Sunday, 10 January

 

I’M STARTING a diary.

It’s not pathetic. Lots of famous people kept diaries. Lewis Carroll, Dostoyevsky, Samuel Pepys… and diaries are important. As a historian, I should know. I mean, without Pepys, where would we, historians, be? Or without Anne Frank? That being said, I doubt this is going to be that kind of diary. In fact, I doubt it will go past the first entry.

It’s pissing it down today. I’ve watched enough Battlestar Galactica to want to die, and I’ve read every trashy sci-fi novel I have in the house. Well, except for the pile of as-yet-unpacked books on the table by the door. But new novels require a sense of excitement that I can’t quite summon at the present. It shows how optimistic I was about today when I spent most of yesterday evening brooding in Waterstones.

I’m bored, and I need something to keep me away from the Internet. Therefore, diary.

I wish I had a better, more exciting job, so I could write about that. Lecturing post-war history at a university does not make a future Ian Fleming, though.

Here’s something that happened recently. Two weeks ago the head of my department told me she was going to get her niece to do some web design for our school’s website. We’re a university. We’re literally the place specialists in all manner of knowledge gather in one place to be all experty and specialisty about different subjects. Consequently, we’ve not just an actual IT department with all level of professionals in web design, but we’ve got a special IT team to deal with our website. However, she is the head of our department, so I approached this diplomatically by asking her, “Is this the niece who decided to forgo her A levels in favour of following Radiohead on tour?”

She said yes but did not think this was related to any argument against her decision. So yesterday (Saturday), she called me up about something and then, circuitously, she asked me about my friend from the IT department. Had he, by any chance, the time to do a discreet spot of work on the School of History website?

“You let your niece have a go at it, didn’t you,” I said.

“What tipped you off?”

“Well, for starters the website’s now called School of Patriarchy. And it plays ‘Tears for Animals’ in the background. I approve the message, on the whole, but it isn’t very inviting, you know.”

“She’s very passionate.”

“Yes, that she is.”

Anyway, the school website is now back to its former shape.

This reminds me of the time Jack and I spent a whole evening after a conference in Bristol discussing feminism over whisky—he was trying to provoke me, and I knew it, but I let him because he is Jack, and he seemed to like it when I ranted about basically anything, and seemed amused when I started quoting Wollstonecraft at him and his male privilege.

Jack. Oh well, I suppose it’s no use avoiding the subject of Jack. It is what I’m thinking about, after all, so I might as well write about it. He’s the reason I’m avoiding the Internet. And the reason I refused all invitations to go out today. Not that anybody would want to be out in this kind of weather.

I don’t want to speak to anyone, or see anyone, and I don’t want to go on the Internet, where I would inevitably find myself on Facebook and then, equally inevitably, would find news about Him. And I don’t want to see any news about Him.

I don’t even know where to start writing about Him.

He is Professor Jack Gordon. He’s the handsome, debonair celebrity of our department. He’s worked with famous people all over the world, even had his own BBC series, which I ended up watching five times because that way I could stare at him to my heart’s content.

I remember being intimidated by him when I first joined the department. It was my first post after finishing my research assistant job at Bristol. But then I spoke to him and found that behind the smug exterior hid a great mind. I mean, he wasn’t just pomp and glory, he was actually very clever and his interests were far-reaching. For example, when he came to see me in my office one day and saw Madame Bovary on my desk, instead of rolling his eyes at me, he actually asked if I ever read Stendhal! I know I’m sounding like a stuck-up git just now, but I don’t care. Here was a guy who didn’t roll his eyes at me for liking classical literature. Can I honestly be blamed for thinking that he liked me?

I mean, let’s gather the evidence: he came to see me in my office. Often. I mean, seriously, he came by a lot! And we talked. There was no end to the things we could talk about! I know that what I’ve said so far doesn’t sound like he was exactly flirting with me, but to my idiotic, moronic, cretinous head, it did. It wasn’t precisely what he said, but the way he said it. Something in his tone, or maybe the way he looked at me.

And then there was the Christmas party, two years ago.

It took place in the entry hall of our school, and everybody was there, and it was awful and crowded and boring. The sort of affair where you have to stand around the people you work with—or against, as the case may be—and gossip about that annoying brat of a student, or someone’s ridiculous publication record, or more often than not, some new administrative decision that in effect puts three times as much paperwork between one thing and another for no other reason but that our university hates trees and free time.

So there was the Christmas “party,” and Professor Sinclair decided to make a speech. She’s, like, a hundred and a famous bore. She’s the star of the first-year undergrad tradition of the nap bet. Basically, the student who can go through a whole semester of all Professor Sinclair’s lectures, in any module, without once falling asleep wins the pool of money they collect at the beginning of the year. There were actual years where nobody won.

So when she made a speech, I, veteran that I am, decided to make myself scarce. I took a bottle of wine and a plate of snacks, sneaked under one of the buffet tables, and read When Worlds Collide. So I didn’t notice immediately when the tablecloth lifted and I heard a male voice near my ear. It startled me.

It was only Jack, his head tilted a little. “Hiding, are we?”

I felt stupid being found like that, but he ducked and came to sit beside me. And there we were, shoulder to shoulder. Professor Sinclair’s speech ended eventually, and the party went on, but Jack and I remained under the table, talking and joking and laughing and getting drunk until we became aware that there was no sign left of the party but the cleaning staff.

Four years of this.

For four years I thought this was a slow but sure path to something more. Four years of looks and smiles and what I thought was a secret understanding. At conferences Jack and I would undermine each other’s arguments, engaging in witty discussions that were above everybody else’s heads—or so I thought. At staff meetings, whenever anybody said anything stupid or typical, we’d immediately look at each other, understanding one another—or so I also thought. Every little moment like that translated into a whole relationship in my head. Probably I sound completely deluded, but I knew we weren’t a couple or anything like that—I wasn’t that far gone. I just thought we were on the same path, were thinking along the same lines, and eventually things would sort of, I don’t know, unfold.

But nothing ever happened. I knew he had women, but he never talked of them to me and never seemed serious with anybody, so I thought it was just a front, a mask he wore. I waited.

I hadn’t the guts to make a first move. I’m a coward. But I also imagined, absurdly, that this was something that would come about naturally, organically, sort of out of the moment. I know I sound like an idiot—I am an idiot. But I’d had enough of the club scene and the horny, sweaty things that went on there, where you look like meat to others and you look at them the same way. I wanted a connection, an understanding, and I thought this was it.

