Amsterdam by Ian McEwan

decisively when George, concealing his identity behind an agent, went on the open market with the pictures? Eight other newspapers put in bids, and Vernon had to quadruple the original price to secure the deal. It seemed strange to him now that not so long ago he had been afflicted by a numbness of the scalp and a sense of not existing that had provoked in him fears of madness and death. Molly’s funeral had given him the jitters. Now his purpose and being filled him to his fingertips. The story was alive, and so was he.
    But one small matter denied him complete happiness: Clive. He had addressed him in his mind so often, sharpening the arguments, adding all the things he should have said that night, that he could almost convince himself that he was winning his old friend round, just as he was triumphing over the dinosaurs on the board of directors. But they hadn’t spoken since their row, and Vernon was worrying more as publication day approached. Was Clive brooding, or furious, or was he locked in his studio, lost in work and oblivious to public affairs? Several times during the week Vernon had thought of snatching a minute alone to phone him. But he worried that a fresh attack from Clive would unsteady him in the meetings ahead. Now Vernon eyed the bedside phone beyond the heaped and buckled pillows,and then he made a lunge. Best not to let forethought make a coward of him again. He had to save this friendship. Best to do it while he was calm. He already had a ring tone when he noticed it was only eight-fifteen. Way too early. Sure enough, something in the fumble and clatter of Clive’s pick-up suggested the near-paraplegia of shattered sleep.
    “Clive? It’s Vernon.”
    “What?”
    “Vernon. I woke you. I’m sorry.”
    “No, no. Not at all. I was just standing here, just thinking …”
    There was a rustle of sheets in the receiver while Clive rearranged himself in his bed. Why did we so often lie about sleep on the phone? Was it our vulnerability we defended? When he came on again, his voice wasn’t quite so thick.
    “I’ve been meaning to phone you, but I’ve got rehearsals in Amsterdam next week. I’ve been working so hard.”
    “Me too,” Vernon said. “I haven’t had a spare minute this week. Look, I wanted to talk to you again about those photographs.”
    There was a pause. “Oh yes. Those. I suppose you’re going ahead.”
    “I’ve canvassed a lot of opinion and the consensus is that we should publish. Tomorrow.”
    Clive cleared his throat softly. He really did soundremarkably relaxed about it. “Well, I’ve said my say. We’ll just have to agree to differ.”
    Vernon said, “I wouldn’t want it to come between us.”
    “Of course not.”
    The conversation moved on to other things. Naturally, Vernon gave a rather general account of his week. Clive told him how he’d been working through the nights, and how he was making great progress with the symphony, and what a good idea it had been to go walking in the Lake District.
    “Oh yes,” Vernon said. “How was that?”
    “I walked over this place called Allen Crags. That’s where I had the breakthrough, pure inspiration, this melody, you see …”
    It was at this point that Vernon became aware of the call-waiting bleep. Twice, three times, then it stopped. Someone from his office. Probably Frank Dibben. The day, the last and most important day, was getting into gear. He sat naked on the edge of the bed and snatched up his watch to check it against the alarm clock. Clive wasn’t angry with him, so that was fine, and now he needed to get going.
    “… they couldn’t see me from where I was and it was looking nasty, but I had to make a decision …”
    “Mmm,” Vernon repeated every half-minute or so. He was right out at the end of the stretched telephonecord, standing on one foot, reaching with the other for clean underwear from a pile. The shower was out. So was the wet shave.
    “… and he might have beaten her to a pulp for all