THAT AFTERNOON, I CHECKED MY EMAILS. THIS FROM FIORELLA:

As you know everything about Karl, you are bound to know what he is doing with bits of wire. I went to see him yesterday. I know I said I wouldn’t. I know he doesn’t like surprises. (I think he is probably a control freak.) But I couldn’t help myself, I was desperate to see him, I wish I wasn’t but I was, I mean I still am. I thought he wouldn’t see me but he did. He was in the garden shed. I wouldn’t say he was exactly ecstatic. Very arm’s-length and hands-off, when what I wanted was close-up and intimate and hands-on. As a matter of fact, most of the time I was there I felt I was being watched, being observed, like I was some kind of laboratory specimen. Also like I was being tested and assessed and examined. I tried to be cool and offhand and all that but when I’m unsure of myself I start to babble, yammer yammer yammer. I do wish I didn’t do this. It is so gauche. I know I’m doing it at the time and keep telling myself to shut up, but can’t stop myself, can’t help it, it really is a pain. So I went on blathering at him, it doesn’t matter what I said, about nothing really. And he just stood there listening and watching and saying nothing. Until after an age he asked me why I’d come—I said because I wanted to see him, no other reason—and he asked how I was getting on—school, chess, blah blah. I asked about him but he did that trick of answering my questions with questions about me. And instead of pushing him to talk about himself I stupidly rabbitted on again about myself. I think I do this, with him anyway, because what I really want to do is get hold of him and etc. etc. There’s just something about him that makes me want to do that, there’s something small boy and vulnerable about him and at the same time something terribly grown-up and strong and I have to admit I find that combination plus his looks, his body, etc., irresistible. I guess blathering on is a kind of compensation or something for not being allowed to touch him and hold him. I suppose I’m trying to touch him and hold him and kiss him with words.

Now I’m rabbitting on to you and not getting to the point. Why am I doing that? It’s important to know why you do what you do, especially the things you do without meaning to, don’t you agree? I know you agree because all your books are like that, which is one reason why I like them. So why am I rabbitting on to you now? (Pause for thought.) Oh dear, I don’t like what I’m thinking. (Pause for more thought.) Well, alright, what it is, I think, is—I don’t know how to put it without sounding stupid or bitchy—but I half resent you knowing Karl better than I do and seeing him all the time and I don’t, and half resent Karl knowing you and seeing you, because after all he only got to know you because of me talking to him about your books (which he hasn’t read, by the way, I know because I asked him yesterday, but then, you know he doesn’t read novels or anything he doesn’t have to, but only what he really wants to, and why he doesn’t). Does this mean I’m jealous? I hope it doesn’t. I hate the thought that I might be a jealous person. It’s such an ugly weakness. And am I being like some silly girl who comes wittering on because she thinks she’s been left out of the game and wants to worm her way in and be best friends with the other two and goes smarming up to them trying to ingratiate herself? God, I hope not!

The only way to stop wittering like this is to stop wittering. So:

LONG PAUSE FOR RECOVERY OF CALM.

Much later.

Here is my point in best exam-essay style:

I had not been in Karl’s shed, which he called his workshop, before, so everything in it was new to me. To stop myself blathering on I asked about the use of some of the tools and machines. Karl replied briefly. There were some bits of wire on the workbench, which I didn’t take any notice of, because I thought they were bits of rubbish. All the time, Karl was standing at the end of the bench, leaning back against it.

Having looked round the shed (sorry, workshop), and hoping he would allow me to get close now that we had gone round the houses with reconnecting chatter, I ended my tour beside him, intending to lean against the bench in the same posture as him. But as I did this he said with alarm, Hey! Careful! and put his hand on my back to stop me leaning against the bench.

My instant thought was that he did this because he didn’t want me so close to him. But in the next instant I realised he was keeping me from maybe disturbing the bits of wire.

Karl didn’t say anything, just kept looking at me with that observer’s eye. I felt he was waiting for me to say something special, something important, but I couldn’t think what it was. Again, I felt I was being tested.

Of course I understood from what he’d done that these bits of wire weren’t just bits of rubbish.

Thinking it would please him if I showed some interest, I reached out to pick one up, but he caught me by the wrist and said, Don’t touch! (Come to think of it, this could be taken as the motto for the day.)

I said I was sorry and asked if they were something special. He said they were. I asked why. He said they were little models. I asked what of. He said, What do you think? I said I had no idea. And instantly felt a dreadful failure, which made me want to run away, but I was determined not to let him get the better of me. Which is another thing about him. He is very powerful.

Anyway and anyhow I said I didn’t know and Karl said, Guess.

Well, I thought, I’m not going to play this game, I’ve had enough of it.

I said, You’re being horrible to me.

He said, No, I’m not.

I said, Yes, you are. I came to see you, to find out how you are, because I know you haven’t been too great lately, and you’re treating me like I’m something the cat dragged in, like a child, and like you’re some kind of teacher condescending to a stupid pupil. You are patronising me and I don’t like it!

Have a guess, he said, as if I hadn’t uttered a word.

That really did me in!

I said, sharp as I could, I have no idea what you mean or what these nasty-looking bits of wire are for. And to be honest, Karl, I don’t care.

He smiled then. The observer look vanished. He scratched his head. And then said, all politeness and public good manners, Sorry if I upset you. Good of you to call. I’m OK. Doing well, thanks.

Which meant, clear as day, the visit was over. He didn’t exactly go to the door and open it, but he might as well have done.

I said, See you around, and left by the back gate to avoid Mrs. Williamson and her questions.

So, Mr. Writer. What’s going on? What is so special about those bits of wire?

Please tell me.

I have to know.

Your reader, Fiorella

These days, everyone expects instant replies—to emails, texts, blogs, tweets, and who knows what else has been added to the techno list before you read this sentence?

I knew Fiorella would be checking her inbox every few minutes. But decided not to submit to the universal imperative for the instantaneous. She could wait, while I decided what to say to her. If anything.

And it’s just as well I did.