Then Jack got engaged.

I had no idea he was even dating anybody, and then one day I went to see Sarah, whose office is right next to mine, and who knows everything about everybody, and she told me. I was standing there, hot tea in my hand, not moving or saying anything. It was as if I turned to stone—that was exactly how heavy my heart felt at that moment. I was too shocked to react.

“You all right, pet?” she asked pityingly.

I don’t remember what I said or how I got into my office afterwards. I just remember sitting behind my desk, dumbstruck, staring at the monitor of my computer, thoughts tangling themselves in my head. I eventually had it confirmed by Jack himself. Not personally. He sent out a mass email, and then I saw it on Facebook. She’s American. They’d had a long-distance thing going on for ages, apparently, and now she is moving to the UK and they’re getting married. She’s photogenic, the kind of pretty that looks effortless and natural. Like she got out of bed looking goddesslike: a big bright smile, glorious blue eyes, perfect skin. In pictures together they look incandescently happy.

I feel like I’ve gone insane. Was it really all just in my head? Did this just happen to me? How could I have got so far? What the hell happened to me? I mean, I know I’m in my head a lot, but surely I’m not literally delusional, am I?

It was horrible after that. Everybody discussed Jack’s wedding. He had brought her to some fancy dinner I didn’t go to, and afterwards everybody was full of gossip about her. The reports on her were generally positive—about how beautiful and charming she is. I didn’t want to hear it. The rumour ran that he was going to bring her to the Christmas party, so I didn’t go. When I was feeling particularly bitter, I went on Facebook to just hate-stare at their pictures and people’s congratulations.

And today was going to be different. Today I was not going to hate or feel bitter. I planned to sit in my flat and read or watch something. Play with my dog. Be normal. I was going to stop being a weirdo stalker-creep.

It’s not a flattering thing to find yourself doing, let me tell you. But I regret not going out after all. Or having someone over. I insisted I needed the weekend to myself, but while it sounded very reasonable when I was explaining it to my friends over the phone, in hindsight it turns out that just because you know how to be sarcastic better than your opponent, that doesn’t mean you’re actually right.

I had one mission for this weekend: that I would not go on Facebook.

I wouldn’t. I won’t.

All right, so I had a quick look at Facebook. I just needed to check that everybody was well. There was nothing on my news feed about that bloody wedding. Instead, I received an invitation. From Sarah. An invitation to a funeral, as a matter of fact. To be precise, an invitation to the funeral of Sarah’s cat. Her cat’s name being, by the by, Mr Bonkers. This is Sarah, and she’s awfully fond of me, so I had to accept.

If ever the paranoid government of a dystopian future finds itself in need of proving my insanity so as to arrest me, they will probably use this diary as evidence.

 

 

Sunday, 17 January

 

IN CASE I ever find this diary, some ten years from now, and want to die of shame for how lame I was, I’m making this entry. Today you, Leo Taylor, had a pretty good day. There, how’s that? You got up out of bed and you were fine. Nothing remarkable happened at all. You showered, you took your dog for a long walk, you even looked kind of good today—hair went in all the right directions, and you were even checked out by some guy as you waited to cross the street. And not even a lecherous old codger but a man you can think about later on.

Later, when you were at home, Squire—your dog who is probably dead now that you’re reading it ten years from now—did that cute thing where he jumped straight onto your lap in an imperious manner, (which you can’t resist no matter how many people tell you that you spoil him), totally disregarding the stacks of paper you had balancing there. Despite his nefarious interference, you graded all the essays from your Modern European Economic History class like a champ. And then you had enough time to clean your flat.

You’ve never been so quick and efficient in your life!

 

 

Friday, 22 January

 

THE CAT funeral.

Yeah, that happened today. I went and participated in—aided and abetted?—a cat funeral. Is that a thing now? I hope not. It was kind of, well, awkward.

That being said, poor Sarah was awfully upset about her cat’s death, and she put a lot of work and effort into saying goodbye properly. The cat was buried in her garden. Her husband, Rob—poor soul—looked awkward as he stood there with his hands on the grip of the shovel, waiting for Sarah to finish her speech.

Surprisingly, a lot of people from the department came. I bet it’s because Sarah’s got dirt on all of them.

It’s January, so it was bloody cold, and the burying bit, where Rob put the tiny cat coffin into the pre-dug hole and then shovelled earth on top, was quick. We had to wait in silence as Sarah arranged flowers on top of the pile of earth, while Rob played “I Will Always Love You” from his iPhone.

Yeah, that happened.

There was an awkward moment as Whitney Houston (am I the only one who prefers the Dolly Parton version?) bellowed into the cold, damp air, and we all stood there not knowing what to do next. Sarah and Rob’s garden looks really nice in summer, but today it just looked awful: muddy ground, fallen leaves, dry and twiggy bushes lining the fence. Sarah sobbed as she stood at the foot of the grave. Rob’s eyes caught mine, and so I went to her, put my arm around her, and slowly, delicately turned her back towards the house.

The gathered crowd let out a relieved sigh as they followed, probably because the wind had picked up, and it had started to drizzle again.

Inside, a large table stood piled with sandwiches and cold snacks and Sarah’s excellent cakes. She does make amazing cakes, and I began to suspect that some people came not to say goodbye to Bonkers the Magnificent, but for the baked goods. I mean, even Ralph from the School of East Asian Studies came, and I know he didn’t care about Bonkers because he kept referring to Sarah as “Steph.” And he ate shitloads of cake. And then he produced a Tesco shopping bag from up his sleeve and started packing some to take home.

In the background, on the TV a slideshow was running featuring Bonkers looking like an annoyed celebrity, tired of having his picture taken. The background music was a compilation of power ballads. Judging from their taste in music, Sarah and Rob’s ears must have had a funeral of their own some time ago. I wonder who came to that.

I gravitated towards the bookshelves and examined the huge collection Sarah had of books on anthropology and mythology. There was also a respectable amount of literature on trains—Rob’s hobby. I was busy with this when I heard a sort of welcoming noise coming from the gathering behind me. Engrossed by a number of books that formed a series on African mythology, especially the one that talked about Odinani, I didn’t turn in time. And then it was too late.

