A Closed Book by Gilbert Adair

off?’
    â€˜Well yes, I did. He seems to have it bad and –’
    â€˜That’s all very well, John, but didn’t it occur to you to consult me first? Before dispensing with her services?’
    â€˜Look, Paul, you told me – more than once you told me – not to stand on ceremony with Mrs Kilbride. That she’s here for me just as much as for you. Isn’t that what you said?’
    â€˜True. When it’s a matter of making coffee or serving up the apple crumble. As for not coming in for a whole week, well, I’m still the one who pays her wages and – I’m not angry, mind you, I really am not, but I do feel I should be consulted on her comings and goings.’
    â€˜You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.’
    â€˜I wasn’t asleep. And couldn’t it have waited till I was awake?’
    â€˜What are you saying? I was wrong to tell her not to come in?’
    â€˜Not wrong, exactly. I might well have told her the same thing. I just believe it
is
my job to tell her.’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜I’d certainly have made some sort of alternative arrangement before so cavalierly burning my boats.Now what are we supposed to do about meals? Place an ad for a cook in the Post Office window, I suppose. God knows what that’ll draw out of the woodwork.’
    â€˜I told you before I’d be delighted to cook for us both. This evening, if you like.’
    â€˜If I like? This evening it’s got to be. If we’re going to eat at all.’
    â€˜Listen, Paul. Why don’t I do some shopping in Chipping Campden today and tonight I’ll serve us up something a bit special. What do you say?’
    â€˜Well … well, all right, I don’t deny a change from Mrs Kilbride’s perennial stodge
would
be welcome. But will you be able, and willing, to cook every day for the next week?’
    â€˜I enjoy cooking for two. It’s not a chore, it’s a pleasure.’
    â€˜In that case, it’s settled. All’s well, etc. Have you had a look at the jigsaw puzzle?’
    â€˜Naturally.’
    â€˜Well?’
    â€˜Completed all the square bits. The outside edges.’
    â€˜You have? Why, that’s wonderful, John. Half-way there, in my experience of jigsaws.’
    â€˜Puzzles.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Jigsaw
puzzles
. Remember? The jigsaw is the saw?’
    â€˜Yes, John, in my experience, you’re already half-way there. Just as with poetry. I don’t suppose you knew I’d published a volume of poetry?’
    â€˜No, I didn’t. I’m not much of a reader of poetry.’
    â€˜Juvenilia, just juvenilia. The slimmest of slim volumes.’
    â€˜Ah.’
    â€˜As Cyril Connolly almost said, inside every fatuous man there’s a slim volume struggling to get out. Eh?’
    â€˜Sorry, I don’t get it.’
    â€˜Oh, never mind, never mind. Lots do. Anyway, it was rhymed verse, pretty putrid stuff, I fear, I haven’t looked at it in years. Thank God it died the death. There’s no worse enemy of promise than success, as the same Cyril Connolly almost said. I do remember, though, that I invariably began with the rhymes just as you began the jigsaw puzzle with the straight edges. That was my point. It was nothing.’
    â€˜I’d like to read them. Your poems, I mean.’
    â€˜No, you wouldn’t, and you won’t. We’ve better things to do with your time. Like writing my book, for example. Shall we set to it? The morning’s all but gone.’

 
    Â 
    â€˜I’m sweating again’
    â€˜I’m sweating again. How long have we been at it?’
    â€˜Let’s see. It’s nearly half-past five now and westarted at twelve, just as the church clock chimed. An hour off for lunch and half-an-hour, say, for coffee. That makes four hours in all.’
    â€˜Just four hours? Not enough, not nearly enough. Oh well. Read it back to me,