and thanks her. She explains that it’s not Rosie’s job to worry about the family finances, that we’re going through a bit of a rough patch but we’ll be fine. All families go through times like this and she’s not to worry. She says this with such loving authority that you almost believe it yourself.
Rosie’s hand brushes across the tips of your fingers. ‘You okay, Pa?’
You look up at your daughter so filled with love that you think you might burst.
The Herald has been through one regime change and two arts editors since you worked there so, although you know every desk and chair, many of the faces are not familiar to you. The new arts editor is a weedy hipster with a carefully coiffed quiff and a rat-tat-tat manner of speaking. Knows your work. Loves your work. Hilarious. Vee funny (he actually says vee ).
Rat-tat-tat asks you what movies you have seen recently. You falter as you realise that you haven’t seen any movies recently. He reframes the question: ‘What’s the last movie you saw?’ You know you should say something impressive like Citizen Kane but your mind goes blank. ‘Can’t remember,’ you reply. Fortunately he interprets this as a cryptic analysis of recent cinematic offerings. ‘Ha! So know what you mean!’
You nod sagely.
‘So,’ he says, inviting you with a gesture to state your business.
Artlessly, you get to the point. ‘I was wondering if I could have my old job back.’
He swivels in his chair and smacks his lips. ‘If only you’d asked me that five months ago!’
Five months ago the guy who replaced you was replaced by a new reviewer, Louisa Orban. Louisa loves movies. She loves it when the lights go down and the cinema falls quiet and she is transported into other times, places, lives, worlds. There is a genuine infectiousness to her reviews that makes people want to see the movies she has seen. Even the bad ones seem to offer an illuminating moment or a thrilling performance. Hers is a new-wave positivism that is completely counter to your seen-it-all-before-and-last-time-it-was-actually-good reviewing style.
You suggest that you could provide some yang to balance Louisa’s yin.
‘Actually your style is more yin and Lou is more yang,’ he says.
‘What I meant was—’
‘It’s just that I’m a Buddhist,’ he interrupts.
He pronounces it Boo-dist as though he’s giving you the password to a secret society and launches into a monologue that features the phrase ‘budget cuts’. It’s like one of those comic strips in the Sunday papers where the Owner talks to the Dog but all Dog can hear is ‘Blah blah blah Rover. Blah blah blah Rover.’ All you can hear is ‘Blah blah blah budget cut. Budget cut. Budget cut.’
As he walks you to the lifts he repeatedly pats his right fist with his left hand until he suddenly stops dead and you almost walk into him. Omitting all personal pronouns, Rat-tat-tat makes an offer. ‘Hope this isn’t ridiculous. But happy to look at any freelance stuff. More than happy. Delighted. No guarantees, though, with the budget cuts.’
You’re standing in the lift watching the floor numbers light up as you descend when you realise you can’t remember whether you thanked him or shook his hand or said goodbye.
Out in the street it’s cold and raining and the city is seething with people bearing dark umbrellas. Putting a newspaper over your head, you launch yourself into the stream of soaking humanity and try to make your way to the kerb. A harried young mother rams her stroller into your shin and frowns at you as if it’s all your fault. You limp-push your way to a light pole and look across the street. Your mouth dries up and the colour drains from your vision. You slide into the gutter and sit in a puddle, head spinning.
16
You wake. It’s been raining on and off for days but the sky has cleared again. The absence of sun through the venetians tells you that the morning has passed. You wonder what day it is and whether
Rosie’s hand brushes across the tips of your fingers. ‘You okay, Pa?’
You look up at your daughter so filled with love that you think you might burst.
The Herald has been through one regime change and two arts editors since you worked there so, although you know every desk and chair, many of the faces are not familiar to you. The new arts editor is a weedy hipster with a carefully coiffed quiff and a rat-tat-tat manner of speaking. Knows your work. Loves your work. Hilarious. Vee funny (he actually says vee ).
Rat-tat-tat asks you what movies you have seen recently. You falter as you realise that you haven’t seen any movies recently. He reframes the question: ‘What’s the last movie you saw?’ You know you should say something impressive like Citizen Kane but your mind goes blank. ‘Can’t remember,’ you reply. Fortunately he interprets this as a cryptic analysis of recent cinematic offerings. ‘Ha! So know what you mean!’
You nod sagely.
‘So,’ he says, inviting you with a gesture to state your business.
Artlessly, you get to the point. ‘I was wondering if I could have my old job back.’
He swivels in his chair and smacks his lips. ‘If only you’d asked me that five months ago!’
Five months ago the guy who replaced you was replaced by a new reviewer, Louisa Orban. Louisa loves movies. She loves it when the lights go down and the cinema falls quiet and she is transported into other times, places, lives, worlds. There is a genuine infectiousness to her reviews that makes people want to see the movies she has seen. Even the bad ones seem to offer an illuminating moment or a thrilling performance. Hers is a new-wave positivism that is completely counter to your seen-it-all-before-and-last-time-it-was-actually-good reviewing style.
You suggest that you could provide some yang to balance Louisa’s yin.
‘Actually your style is more yin and Lou is more yang,’ he says.
‘What I meant was—’
‘It’s just that I’m a Buddhist,’ he interrupts.
He pronounces it Boo-dist as though he’s giving you the password to a secret society and launches into a monologue that features the phrase ‘budget cuts’. It’s like one of those comic strips in the Sunday papers where the Owner talks to the Dog but all Dog can hear is ‘Blah blah blah Rover. Blah blah blah Rover.’ All you can hear is ‘Blah blah blah budget cut. Budget cut. Budget cut.’
As he walks you to the lifts he repeatedly pats his right fist with his left hand until he suddenly stops dead and you almost walk into him. Omitting all personal pronouns, Rat-tat-tat makes an offer. ‘Hope this isn’t ridiculous. But happy to look at any freelance stuff. More than happy. Delighted. No guarantees, though, with the budget cuts.’
You’re standing in the lift watching the floor numbers light up as you descend when you realise you can’t remember whether you thanked him or shook his hand or said goodbye.
Out in the street it’s cold and raining and the city is seething with people bearing dark umbrellas. Putting a newspaper over your head, you launch yourself into the stream of soaking humanity and try to make your way to the kerb. A harried young mother rams her stroller into your shin and frowns at you as if it’s all your fault. You limp-push your way to a light pole and look across the street. Your mouth dries up and the colour drains from your vision. You slide into the gutter and sit in a puddle, head spinning.
16
You wake. It’s been raining on and off for days but the sky has cleared again. The absence of sun through the venetians tells you that the morning has passed. You wonder what day it is and whether
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