I heard “Hey,” and then I turned, and my heart stood still.

I smiled, my face heated up, and I found myself unable to open my mouth. Next to Jack, smiling and looking extremely pretty, stood his fiancée.

I hadn’t even bothered to put on my contact lenses. My hair—the blondish mop that passes for my hair—had got wet and tangled in the weather outside. I wore a black sweater and jeans. She, on the other hand, looked as though she was only stopping in on her way to a catwalk show in Milan.

“Leo!” Jack said breezily. “Where have you been hiding?”

He looked smug. My smile stretched wider. Probably like that of a maniac.

“I was ill,” I said. My voice sounded shaky even to my own ears.

“You didn’t come to the departmental Christmas thing,” he said. “You missed some party!”

“Oh yeah,” I said with a laugh. “I can guess. I know how wild a bunch of eighty-year-old World War I fanatics can get. They party like it’s 1921.”

He laughed. How dare he!

“Oh, this is Sasha,” he said, finally pointing the wineglass in his hand at the woman standing next to him. “Sasha, darling, this is Leo. Haven’t I told you about him?”

Sasha was smiling beautifully, and I waited for some sign of recognition, fooling myself that he had indeed spoken about me. You know, in the evenings, when they were half-naked, and laughing about the gay dweeb who slobbered after him. For better or for worse, there was no sign of recognition in her face.

“I was just looking at these,” I said, pointing at the books.

I didn’t know what else to say, and Jack kept looking at me expectantly, as though I were a magician he’d paid to see, and I’d come without a hat or a rabbit.

“Oh, I use those too!” Sasha gushed, suddenly quite animated.

“Sorry?” I asked.

“I use those too,” she said again. “You know, to practice my balance.”

I didn’t get it. I looked at her, and then I looked at Jack. And then at her again, and again at Jack. She was beaming a wide smile, but Jack’s expression was somewhat pained.

“You use… you use books to practice your balance?” I asked, feeling a little prick of amusement, which I knew was bad, but oh God, did I need it. Because I began to suspect that she did not mean “balance an argument” when she said that.

“Oh yeah, I’m a yoga instructor, and sometimes, in tree pose, to make it more difficult, I balance books on my head.”

I glanced over at Jack again, and he said, “Sasha, dear—”

But I cut in. “That sounds hard. Do you think this one would be too light for the purpose?”

I took a book at random. I know I was being a dick, but to see Jack’s face as she actually began to balance the book on her head, talking about how Jack had “so many books, but they weren’t all good for balancing, and they take up so much space!” was priceless.

He got fed up at the end, and shooting an angry glare at me, he snapped the book off her head.

I left them then, under some pretext, and wove my way through the crowd to say goodbye to Sarah and to leave. She hugged me fiercely, which is slightly weird when the huggee is tallish and slim, and the hugger is shorter and rotund. I thanked her for the whole thing and promised to give her a ring tomorrow. Then I shook Rob’s hand and went to look for my coat. Somewhere in the corridor, near the front door, Jack caught up with me.

“Oi! Wait up!” he said.

I had just pulled the hood of my coat up—which, in the full-body mirror next to the coat hooks made me look like a delinquent youth, especially in contrast with Jack’s rather more respectable look: his elegant suit, the way he kept his hands in his pockets like a GQ model, and the fashionably arranged disorder of his brown hair.

“What?” I said. “I’ve got a bus to catch.”

“Yeah? That wasn’t nice, what you did there.”

“What wasn’t nice?” I stopped looking at him because it didn’t help my clarity of mind.

I suddenly realised that if he didn’t know I was gay or into him, the whole scene back in the sitting room could be interpreted in quite another way. I didn’t want a quarrel with him, but I’d be damned if I apologised to him or to her.

“What you did to Sasha, you ape.” He didn’t sound angry, only a mixture of annoyed and amused.

“What did I do?”

“You know full well—”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, “we had a civilised discussion about the ideal usage of books.”

“You were making fun of her, Leo.” He lowered his voice reproachfully. I looked up and saw his eyes alive with amusement. “I wish you’d get to know her better before writing her off like that. She’s a nice, sweet person, who only got the wrong end of the stick there.”

“Ah, sticks!” I cried, my voice high and my eyelids fluttering in an imitation of Sasha. “I use those too!”

I don’t know what possessed me. It was really out of line, but he burst out laughing, and then he said, “You know, men used to call each other out for less.”

“All right, then,” I said, grabbing an umbrella and pointing it at him in an en garde stance.

“Stop it, you fool.” He laughed, swatting the tip of the umbrella away. “How was the cat funeral?”

I said with mock solemnity, “A beautiful ceremony. It did justice to the dignity and determination that characterised the life of Bonkers the cat.”

“Well, fuck me,” Jack said. “And here I thought they’d just dump the old thing into a ditch.”

“That’s because you’re a barbarian,” I said.

He laughed, and it felt so like old times, like he was one of us again, that I had to grind my teeth not to say something. Something which would, in the end, be very humiliating, and I am glad I didn’t. I left quickly, head ducked under the strength of the rain, and tried not to think about it.

I took the bus home, listening to The Cure on my phone. Out of the windows, the streets were barely visible through the rain. Not that I wanted to see anything—it was bloody gloomy out there: a cement-coloured mass, with here and there a bright umbrella bobbing away into the distance. Tempted to consider where the bright red umbrella was going and who was hiding underneath it, until I realised I didn’t give a crap.

The bus kept going with the tempo of an injured snail and kept stopping with a loud squeak. At some point two giggling schoolgirls came up onto the first floor of the double-decker. They fell into their seats, laughing, soaking wet, words and giggles intermingled, their voices the same, their hair different shades of the same colour—a sort of dark blonde—their jeans cut where their bony, white knees were. I was finding myself growing angry at their careless cheerfulness. What were they so giggly about anyway?

Of course, it’s easy enough to be angry with womankind for stealing all the men, when actually I should be angry with me and my brain. I suppose, imagining that Shakespeare really meant it to be Romeo and Julio, or that Herbert and Pip in Great Expectations were obviously into each other, is not me being cleverer than anybody else; it’s just sad and stupid. Jack’s straight and he’s getting married. This is real. Whatever.

Time to look for job opportunities elsewhere, maybe.

