Am I thrashing around? I’ve been having the weirdest dreams.’
‘No, you’re just lying there. All still and serene.’
‘That’s something, then.’
‘You’re really very calm. And you had a nine-four-five a minute ago.’
‘Jesus. How many?’
‘Nine hundred and forty-five.’
‘Hang on, I’ll write that one down. Nine-four-five. And I’m not doing anything?’
‘No. Nothing. You’re breathing. But, no.’
Imogen-on-the-phone thought for a moment.
‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘It only bothers me when you tell me the numbers; the rest of the time it’s like the camera thing isn’t, well, I don’t mean it bothers me really, but you know.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Actually, it is bothering me now I’m thinking about it. I’m waving at them.’
‘You should.’
‘I’m doing it right now.’
Imogen-on-the-screen lay fast asleep. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . .
‘I’ll wave back when it comes up,’ I said.
‘You’re lovely.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I do miss you, you know.’
‘I miss you too. How’s it going?’
‘God. Slowly.’
Imogen had been on the other side of the world for almost six months. She was working as part of a research team looking for one small spot on a very remote island, where the single most important act in the entire history of humanity might have taken place. Because this was the twenty-first century, the research facility had webcams.
‘But you’re still getting a good general movement, right?’
‘In patches,’ she said. ‘But it’s not like they just went from east to west or something.’
‘I suppose that would’ve been – oh, hang on.’
‘What?’ Imogen-on-the-screen moved her sleeping green head as if to shake something away.
‘You’re dreaming.’
‘Told you. Very weird dreams.’
‘I think you’re going to wake up in a minute.’
‘I am. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll try to call tomorrow, but if not, I’ll call Wednesday morning.’
‘Okay.’
‘My time.’
‘Okay. And get them to sort out your video calls.’
‘I will. But Johnny says my laptop’s killed itself.’
‘Nice.’
‘I know. Shit, right. I really need to—’
‘Okay. Love you.’
‘I love you too. And go out.’
‘I will.’
‘All right, bye.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye bye bye . . .’
The line cut to a flat buzz.
I kept the handset to my ear for a moment then clicked it back into the dock.
Imogen-on-the-screen frowned in her sleep and tugged at the duvet. The viewer counter had been falling steadily, but once she started to dream it stabilised. Now it climbed back up in ones and twos towards the 900 mark.
I waited, watching, arms folded.
Imogen jolted awake, eyes flashing about in a panic before she realised where she was. She relaxed as she got her bearings, rubbed her face with her palms, propped herself up on an elbow and then looked around the dorm. Seeing she was alone, she leaned out of bed and flicked on the lights.
The greenscreen image instantly flared to a white blank, then the facility’s familiar dorm room re-emerged in full colour. Eight beds, wardrobes, tables, lamps, mess – all the signs of human habitation, of a group of people living packed in together.
My wife climbed out of bed and walked out of shot in her pyjamas.
I waited.
Almost four minutes later, she came back carrying a glass of water and an industrial-looking phone with a long cable trailing behind it. She sat down at the far side of her bed, facing away from the camera, tapped numbers into the phone and put it to her ear.
I could only see the back of Imogen’s neck and jawline, but it was enough to tell she was talking to someone, speaking into the phone and then listening. After a little while, she turned, looked straight at the camera in surprise and silently mouthed, Jesus, how many?
She listened for a second. Her mouth made all the shapes for . . . Hang on, I’ll write that one down. Cradling the phone in the crook of her neck, she reached and made a note. Nine-four-five, her lips were saying, then she turned away from the camera again so I couldn’t see what came next. Almost straight away, she turned back and I caught . . . now I’m thinking about it.
I lifted up my hand to the monitor, the palm flat.
Imogen waved at the camera. Her lips made, I’m waving at them. She listened, still waving, and replied, I’m doing it right now.
I waved at the screen.
Imogen smiled.
You’re lovely, she said to the camera without a sound; then she turned away and carried on talking into the phone.
‘I’m
