like to talk about things that aren’t definite.”
I don’t want to admit having promised not to talk about Hannah, especially since I still haven’t mentioned my novel. I rest my gaze on Christine’s face and then pick up my mug, which informs me that THE ANSWER IS THE QUESTION. Hers is inscribed THE QUESTION IS THE ANSWER. My mind can’t keep hold of either concept; they seem as evanescent as the zero that fades from the glass surface where the mug stood, and at least as meaningless. I jolt my innards with a gulp of black coffee before saying “Anyway, we were talking about Paula.”
“You should at least tell her you’ve had an offer. You don’t have to say who it’s from, just that you’re considering it. Waves might want to top it now they’ve got Frugo money to play with.”
She’s readier to direct my speech than she ever does as a producer. “I expect I could say that if I wanted to.”
“Or would you really rather not stay, Graham?”
“This isn’t about us, is it? There’s more to us than a radio show.”
“I hope there is, but if you won’t tell me—”
“This could be an opportunity for you to work with someone new as well. It won’t do either of us any harm to develop.”
Christine sips her coffee and puts down the mug with a muted glassy clank. “You think I’m too settled in my ways. I’m out of new ideas, you think.”
“I’m saying both of us, Chris.” I reach across the unyielding chilly surface and take her hand. “Wouldn’t you say we know each other too well?”
“I don’t believe I would.”
“At work, I mean, if it’s our job to keep coming up with something fresh.”
Christine doesn’t move her hand away from mine—in fact, it hasn’t moved at all. I’m unhelpfully reminded how participants in a seance hold hands to try and conjure up an illusion of contact. “Anyone who didn’t know you,” she says, “might think you want to work with someone who doesn’t know you at all.”
I pat her hand on the way to wobbling to my feet, and feel as if I’m being none too efficiently raised by a small dull hook embedded between my eyes. “All right, I’ll find out if Paula wants me to stay,” I tell Christine, “as much as you do.”
She seems disappointed in some way I can’t define. We’re silent as she follows me along the hall, which is decorated with prints from the gallery up the road—posters for imaginary British destinations. Reminiscence-by-the-Sea consists of centuries of seaside memories merging in a summer haze, while Greater Thorp Than You Think is a village where the cottages grow larger as they recede into misty distance. Beside a poster for Longsleep-in-the-Dell, where a luminous fog is so dense that it’s hard to distinguish the shining white edifices from it or to establish their nature, the open bedroom door shows me that the bed we shared last night is as smooth as a blank page. Christine gives me a token kiss that feels wifely if not less than that before opening the door of the apartment. “I’ll be along to take care of you,” she says.
“Always the professional.” I mean this as a compliment, but I’m not sure how it sounds. “I’ll tell you everything that happens,” I feel driven to promise.
She has half the top floor of the converted office building. A bird is faintly outlined on the Victorian fanlight above the street door, although just now the sun on the scalloped pane blots out the gilded shape. Today is Ignore An Insult Day, and I imagine some of my callers may feel insulted by the notion. Some of the queue for An Evening Of Spiritual Healing at the Palace look as if they might have to ignore an insult if not several. Other people I encounter on my way to Waves seem likelier to hand out a few insults in honour of the day or simply because that’s their nature, and I don’t suppose the monolithic heat will help.
The automatic doors slip aside, expelling a chill almost as welcome as a drink. For a moment
I don’t want to admit having promised not to talk about Hannah, especially since I still haven’t mentioned my novel. I rest my gaze on Christine’s face and then pick up my mug, which informs me that THE ANSWER IS THE QUESTION. Hers is inscribed THE QUESTION IS THE ANSWER. My mind can’t keep hold of either concept; they seem as evanescent as the zero that fades from the glass surface where the mug stood, and at least as meaningless. I jolt my innards with a gulp of black coffee before saying “Anyway, we were talking about Paula.”
“You should at least tell her you’ve had an offer. You don’t have to say who it’s from, just that you’re considering it. Waves might want to top it now they’ve got Frugo money to play with.”
She’s readier to direct my speech than she ever does as a producer. “I expect I could say that if I wanted to.”
“Or would you really rather not stay, Graham?”
“This isn’t about us, is it? There’s more to us than a radio show.”
“I hope there is, but if you won’t tell me—”
“This could be an opportunity for you to work with someone new as well. It won’t do either of us any harm to develop.”
Christine sips her coffee and puts down the mug with a muted glassy clank. “You think I’m too settled in my ways. I’m out of new ideas, you think.”
“I’m saying both of us, Chris.” I reach across the unyielding chilly surface and take her hand. “Wouldn’t you say we know each other too well?”
“I don’t believe I would.”
“At work, I mean, if it’s our job to keep coming up with something fresh.”
Christine doesn’t move her hand away from mine—in fact, it hasn’t moved at all. I’m unhelpfully reminded how participants in a seance hold hands to try and conjure up an illusion of contact. “Anyone who didn’t know you,” she says, “might think you want to work with someone who doesn’t know you at all.”
I pat her hand on the way to wobbling to my feet, and feel as if I’m being none too efficiently raised by a small dull hook embedded between my eyes. “All right, I’ll find out if Paula wants me to stay,” I tell Christine, “as much as you do.”
She seems disappointed in some way I can’t define. We’re silent as she follows me along the hall, which is decorated with prints from the gallery up the road—posters for imaginary British destinations. Reminiscence-by-the-Sea consists of centuries of seaside memories merging in a summer haze, while Greater Thorp Than You Think is a village where the cottages grow larger as they recede into misty distance. Beside a poster for Longsleep-in-the-Dell, where a luminous fog is so dense that it’s hard to distinguish the shining white edifices from it or to establish their nature, the open bedroom door shows me that the bed we shared last night is as smooth as a blank page. Christine gives me a token kiss that feels wifely if not less than that before opening the door of the apartment. “I’ll be along to take care of you,” she says.
“Always the professional.” I mean this as a compliment, but I’m not sure how it sounds. “I’ll tell you everything that happens,” I feel driven to promise.
She has half the top floor of the converted office building. A bird is faintly outlined on the Victorian fanlight above the street door, although just now the sun on the scalloped pane blots out the gilded shape. Today is Ignore An Insult Day, and I imagine some of my callers may feel insulted by the notion. Some of the queue for An Evening Of Spiritual Healing at the Palace look as if they might have to ignore an insult if not several. Other people I encounter on my way to Waves seem likelier to hand out a few insults in honour of the day or simply because that’s their nature, and I don’t suppose the monolithic heat will help.
The automatic doors slip aside, expelling a chill almost as welcome as a drink. For a moment
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