 

 

Sunday, 24 January

 

I GUESS it was to be expected that I shouldn’t have a peaceful weekend after meeting the love of my life’s fiancée. It wasn’t too bad, though.

I spent all of yesterday marking papers and preparing for class, but today I decided I would not repeat my former mistake—no brooding at home and licking my wounds. I wanted to be out of the house. I’d be safe enough with my friends, since I always took really good care not to talk of Jack too much. So imagine my surprise when we finally got down to the pub, and I broke the news as smoothly and suavely as I could. “So, my friend Jack’s getting married.”

And they all burst out with “What!” and “Noooo!”

So yeah, I might not be as subtle as I think I am.

When I expressed my astonishment at their reaction, Amelia hooted and said, “Oh God, are you serious?”

Mark, her husband, shook his head at me. “I’m sorry, mate, but we all thought you were dating him, you know”—and here he did finger quotes—“secretly.”

When I indicated I was sure I’d never said a word to make them think there was anything between me and Jack, they burst out laughing.

Lucy said, “You know, you always talked of him with a goofy smile on your face.”

“And you kept shushing us that one time his dull show came on the telly!” Amelia added. She was getting loud. She is a large, boisterous woman.

“Yeah, guy looked like a prick,” Mark said. “No huge loss there.”

“Wow, thanks,” I said. “So here’s to my evening of not talking or thinking about him.”

At this, Lucy hit the table with her pint, spilling half her beer and shouting, “What? Mate, that’s not how you get over a guy. You know what they say. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone. You need to get yourself some mangina, love.”

“That sounds gross,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I was vaccinated against it.”

“Lucy’s totally right,” Amelia said. “No use moping about, like I know you love to do, locking yourself in and reading romantic poetry, and thinking about how… I don’t know… Tristan and Isolde is really about two men, or something.” How did she know? “You need to get out there!”

The consensus was clear, but since I didn’t just want to get laid, I wanted to drop the subject. I looked to Mark for help. He blinked at me, then at Amelia, who rolled her eyes. Somewhat hesitantly, he began an anecdote about work. Something about a client who didn’t keep his part of the contract, and when Mark said he’d sue his arse off, the fellow had the cheek to say, “I didn’t think you could afford a lawyer, considering I don’t pay you.” Amelia, who was very defensive about Mark’s affairs, began a tirade on the subject of “that Welsh bastard,” and took the heat off me for a few moments.

It’s not that I didn’t want to discuss the issue with them, but to get love advice from a married couple was like getting advice from your mother. They don’t know what the real world’s like anymore. They live after the happily ever after—a sort of bubble in which small things don’t even exist. Like wondering whether you can be with someone who said they’d never read Asimov.

In Mark and Amelia’s case, this was worse, since I introduced them to each other at uni, and they’ve been together ever since. Their experience of feeling lonely and unloved is basically non-existent. Lucy, on the other hand, is a whole other kettle of fish. She is perpetually, gloriously single and forever on the prowl. So while her experience in dating is extensive, her advice has a certain monotonous quality to it. There was nothing, to her mind, you could not solve with a good roll in the hay.

So, of course, as soon as an opening presented itself, she turned to me and asked, “When’s the last time you got jiggy with it?”

“What?” I asked.

“You know, when’s the last time someone stuffed your man muffin?”

“Lucy!” I couldn’t help laughing.

“Well?” she demanded. “When’s the last time you engaged in gland-to-gland combat? When was your last walk in the cabbage field? When—”

By this time, we were all laughing, and she blinked at us and said, “What? What’s so funny? Oh, excuse me.” And then, putting on an accent that I guess she imagined stuffy university lecturers sounded like, she said, “Can you identify, sir, the temporal dimensions of your most recent amorous congress?”

I shook my head. “You don’t expect me to actually tell you, do you?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m not going to tell you.”

“See, that tells me it’s been way too long,” she said. “Listen, I’m not taking no for an answer. There’s this party I’m going to, lots of single people, lots of people to meet. We’ll doll you up and you can come with me for the Hunt.”

At that point I was wondering why she didn’t just call it the Reaping or something equally unpleasant. But the discussion was over. At the back of my mind, I think I realised that she was right—I did need to take my mind off Jack and Sasha. As much as I hated the image of a night out with Lucy, looking for men, I agreed, with a grumble, to go with her.

Either way, they let the topic drop at last. Amelia and Mark told me of this one gay guy they knew, who was also single, but I hope my expression told them precisely how little interest I had in being set up with some random man who also couldn’t get laid.

When I got home, I saw a young woman moving into the flat across from me. I said hi; she seemed friendly. I forgot what her name was, though, so I may need to check on her mail when I inevitably get it delivered to my door.

Our postwoman drinks.

 

 

Saturday, 30 January

 

I WOKE up at noon today. That is the absolute latest I’ve ever got out of bed, ever. Mind you, I only came home at about four in the morning. Consequently, my mouth tasted like a pub toilet this morning, and my head felt like someone had pulled out all my teeth and hammered them into my brain right through my skull. But the worst of it was that no matter how astonishingly plastered I got last night, I somehow did not manage to erase it from my mind. I’m only glad I didn’t pick anybody up after all. In fact, I’m pretty sure I spent much of the night with this Scottish woman, Heather Something, drinking myself stupid.

That is what I remember of the night.

Lucy took me to a bar-club with some of her friends, placing me strategically next to men she thought I might find cute.

I didn’t. I’m a one-man sort of guy, and while Jack was on my mind, I was unlikely to find the detritus of London’s late-night social scene appealing. None of the men were remotely what could be regarded as “my type.” I’m not sure what that is either, but I know when I see someone who isn’t it.

There was one bloke who kept trying to engage me on the subject of football, which was just not going to happen; another who looked like he was as high as a kite; and another who was a Tory. One of those horrid, suited, City types whose opinions were sucked in with his mother’s milk and who’d never thought to figure out whether they made the remotest sense. When I tried to challenge him on the notion that poor people were so by choice, his response was “You’re cute.” So that was obviously going nowhere.

Another candidate, upon hearing me tell someone I was a feminist, interrupted my conversation with “Don’t say that!” I still don’t know what the hell he thought I was saying.

Lucy asked me whether I was insane to talk politics with people in a bar, but what else was I to talk to them about? I didn’t know them, and politics is the sort of thing everybody has an opinion on.

