non-Sam work.
He took some more notes for his column on the glottal stop.
Of course Paddy hadn’t let the perversity of taking on the Covenay case prevent him from attempting, rightly, to end it. He wasn’t a complete idiot. After a month, Paddy tells Angela that it’s not working and he has real doubts about it ever working. She’s the one who usually delivers Sam and collects him and now he’s already waiting by the lift, ready to go down. They stand at the doorway, talking softly. But she insists something useful is happening. ‘I feel there’s progress with this,’ she says, her eyes locked onto his.
‘Really?’ Paddy says, experiencing a surge of relief that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He finds himself lookingat her shoes, which are running shoes, or rather walking shoes on their way to becoming some sort of sports footwear. They are lime green, with darker green laces. They transmit a kind of health. Angela walks on her toes, he’s noticed, rocking forward slightly. Has this given her feet a bunched look that she wishes to conceal? She likes to stand close when she talks to you. So you can’t see her feet? She’s told Paddy she works part-time at a dry-cleaners owned by her brother and he imagines there’s a faint chemical whiff when she enters the apartment. She’s wearing a pale blue zip-up Icebreaker top and black stretch pants. She could be on her way from or to the gym or Pilates. He can’t inhale because suddenly he thinks this would tell her he was trying to smell her. There’s a brightness to her that seems ready to turn into exhaustion.
‘I think so.’ She pats his arm, rests her fingers on his shirtsleeve. Her hand is hot. She blushes. Her blood is running all over the place.
They both understand she’s merely expressing a hope. She’s not the person in charge. What can she know? Yet he’s genuinely grateful. ‘Thank you,’ he says, almost adding ‘angel’—does he swallow it in time? Sam is holding the lift open for her, one arm reaching inside it as though—okay, as though he’s about to enter a large metal mouth. Back in his office, Paddy adds this to his notes. A lot of what he writes seems fictional, not just in terms of the made-upness but also in terms of images.
Paddy couldn’t hear the voice through the wall any more. Yet he was sure his mother hadn’t left her apartment; the doors made a distinct rubbery sucking sound when they closed, a little like the door on a new fridge. It was one of the quirks of the building that this sound penetrated. There were five other apartments on their floor. With dedication, one could learn a good deal about everyone’s comings and goings. They knew the architect couple, the Harleys, who lived two along, went for walks in the city at the same time every night: eight thirty. They’d met them once,leaving on such an excursion. The Harleys said they liked to examine buildings reacting to night-light, the moon, the stars, the streetlights. The light from humans, Rebecca Harley said. What light? said Helena. The Harleys looked at each other as if it was a very basic question indeed. Then Geoff Harley, by way of a demonstration, held up his wrist and pushed a button on his watch, illuminating the dial briefly. Okay, said Helena. Rebecca Harley meanwhile had her mobile phone out. She held this up to their faces. Watches and phones, said Paddy, they have an effect on city architecture? It’s a micro interaction, Geoff Harley said.
At one session, in search of a subject, Paddy had told Sam about the Harleys.
This he didn’t tell: On Thursdays Geoff went out alone, a bit later, towards nine. Helena and Paddy had played a game. Where does Geoff Harley go on Thursdays without his wife? To examine buildings some more? Humans? What micro interaction was transpiring? One rule was it couldn’t be sexual, that was too obvious. The Harleys already seemed a little wife-swappy, with their slightly creepy routine, their matching
He took some more notes for his column on the glottal stop.
Of course Paddy hadn’t let the perversity of taking on the Covenay case prevent him from attempting, rightly, to end it. He wasn’t a complete idiot. After a month, Paddy tells Angela that it’s not working and he has real doubts about it ever working. She’s the one who usually delivers Sam and collects him and now he’s already waiting by the lift, ready to go down. They stand at the doorway, talking softly. But she insists something useful is happening. ‘I feel there’s progress with this,’ she says, her eyes locked onto his.
‘Really?’ Paddy says, experiencing a surge of relief that he doesn’t quite know what to do with. He finds himself lookingat her shoes, which are running shoes, or rather walking shoes on their way to becoming some sort of sports footwear. They are lime green, with darker green laces. They transmit a kind of health. Angela walks on her toes, he’s noticed, rocking forward slightly. Has this given her feet a bunched look that she wishes to conceal? She likes to stand close when she talks to you. So you can’t see her feet? She’s told Paddy she works part-time at a dry-cleaners owned by her brother and he imagines there’s a faint chemical whiff when she enters the apartment. She’s wearing a pale blue zip-up Icebreaker top and black stretch pants. She could be on her way from or to the gym or Pilates. He can’t inhale because suddenly he thinks this would tell her he was trying to smell her. There’s a brightness to her that seems ready to turn into exhaustion.
‘I think so.’ She pats his arm, rests her fingers on his shirtsleeve. Her hand is hot. She blushes. Her blood is running all over the place.
They both understand she’s merely expressing a hope. She’s not the person in charge. What can she know? Yet he’s genuinely grateful. ‘Thank you,’ he says, almost adding ‘angel’—does he swallow it in time? Sam is holding the lift open for her, one arm reaching inside it as though—okay, as though he’s about to enter a large metal mouth. Back in his office, Paddy adds this to his notes. A lot of what he writes seems fictional, not just in terms of the made-upness but also in terms of images.
Paddy couldn’t hear the voice through the wall any more. Yet he was sure his mother hadn’t left her apartment; the doors made a distinct rubbery sucking sound when they closed, a little like the door on a new fridge. It was one of the quirks of the building that this sound penetrated. There were five other apartments on their floor. With dedication, one could learn a good deal about everyone’s comings and goings. They knew the architect couple, the Harleys, who lived two along, went for walks in the city at the same time every night: eight thirty. They’d met them once,leaving on such an excursion. The Harleys said they liked to examine buildings reacting to night-light, the moon, the stars, the streetlights. The light from humans, Rebecca Harley said. What light? said Helena. The Harleys looked at each other as if it was a very basic question indeed. Then Geoff Harley, by way of a demonstration, held up his wrist and pushed a button on his watch, illuminating the dial briefly. Okay, said Helena. Rebecca Harley meanwhile had her mobile phone out. She held this up to their faces. Watches and phones, said Paddy, they have an effect on city architecture? It’s a micro interaction, Geoff Harley said.
At one session, in search of a subject, Paddy had told Sam about the Harleys.
This he didn’t tell: On Thursdays Geoff went out alone, a bit later, towards nine. Helena and Paddy had played a game. Where does Geoff Harley go on Thursdays without his wife? To examine buildings some more? Humans? What micro interaction was transpiring? One rule was it couldn’t be sexual, that was too obvious. The Harleys already seemed a little wife-swappy, with their slightly creepy routine, their matching
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