exotic for a woman like this to be listening to my pop-raddled, commercial-choked show on daytime radio. Between the hours of ten and midday this woman ought to be perfecting her technique playing Bach fugues on her grand piano, or wandering the galleries clutching a draft of her thesis, standing in front of vast canvases, nodding wisely. She should be a Radio Three type, I told myself; certainly not listening to any radio station with an exclamation mark in its title.
I’m sorry, you fall beneath the acceptable standards of intriguingness that my over-heated and deeply wretched romantic sensibilities demand. Very Groucho altogether. Sad git.
‘I’m very flattered,’ I told her.
‘Are you? Why?’
I gave a small laugh. A gust of wind thudded into us, showering us with rain and making us sway together, as if dancing to the pummelling music of the storm. ‘Oh, I’m just always flattered when I meet somebody who admits to listening to my terminally facile and disposable show. And you—’
‘Is it really so?’ she said. ‘Do you really think it is facile and disposable?’
I had been going to say something on the lines of, And you are the most stunningly beautiful creature at this party largely composed of stunningly beautiful creatures, which makes your interest in me especially gratifying … but instead she was having the temerity to interrupt a professional talker, and taking my small talk seriously. Didn’t know which was worse.
‘Well, it can certainly be facile,’ I said. ‘And when it comes down to it, it is just local radio, even if it’s local radio for London. Noam Chomsky it ain’t.’
‘You admire Noam Chomsky,’ she said, nodding and stroking away another strand of hair from her mouth. The wind was howling round the building, scattering rain drops over the two of us. It was April, and not too cold, but there was still a fair amount of wind-chill factor happening here. ‘You have mentioned him a few times, I think.’
I held up my hands. ‘Closest thing to a hero I have.’ I folded my arms. ‘You really do listen to the show, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes. You say such things. I am always amazed that you get away with what you do. So often I think, They won’t let him get away with that, and yet, next time I switch on, there you are.’
‘We do call the studio the—’
‘Departure Lounge,’ she said, smiling. ‘I know.’ She nodded. The wind hit her in the back, making her take a step forwards, towards me. I put a hand out but she adjusted her stance, straightening again. She didn’t seem to notice the gale blowing round her. ‘You must make many enemies.’
‘The more the better,’ I agreed airily. ‘There are so many people deserving of utter contempt, don’t you think?’
‘You really don’t care?’
‘That I might make enemies of my elders and betters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not enough to stop.’
‘You really don’t worry that somebody might take such offence at what you say they try to harm you?’
‘I refuse to worry,’ I told her. ‘I wouldn’t hand people like that even the partial victory of knowing I was concerned.’
‘So, then, are you brave?’ she asked with a small smile.
‘No, I’m not brave. I just don’t give a fuck.’
She seemed to find this amusing, lowering her head and smiling at the paving stones.
I sighed. ‘Life’s too short to spend it worrying, Celia. Carpe diem .’
‘Yes, life is short,’ she agreed, not looking at me. Then she did. ‘But you might risk making it shorter.’
I held her gaze. I said, ‘I don’t care,’ and, just then, there on the roof in the loud midst of the storm, I meant it.
She lifted her face up a little, as another gust shook her and me in sudden succession. I really wanted to take hold of that perfect little chin and kiss her.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘apart from anything else, like I say, it’s just radio. And it’s a reputation I have, that I’ve developed. Mostly by getting sacked from
I’m sorry, you fall beneath the acceptable standards of intriguingness that my over-heated and deeply wretched romantic sensibilities demand. Very Groucho altogether. Sad git.
‘I’m very flattered,’ I told her.
‘Are you? Why?’
I gave a small laugh. A gust of wind thudded into us, showering us with rain and making us sway together, as if dancing to the pummelling music of the storm. ‘Oh, I’m just always flattered when I meet somebody who admits to listening to my terminally facile and disposable show. And you—’
‘Is it really so?’ she said. ‘Do you really think it is facile and disposable?’
I had been going to say something on the lines of, And you are the most stunningly beautiful creature at this party largely composed of stunningly beautiful creatures, which makes your interest in me especially gratifying … but instead she was having the temerity to interrupt a professional talker, and taking my small talk seriously. Didn’t know which was worse.
‘Well, it can certainly be facile,’ I said. ‘And when it comes down to it, it is just local radio, even if it’s local radio for London. Noam Chomsky it ain’t.’
‘You admire Noam Chomsky,’ she said, nodding and stroking away another strand of hair from her mouth. The wind was howling round the building, scattering rain drops over the two of us. It was April, and not too cold, but there was still a fair amount of wind-chill factor happening here. ‘You have mentioned him a few times, I think.’
I held up my hands. ‘Closest thing to a hero I have.’ I folded my arms. ‘You really do listen to the show, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes. You say such things. I am always amazed that you get away with what you do. So often I think, They won’t let him get away with that, and yet, next time I switch on, there you are.’
‘We do call the studio the—’
‘Departure Lounge,’ she said, smiling. ‘I know.’ She nodded. The wind hit her in the back, making her take a step forwards, towards me. I put a hand out but she adjusted her stance, straightening again. She didn’t seem to notice the gale blowing round her. ‘You must make many enemies.’
‘The more the better,’ I agreed airily. ‘There are so many people deserving of utter contempt, don’t you think?’
‘You really don’t care?’
‘That I might make enemies of my elders and betters?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not enough to stop.’
‘You really don’t worry that somebody might take such offence at what you say they try to harm you?’
‘I refuse to worry,’ I told her. ‘I wouldn’t hand people like that even the partial victory of knowing I was concerned.’
‘So, then, are you brave?’ she asked with a small smile.
‘No, I’m not brave. I just don’t give a fuck.’
She seemed to find this amusing, lowering her head and smiling at the paving stones.
I sighed. ‘Life’s too short to spend it worrying, Celia. Carpe diem .’
‘Yes, life is short,’ she agreed, not looking at me. Then she did. ‘But you might risk making it shorter.’
I held her gaze. I said, ‘I don’t care,’ and, just then, there on the roof in the loud midst of the storm, I meant it.
She lifted her face up a little, as another gust shook her and me in sudden succession. I really wanted to take hold of that perfect little chin and kiss her.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘apart from anything else, like I say, it’s just radio. And it’s a reputation I have, that I’ve developed. Mostly by getting sacked from
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