Finally, Lucy settled on some guy with whom she spent the rest of the night, and I got drunk with Heather.

Heather was a burly young woman with a very catchy, hoarse laugh, and she had not the least trouble discussing the upcoming election with me. We agreed wholeheartedly on all points.

At four I stumbled back home. Squire was with Daria, the old woman who lives next door and dog-sits for me. The last thing I remember was reaching my door, stumbling, the world whirring around me. And then I woke up on my sofa, covered in an old dog blanket. I’ve no idea how I even got into the house.

So that was a truly depressing evening, and I’m paying for it now because I’ve got so much to do this weekend and all I feel like doing is joining Bonkers in his grave.

My parents are coming over tomorrow. I need to clean. And also, I’ve got to rewrite the paper I submitted for publication two months ago. The reviewers ripped it to shreds, so I need to try and put it back together.

And I need to go shopping—which reminds me, I need to learn to cook.

 

 

Sunday, 31 January

 

MY PARENTS just left, thank the Maker. As much as I love them, they can be tiresome. Though now retired, my dad worked for a well-known liberal think tank, and my mum worked for the European Union. Both see it as their priority to get me as far in my professional life as possible. They saw the PhD as a good start and my decision to remain in academia as a giant failure—compared to my sister, anyway.

When I went down to let them in, that was the first thing they said to me.

“Lena is doing well!” they announced, almost in unison.

I decided to ignore whatever they were implying with that. “Good for her,” I said with the sort of cheerfulness you can only put on.

Lena works for the UN and climbs their ranks like some sort of agile gorilla; she’s lived all over the world and takes her live-in boyfriend, Yi Chen, everywhere she goes.

It’s not that I’m not jealous of Lena. I do envy her success, but at the same time she deserves all she’s achieved—I’m okay with that. I’m also okay with what I’m getting for the work I do.

I wish my parents would join us on that level of maturity.

As we were climbing the stairs to my flat and my parents were murmuring to themselves about how I should be making my first steps onto the property ladder, this guy I’ve never met before walked past us down the stairs and smiled at me.

“How are you doing?” he asked with the sort of concern that implied this wasn’t the first time we’d met.

I was very aware of my parents’ presence, so I just said, “Fine, and you?” and left with a smile indicating that I wasn’t actually interested and neither should he have been.

My parents’ visit lasted about four hours, which included dinner and my slow decline into schizophrenia.

“Lena started this fund, and on the opening night, she actually got Michelle Obama to attend!”

“Lena is running a marathon to gather money to cure breast cancer!”

Lena this, Lena that. I was just waiting for them to finally announce she had not only won the Nobel Prize, but that they’d created a separate category for her, the Lena is Excellent Award—you know, like there’s a separate prize for maths or economics. Only this one would be just for her.

Once they’d told me everything Lena was up to, they turned on me.

“What do you need to do to become professor?” “What about tenure, is that still a thing?” “When did you last publish something?” “Weren’t you going to write a book?” “Whatever happened to that conference you were supposed to chair?” “John Fitzalan’s son works at Cambridge… want me to find out if they’ve got any positions opening?”

It was like a very well-executed trial, the goal of which was not so much to judge you innocent or guilty as to drive you into a frenzied confession of “Fine! I admit it! I am inadequate!” But I composed myself and answered their questions as calmly as I could, with non-answers.

I’ve learned this much from my life with these people: if you try to actually answer their questions, they commit you to what you said. There will be telephone calls, emails, cross-referenced folders, and meetings set up. My parents should never have retired. They should have started a small country for people who don’t know how to organise their own lives. They’d have had a ball.

I cannot put into words how absolutely knackered I am now that they’ve left. I love them to bits, but at a distance.

I need to go to sleep now. And it’s only 9 p.m.

 

 

Thursday, 4 February

 

HAD A rather awful day today. At one of my BA-level lectures, the projector decided to stop working, and I had to pass around an illustration of Walesa at the round-table discussions of the 1980s.

Naturally I got it back in such a state that you’d think someone had had a good go at shagging it. Sometimes I think I work at a zoo.

On the upside, I was asked one intelligent question today. One girl asked me how the members of Solidarity coped in the post-communist world. Unfortunately, although I could provide the answer, nobody else was interested in continuing the discussion, and so I returned to the lecture.

At another class, a seminar, nobody had done the reading I assigned. In fact, that one boy, Craig Something, decided he’d confuse me by dazzling me with his smile to mask that he’d come completely unprepared. Like that would work on me. He should know better than to try and flirt with me—in class no less—with ignorance as a weapon. But what’s the use of getting angry? I mean, I can only teach so much. Some of it must come from their own reading.

Anyway, got back late today, still haven’t picked up Squire from Daria’s, and should look into getting something vaguely food-shaped.

 

 

Monday, 8 February

 

HAD DINNER with Amelia and Mark and the kids. They live out in St Albans, so had to get the train—it’s a hassle, I won’t lie, but the meal’s a tradition, and I didn’t dare make an excuse and decline the invitation.

After dinner, Mark took the boys out into the garden to play football or rugby or a weird combination of the two. Amelia and I were sitting in their dining room, watching the boys outside, when she turned to me and said, “I envy you.”

This was startling. “Envy me what?” I asked.

“Well, you know, you’re alone.”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder.”

“Any day could bring something new. Any day you can meet the man of your dreams… any man is a new possibility, any party full of expectations…. That’s so exciting.”

I laughed. “You’re an idiot. The exciting thing you’re talking about is the possibility of maybe one day having what you already have.”

She smiled. “You don’t understand,” she said with a sigh.

It worried me. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”

“What!” she said. “No! Of course not.”

Phew. I was just about to suggest we switch lives for one day, but then I thought one hour would be enough for her to realise how stupid she was being.

“I don’t know,” she said, “sometimes I miss being single. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t met Mark so soon, you know? To have a bit of a playing field, to have fun with you and Lucy as you pick up guys and see where the evening takes you.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You miss being alone once in a while, maybe. But you don’t want to be single. And childless. Come on. You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

She sighed and changed the subject.

It was weird to hear the person who had everything talk of being jealous of me, the person who didn’t. She was right, I didn’t understand. But it did make me think how perhaps it would be wiser to focus on how awesome it is to be free and not settled with kids and husband and mortgage. Maybe I should stop thinking of my situation as pathetic loneliness and think of it as magnificent, luminous, glorious freedom?

