moustache.’
He laughed, and I heard him put down his drink. I felt solid ground begin to slip away. Maybe everything I had written was a lie. I am a novelist, after all, I thought. Or I used to be.
The futility of my logic hit me. I used to write fiction, therefore my assertion that I had been a novelist might be one of those fictions. In which case I had not written fiction. My head spun.
It had felt true, though. I told myself that. Plus I could touch-type. Or I had written that I could …
‘Did you?’ I asked, desperate. ‘It’s just … it’s important.’
‘Let’s think,’ he said. I imagined him closing his eyes, biting his bottom lip in a parody of concentration. ‘I suppose I might have done, once,’ he said. ‘Very briefly. It was years ago. I forget …’ A pause, then, ‘Yes. Actually, yes. I think I probably did. For a week or so. A long time ago.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, relieved. The ground on which I stood felt a little more secure.
‘You OK?’ he asked, and I said that I was.
Dr Nash picked me up at midday. He’d told me to have some lunch first, but I wasn’t hungry. Nervous, I suppose. ‘We’re meeting a colleague of mine,’ he said in the car. ‘Dr Paxton.’ I said nothing. ‘He’s an expert in the field of functional imaging of patients with problems like yours. We’ve been working together.’
‘OK,’ I said, and now we sat in his car, stationary in stuck traffic. ‘Did I call you yesterday?’ I asked. He said that I had.
‘You read your journal?’
‘Most of it. I skipped bits. It’s already quite long.’
He seemed interested. ‘What sections did you skip?’
I thought for a moment. ‘There are parts that seem familiar to me. I suppose they feel as if they’re just reminding me of things I already know. Already remember …’
‘That’s good.’ He glancied at me. ‘Very good.’
I felt a glow of pleasure. ‘So what did I call about? Yesterday?’
‘You wanted to know if you’d really written a novel,’ he said.
‘And had I? Have I?’
He turned back to me. He was smiling. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you have.’
The traffic moved again and we pulled away. I felt relief. I knew what I had written was true. I relaxed into the journey.
Dr Paxton was older than I expected. He was wearing a tweed jacket, and white hair sprouted unchecked from his ears and nose. He looked as though he ought to have retired.
‘Welcome to the Vincent Hall Imaging Centre,’ he said once Dr Nash had introduced us, and then, without taking his eyes off mine, he winked and shook my hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added. ‘It’s not as grand as it sounds. Here, come in. Let me show you round.’
We made our way into the building. ‘We’re attached to the hospital and the university here,’ he said as we went through the main entrance. ‘Which can be both a blessing and a curse.’ I didn’t know what he meant and waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing. I smiled.
‘Really?’ I said. He was trying to help me. I wanted to be polite.
‘Everyone wants us to do everything.’ He laughed. ‘No one wants to pay us for any of it.’
We walked through into a waiting room. It was dotted with empty chairs, copies of the same magazines Ben has left for me at home – Radio Times, Hello! , now joined by Country Life and Marie Claire – and discarded plastic cups. It looked like there had recently been a party that everyone had left in a hurry. Dr Paxton paused at another door. ‘Would you like to see the control room?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please.’
‘Functional MRI is a fairly new technique,’ he said, once we’d gone through. ‘Have you heard of MRI? Magnetic Resonance Imaging?’
We were standing in a small room, lit only by the ghostly glow from a bank of computer monitors. One wall was taken up by a window, beyond which was another room, dominated by a large cylindrical machine, a bed protruding from it like a tongue. I began
He laughed, and I heard him put down his drink. I felt solid ground begin to slip away. Maybe everything I had written was a lie. I am a novelist, after all, I thought. Or I used to be.
The futility of my logic hit me. I used to write fiction, therefore my assertion that I had been a novelist might be one of those fictions. In which case I had not written fiction. My head spun.
It had felt true, though. I told myself that. Plus I could touch-type. Or I had written that I could …
‘Did you?’ I asked, desperate. ‘It’s just … it’s important.’
‘Let’s think,’ he said. I imagined him closing his eyes, biting his bottom lip in a parody of concentration. ‘I suppose I might have done, once,’ he said. ‘Very briefly. It was years ago. I forget …’ A pause, then, ‘Yes. Actually, yes. I think I probably did. For a week or so. A long time ago.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, relieved. The ground on which I stood felt a little more secure.
‘You OK?’ he asked, and I said that I was.
Dr Nash picked me up at midday. He’d told me to have some lunch first, but I wasn’t hungry. Nervous, I suppose. ‘We’re meeting a colleague of mine,’ he said in the car. ‘Dr Paxton.’ I said nothing. ‘He’s an expert in the field of functional imaging of patients with problems like yours. We’ve been working together.’
‘OK,’ I said, and now we sat in his car, stationary in stuck traffic. ‘Did I call you yesterday?’ I asked. He said that I had.
‘You read your journal?’
‘Most of it. I skipped bits. It’s already quite long.’
He seemed interested. ‘What sections did you skip?’
I thought for a moment. ‘There are parts that seem familiar to me. I suppose they feel as if they’re just reminding me of things I already know. Already remember …’
‘That’s good.’ He glancied at me. ‘Very good.’
I felt a glow of pleasure. ‘So what did I call about? Yesterday?’
‘You wanted to know if you’d really written a novel,’ he said.
‘And had I? Have I?’
He turned back to me. He was smiling. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, you have.’
The traffic moved again and we pulled away. I felt relief. I knew what I had written was true. I relaxed into the journey.
Dr Paxton was older than I expected. He was wearing a tweed jacket, and white hair sprouted unchecked from his ears and nose. He looked as though he ought to have retired.
‘Welcome to the Vincent Hall Imaging Centre,’ he said once Dr Nash had introduced us, and then, without taking his eyes off mine, he winked and shook my hand. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added. ‘It’s not as grand as it sounds. Here, come in. Let me show you round.’
We made our way into the building. ‘We’re attached to the hospital and the university here,’ he said as we went through the main entrance. ‘Which can be both a blessing and a curse.’ I didn’t know what he meant and waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing. I smiled.
‘Really?’ I said. He was trying to help me. I wanted to be polite.
‘Everyone wants us to do everything.’ He laughed. ‘No one wants to pay us for any of it.’
We walked through into a waiting room. It was dotted with empty chairs, copies of the same magazines Ben has left for me at home – Radio Times, Hello! , now joined by Country Life and Marie Claire – and discarded plastic cups. It looked like there had recently been a party that everyone had left in a hurry. Dr Paxton paused at another door. ‘Would you like to see the control room?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please.’
‘Functional MRI is a fairly new technique,’ he said, once we’d gone through. ‘Have you heard of MRI? Magnetic Resonance Imaging?’
We were standing in a small room, lit only by the ghostly glow from a bank of computer monitors. One wall was taken up by a window, beyond which was another room, dominated by a large cylindrical machine, a bed protruding from it like a tongue. I began
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