bathroom.
‘Another admirer?’
Mabbut peeped through the curtains. Outside he could see children playing, or hanging about.
‘My agent!’
He heard the toilet flush, and a moment later Tess joined him, piling up her long red hair as she walked.
‘Something exciting?’
‘I must get dressed.’
‘Don’t be so formal.’
He made to sidestep her but she was too quick for him.
‘I do breakfast, you know.’
Mabbut was enveloped.
‘Tess, I promised I’d be at my agent’s in half an hour.’
He felt her warmth as she pulled him close.
‘Look, I’ve got to get—’
‘They’re over there.’
She indicated his clothes, heaped on the red armchair like a small deflated pyramid, then stood back and finished pinning up her hair.
‘It was nice of you to call last night. I was beginning to think you’d lost the spirit of bachelorhood.’
Mabbut pulled on his underpants and reached for his shirt. As he started to button it up, a thought struck him and he paused.
‘Can I ask you something, Tess?’
She eyed him cautiously. ‘Try me.’
‘D’you read a lot?’
She put her head to one side.
‘Try to. So?’
‘When you do,’ he said, sitting down on the chair and rooting around for his socks, ‘do you prefer fact or fiction?’
‘Oh, fiction every time. I hate facts.’
‘Why?’
‘Facts are just facts.’ She shrugged dismissively. ‘They don’t amount to a row of beans. If you want the truth, read Jane Austen.’
SEVEN
M abbut got off at Queensway on the Central Line, checked his watch and walked to the nearest coffee shop. As he stood in line for a macchiato he looked at the customers sitting at their tables: one or two alone, reading or staring at their phones, a couple holding hands, a group gathered around a laptop. All much younger than him, most of them preoccupied. What would excite them most? To know more about Hamish Melville or to be transported back sixty thousand years to the dawn of human history?
He sat down and sipped his coffee. Usually after a night with Tess he felt good. Comfortable, adjusted, whole. This morning something was troubling him and he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He watched through the window as a telephone engineer, protected by a screen of red and white fencing, opened a terminal box and systematically worked his way through the cables inside. Mabbut observed him with a certain amount of envy. This was a man at work. Doing a job, tracing a problem, dealing with it, ticking it off on a worksheet and moving on to the next one. His tasks for the day were quantifiable, definable, achievable. If only writing could be that simple.
Priscilla Caldwell Associates operated out of Silla’s flat in a mansion block off Bayswater Road. Apart from some secretarial help three days a week, she ran the business herself from her kitchen table. This morning she was as animated as Mabbut had ever seen her. She almost skipped as she opened the door, phone to her ear, nodding agreement as she led him through her timber-floored sitting room with its eclectic mix of Corbusier chairs, leather sofas and pine dressers, to a long refectory table spread with sheaves of paper. Withone last nod and a grunt of acknowledgement she clicked off the phone.
Her big eyes appraised him.
‘Sorry to ring you so early.’
Mabbut detected a dusting of disapproval in her voice.
‘I’ve managed to get a good deal from Latham. A very good deal. And I’d like to pin this down before their feet start to chill.’
She took a wine gum from a bowl, then pushed it towards him.
‘Look, Silla, you may have decided about this, but I haven’t.’
She made no appearance of having heard what he said. Instead, she licked her index finger and began to flick through one of the documents on the table.
‘Silla, listen to me. I have made a plan for next year and it doesn’t include Ron Latham or Urgent Books.’
His mobile buzzed. He glanced down. It was a text from
‘Another admirer?’
Mabbut peeped through the curtains. Outside he could see children playing, or hanging about.
‘My agent!’
He heard the toilet flush, and a moment later Tess joined him, piling up her long red hair as she walked.
‘Something exciting?’
‘I must get dressed.’
‘Don’t be so formal.’
He made to sidestep her but she was too quick for him.
‘I do breakfast, you know.’
Mabbut was enveloped.
‘Tess, I promised I’d be at my agent’s in half an hour.’
He felt her warmth as she pulled him close.
‘Look, I’ve got to get—’
‘They’re over there.’
She indicated his clothes, heaped on the red armchair like a small deflated pyramid, then stood back and finished pinning up her hair.
‘It was nice of you to call last night. I was beginning to think you’d lost the spirit of bachelorhood.’
Mabbut pulled on his underpants and reached for his shirt. As he started to button it up, a thought struck him and he paused.
‘Can I ask you something, Tess?’
She eyed him cautiously. ‘Try me.’
‘D’you read a lot?’
She put her head to one side.
‘Try to. So?’
‘When you do,’ he said, sitting down on the chair and rooting around for his socks, ‘do you prefer fact or fiction?’
‘Oh, fiction every time. I hate facts.’
‘Why?’
‘Facts are just facts.’ She shrugged dismissively. ‘They don’t amount to a row of beans. If you want the truth, read Jane Austen.’
SEVEN
M abbut got off at Queensway on the Central Line, checked his watch and walked to the nearest coffee shop. As he stood in line for a macchiato he looked at the customers sitting at their tables: one or two alone, reading or staring at their phones, a couple holding hands, a group gathered around a laptop. All much younger than him, most of them preoccupied. What would excite them most? To know more about Hamish Melville or to be transported back sixty thousand years to the dawn of human history?
He sat down and sipped his coffee. Usually after a night with Tess he felt good. Comfortable, adjusted, whole. This morning something was troubling him and he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. He watched through the window as a telephone engineer, protected by a screen of red and white fencing, opened a terminal box and systematically worked his way through the cables inside. Mabbut observed him with a certain amount of envy. This was a man at work. Doing a job, tracing a problem, dealing with it, ticking it off on a worksheet and moving on to the next one. His tasks for the day were quantifiable, definable, achievable. If only writing could be that simple.
Priscilla Caldwell Associates operated out of Silla’s flat in a mansion block off Bayswater Road. Apart from some secretarial help three days a week, she ran the business herself from her kitchen table. This morning she was as animated as Mabbut had ever seen her. She almost skipped as she opened the door, phone to her ear, nodding agreement as she led him through her timber-floored sitting room with its eclectic mix of Corbusier chairs, leather sofas and pine dressers, to a long refectory table spread with sheaves of paper. Withone last nod and a grunt of acknowledgement she clicked off the phone.
Her big eyes appraised him.
‘Sorry to ring you so early.’
Mabbut detected a dusting of disapproval in her voice.
‘I’ve managed to get a good deal from Latham. A very good deal. And I’d like to pin this down before their feet start to chill.’
She took a wine gum from a bowl, then pushed it towards him.
‘Look, Silla, you may have decided about this, but I haven’t.’
She made no appearance of having heard what he said. Instead, she licked her index finger and began to flick through one of the documents on the table.
‘Silla, listen to me. I have made a plan for next year and it doesn’t include Ron Latham or Urgent Books.’
His mobile buzzed. He glanced down. It was a text from
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