 

 

Sunday, 14 February

 

FUCK YOU, Valentine’s Day.

 

 

Tuesday, 17 February

 

SO HERE’S something weird that happened today. I had a meeting with Charlie, this PhD candidate whose second supervisor I am, in my office, when there was a knock on my door, and Jack looked in.

I told him I was busy, and he apologised and left. When my meeting with Charlie was over, I was just folding my glasses up to put them away when I realised that someone was standing in the doorway. Jack was still waiting for me. He had waited for half an hour outside my door.

Odd.

He asked whether I had time to grab lunch.

Unprecedented.

I said I had time to go and buy a coffee, something I was going to do anyway, so he followed me down. I tried to be blasé, and as he wasn’t talking, I just said any random thing that came into my head. He seemed distracted but followed me all the way down to the rec room, greeting whoever passed us, and waited with me as the kettle came to a boil. Then he walked with me to the reception office, helped me pick out the assessment forms and the thick pile of papers that waited for me in my pigeonhole, and then walked me back up to my door. We’ve done the coffee walk together before, but never in this weird way—he was never usually quiet.

“Well, was nice catching up with you,” I said when we reached my door.

“Yeah, sure.”

My hands were full so he helped me with the door. I thought he was gone when the door shut. When I put everything down on my already cluttered desk, I turned to switch the light on. He had come in after me and was standing there, hands in his pockets, waiting silently. “Is everything all right?” I asked.

He just looked at me.

Now, this was very odd. I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. He’d never looked at me like that before.

“Are you busy this weekend?” he asked.

“I was going to do some work, I guess.”

“I was wondering whether you’d like to go out for drinks, say, Saturday?”

I didn’t respond for a while, because my brain needed time to slowly wake up to the realisation that something was happening. Eventually, I said uncertainly, “Yeah, sure. Is Sasha coming too?”

Another moment of silence. Then he smiled. “No, it’d be just us. Like old times.”

Old times? I swear there was a flirtatious angle to his smile, but I dare not trust myself on this subject. He told me he’d be in touch, and then he left. And I just stood there.

Then it hit me. I’m going out with Jack! Jack asked me out!

Oh my God! I have no clothes.

Shit.

 

 

Friday, 19 February

 

I WENT out to clothes-shop with Lucy today.

It’s not that I don’t have dress sense. It’s that years of dressing in T-shirts and trousers have translated into a wardrobe that looks like it belongs to an American 1990s sitcom cast member. I don’t want to project an “I don’t know what I’m doing” vibe. I want something along the lines of “Come to bed with me.”

Mind you, I wouldn’t if he’s still with Sasha. But then, if he were, he wouldn’t be going out with me, would he? I meant to find out, but Sarah was off sick this week, so there was no reliable, discreet way of conducting espionage. Facebook tends to deal only in news that rubs shit in your face, not actually useful information, so that wasn’t any help. Lucy said I shouldn’t worry one way or another—“You’re not in a relationship, after all. You can do whatever the hell you like!”—but I’m not that guy. Or at least I hope I’m not. Either way, it was important to dress for the occasion.

It wasn’t easy to come to an agreement with Lucy. Her preferences run along the lines of S & M sex slave, which would not translate well into the sphere inhabited by the Jack Gordons of this world. Finally we settled on a charcoal-grey shirt and black jeans, which were tighter than was comfortable, but Lucy assured me they made me look “sexy as hell.”

I wasn’t accustomed to thinking of myself in that way, but I was happy enough with what I saw in the mirror.

“Jesus, Leo, you’ll break that poor man’s straight heart!”

“Do you think so? Will the gay one be the only one remaining, then?”

“Let’s hope so,” she said.

“Should I wear cufflinks? I’ve never worn cufflinks in my life. He’s the sort of bloke you think you should wear cufflinks for.”

She snorted. “Darling, do you want to fumble with cufflinks when you stagger home at night with him? Exactly. No cufflinks, no ties, nothing that will be a bother to take off when you’re in a hurry. Or on, for that matter,” she said. “That reminds me, you’re stocked up on condoms, right? I mean, the last time you had sex, was that in a time when civilisation had invented condoms?” She put her hand to her mouth and her eyes widened comically. “You’re not going to try and use lamb intestines on him, are you?”

“Shut up,” I said with a laugh. “We’re not going to have sex. It’s our first date. If it even is a date.”

“Oh puh-lease!”

“I’m not like you, okay?”

“Oh puh-lease!” she said again. “You’ve been puppy-dog-eyeing that guy for four years, Leo. You better rub one off before you go, or else—”

“Lucy! We’re in public!”

“Yeah, and so? Nobody’s listening. You better heed me, Leo, you don’t want to get into a situation—”

“I’m twenty-nine, okay? I know how to take care of things.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, raising a dubious eyebrow.

“Yes! I’m not going to sleep with him on our first date, if it is a date. And I’m not going to burst out of excitement. I’m not a fumbling teenager anymore, all right?”

“If you say so,” she said without conviction.

“Should I cut my hair?”

“No, it looks cute like that.”

It is a trifle long—I have to keep brushing it off my brow and tucking it behind my ears—but I trust Lucy to know what’s best. Besides, I realised that despite what I’d told myself, I was getting much too excited about this meeting. After all, this “date” didn’t mean he wanted to do anything other than have a drink with a mate from work. I might have read more into his looks and smiles again than was warranted. Okay, so I probably have.

When I got home, I had to take Squire out for a walk, and then I bumped into that man again, the one who spoke to me on the stairs last time my parents were here.

Again he smiled at me, and this time he said, “Fully recovered, then, I see?”

I stopped, because honestly, I didn’t know who the hell he was and why he kept speaking to me in this familiar way. While Squire was taking care of the scent department, sniffing the man’s boots, I said, “Have we met?”

He started in surprise and then laughed and said, “You don’t remember? Well, that explains it. Sorry, we met the other night.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. I wondered vaguely if he could be one of my students, but he was too old for that, roughly my own age. Nor do I think I would have forgotten the guy. He was tall and hunky enough that if he hadn’t smiled, he would have alarmed me with his insistence on speaking to me. “Are you mistaking me for somebody else?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “You tend to remember the people you have to hold up while they vomit.”

I wondered whether he was some sort of weird stalker. Or a psycho. I planned my escape route; it involved running upstairs. I sized him up quickly—he was pretty fit, so there was no doubt that he’d be quicker than me. Downstairs would be easier; there’d be people there. Plus, gravity would be on my side. Squire seemed to like him, though. He began to scrabble the guy’s leg with his forepaws, eager for attention.

“Oh, hey there!” the stranger said to Squire. “What breed is that? He looks like one of those Lassie dogs, but tiny.”

“Er, a sheltie. Shetland sheepdog, that is. I’m sorry, I don’t remember vomiting in your presence—Down, Squire, down!—or vomiting at all, for that matter. You must have me confused with somebody else.”

He laughed. “I’m Alex,” he said, stretching out his hand. It was covered in something white. “Sorry, that’s paint. I just moved in opposite you. I should have probably started with that. You were sick in the corridor in front of your door, and I helped you back into your flat. And then you were sick again. And then I put you on the sofa.”

“There was no sick on my floor,” I said doubtfully.

“I cleaned it up. And then I thought of standing by and making sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit through the night, but you seemed to have calmed down. Also, I thought that you probably had nothing left to vomit with. And it would have been strange to stay the night. I’m glad you survived, though.” He smiled again. God, this was embarrassing. I wished the ground would open underneath me and just swallow me up. Where’s a sinkhole when you need one?

“Wow,” I started. “I’m… I don’t know what to say… whether to apologise or to thank you first…. I… I… thank you?”

I reached forward to clumsily shake his hand, despite the paint on it. I didn’t realise the paint was only half-dry, though, so our hands stuck together and we had to pry ourselves apart, half laughing, half apologising, entirely fucking awkward.

God! He must have thought I’m some sort of drunken hobo idiot. I should have got that “I have a PhD” T-shirt when I had the chance.

He seemed to take it in good humour, but I started babbling. “I assure you this was a one-off…. I’ve never had anything like this happen before, and I swear it won’t happen again! I’m a good neighbour, I promise. Ask Daria… she dog-sits for me sometimes. Or that girl who moved in opposite me—”

“I live opposite you,” he said.

“Oh, sorry, I mean… the other day I saw this girl…. She’d just moved in, I thought.”

“No, that was me moving in. You must have met Thea.”

“Oh, maybe. Well, it was lovely to meet you… again. And again, I’m sorry. And thank you….”

We were going to shake hands again but then just waved, laughing once more at the previous handshaking fiasco, and then I walked away. I’m so embarrassed I wish I could fall asleep and not wake up.

Oh hell.

 

 

Sunday, 21 February

 

FIRST DATE with Jack. Or was it?

Well, it wasn’t a date, as such. I’m not sure. We went to this upscale bar, which looked awfully trendy and was filled with people who looked like they discussed their son’s progress at Eton and the property prices in the Cotswolds. In short, I felt rather out of place and was worried that I looked it. Luckily, I was determined not to drink more than a glass or two of wine—the embarrassment of Friday did not exactly escape my memory.

I’ve been avoiding Alex the Neighbour since our last encounter.

So, back to the date/not-date. Besides the stifled setting, the evening was actually pleasant. At first, when Jack and I met outside the bar as arranged, he was a little stiff and uncertain, but once we settled down, he relaxed and turned his charm on.

After he had some wine in him, he relaxed out of the charm and into that easy way he had with me, which had made me fall for him so hard. When we talked, though, it was like nothing we’ve ever had before. I mean, we talked about the same things, we spoke about the same shows we liked and the same books we read. We argued about politics and religion with the same improper fervour as before. So that was like normal.

But there was more. It’s like all the things I’d imagined happening between us for the last four years were now happening for real. We spoke of his BBC show.

“If you think about it,” he said, “when they show history on TV, it’s basically propaganda.”

“Do they censor the information you’re allowed to talk about?”

“Well, they don’t want new information. Especially when it comes to the World Wars. There is a very specific narrative dominating the psyche of the nation….”

I said, “I suppose the general image we get, in popular culture, is one that would make the elites look good, if you’re talking about a discursively dominated propaganda system à la Foucault.”

“Well, yes, exactly!” His eyes were glistening as he reached his hand forward and grabbed mine. “Think about it for just one second! A whole social sphere of entitled people sent young men to die in a fashion nothing short of torturous, and we know that! We celebrate them and sympathise with them post hoc. But!—and here is the crux of the matter—we live in a country that still has a monarchy, and most of our politicians come from the same background as those people who sent us to die so needlessly and torturously. And who will do so again! How is it that we put forward all this information, and we put two and two together, but we never get four?”

Looking back at this conversation, I realise that the other people in the bar must have thought we were insane.

“Maybe because the only ‘four’ possible is a communist revolution?” I suggested.

“Ah,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “but is it? Let me ask you something….”

We spoke like that for hours. Later, we walked to my block of flats. He walked me all the way to my door, and we chatted there for a brief while. It was so easy between us, and though I really did only have two glasses of wine, all my honourable resolve about not sleeping with him melted away.

And so I asked, “Do you want to come in?”

A sort of awareness snapped into his eyes. I was conscious of him scanning me. I felt like a courtesan as I leaned back against the door, smiling at him with my eyes half-closed. He wanted me; I was sure of it. No man looked at another man like that without some serious intentions.

And then he said, in a sort of whisper-growl, “I don’t think I should.”

He didn’t sound as though he really couldn’t. It sounded like an affectation, as if he was toying with me. He was leaning in to me, and I thought he was going to kiss me, but by then I had lost my patience with him and said, “Well, see you at work, then.”

Luckily, I managed to find the right key and fit it into the lock without much fumbling—now I know why sobriety is such a good thing—and so I managed a very graceful “Bye, Jack” before disappearing indoors.

I saved my dignity, but at what cost? I think I underestimated how fucking horny I am. Well, either way he left, and at least I had the opportunity to hit back at him a little. I mean, hell, what does he mean by fucking with me like that?

 

 

Wednesday, 24 February

 

I HAVE accepted an invitation to a conference in Oslo in two weeks’ time. I’m quite excited, as it means I’ll be able to see faces I haven’t seen since my fieldwork days. I worked on resistance and the Solidarity movement, and I spent nearly a month travelling around Scandinavia interviewing various people who had fled the Soviet bloc in the seventies and eighties.

Anyway, I’ve a ton of preparations to see to. Need new shoes. Need to speak to Daria about leaving Squire with her. Then I have a massive pile of essays to check, presentations to mark, and then Charlie just sent me yet another version of his methodology chapter, which looks nothing like a chapter or any kind of methodology known to humans of Planet Earth. Oh man, this is going to be a long day.

 

 

Friday, 26 February

 

THE CONFERENCE in Oslo is next week, and I’ve been in a hectic frenzy, trying to arrange replacements for lectures and placing lecture notes online, and I haven’t even begun to prepare for the conference itself. So I’ve been a bit busy, and as that was the case, I forgot about Jack.

I don’t really know how it happened. As I was dealing with emails and preparing Dan to replace me in my lectures, I sort of blanked everybody out. So when Jack knocked on my office door and asked if he could come in, I was genuinely surprised to remember him. I invited him in but told him that I had little time.

“I just wanted to see if I could come over on Friday,” he said.

I had been flicking through a thick binder of course timetables, but I stopped mid-motion at that point. “What, to my place?” I asked. He smiled and nodded. “Does Sasha know about this? Does she know you saw me on Saturday?”

“No, she doesn’t,” he answered.

Considering that he almost kissed me that Saturday, I decided to drop the coy act, since whatever he was, completely straight he certainly was not. “Well, in that case, Jack, I frankly would rather you did not come to see me. I’m not comfortable with this. If you’re engaged, then I don’t want to do whatever this is.”

He came closer, and I was suddenly glad that I was standing behind my desk. I watched his approach warily. It’s one thing to say you don’t want something, quite another to refuse it once it’s upon you.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to be your mistress, if that’s what you have in mind.”

For a moment I thought I had said too much, crossed a line.

But he nodded. “Of course, Leo, I’m sorry. You’re quite right.” Then he looked me up and down, quickly. “I will speak to Sasha, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he left. Without explaining what on earth that meant.

So today, it being Friday, I spent the afternoon waiting for him like an idiot. I kept looking out of the window, checking my phone, checking my email, even stupid Facebook. I thought that maybe my doorbell was broken, so I went downstairs a couple of times. Figuring that maybe the buzzer was broken, I decided to take my phone, set it to voice record, and then went to try the doorbell outside.

When I came back, I replayed the phone—the doorbell does work. My brain, on the other hand, may need some fine-tuning.

On my way back up from one of the numerous trips downstairs, my neighbour (and source of embarrassment), Alex, poked his head out of his door.

“Hey, is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Why?” I puffed, slightly out of breath.

“I keep hearing the door slam.”

“Oh, sorry, won’t happen again. I’ll settle down now.”

He watched as I panted and plucked on my collar a few times to cool down. Running up and down stairs is serious exercise for someone who spends his life sitting behind a desk.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing. I was just waiting for someone.”

“A man?” He smiled knowingly.

That caught me off guard, but his expression wasn’t that of a raging homophobe. He seemed amused more than anything, and when I said, “No, why?” he laughed.

“Is it the ‘I don’t think I should’ man?” he asked.

He said the “I don’t think I should” in the sort of whisper you can imagine Humphrey Bogart putting on—clearly taking the piss.

“Are you listening in on my private conversations?” I asked.

“No, I was sitting in my living room, and you can hear everything that happens out in the corridor.” He shrugged. “So sometimes I overhear things. If you ask me, the guy’s no good.”

“What!”

“The guy’s no good,” he repeated. “He’d have come in with you if he were any good. And now he stood you up, didn’t he?”

Being embarrassed and humiliated in front of him was going to be my life now, apparently. But he seemed to be trying to be friendly about it, shrugged in the sort of “what can you do?” way, and then said, “Want to come in? I have wine.”

“No, I—I’m waiting for someone,” I said feebly.

“Now the way I see it, if he hasn’t shown up yet, you better not make it look as though you’ve been waiting for him the entire time.” He tapped his nose knowingly. “Psychology, see?”

“Ps-psychology,” I said, hardly believing my ears.

I wondered if he might be gay, but I couldn’t honestly tell. It could have gone either way with him. His clothes were kind of rough; he wore an old T-shirt and joggers—but then, if he was renovating, his dress sense couldn’t be an arbiter. His figure, as far as it was possible to judge in the baggy clothes, was fit, his shoulders wide, and his arms thick with lean muscle, so that might mean something.

On the other hand, it might not.

“The best thing you can do,” he said, “is pretend like you’ve completely forgotten about him and weren’t really expecting him to show up.”

He was so cheerful about this that I couldn’t help but smile a little and give in.

“You want a pathetic cast-off in your flat, do you?” I asked wryly.

“Nah, mate, you gotta look at it as strategy,” he said. “You know, when he comes eventually, you’ll say you spent time with your handsome new neighbour instead. And Bob’s yer uncle.”

“You were closer to luring me in with that wine,” I said.

He laughed and opened the door wider. Honestly, by that point, Jack was roughly an hour and a half late. Alex was right; I should not be there when (or if) he did come eventually. Perhaps he was having a rough final discussion with Sasha, I thought. But then, he could have called or even texted. So I went in to see who this strange new neighbour of mine was.

His flat is still a work in progress. It’s smaller than mine: one bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen-sitting room. There is an old sofa in the middle of the sitting room, a TV, loudspeakers, some gaming consoles, the usual thing. Unopened, half-opened, and empty boxes littered whatever free floor space there was.

“So, you’re still moving in, huh?” I said, hands in my pockets, trying to forget the image of Jack waiting outside, ringing the bell to my flat, and not hearing any response.

In dire need of a drink, I was glad for the glass of wine Alex handed me, so I disregarded the fact that the wine came out of a box.

Actually, it was really good. I had a second glass before I even sat down.

“Yeah, I painted the bedroom. The couple that was here before me….”

“Oh yes, Anisha and Ameya,” I said. “What happened to them?”

“I don’t know. But their bedroom walls were entirely crimson. I had a job getting it to look less like the murder studio of a psycho. I’ll probably retile the bathroom too. Are you into DIY?”

I laughed, which puzzled him. “Er, no,” I said. “I wish I were. My family is, er, of the intellectual sort, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean,” he said, pouring out another glass for me and one for himself. “What, they’re brain surgeons or something?”

It occurred to me that I might be insulting him, so of course I decided to do that British thing where you’re overdeprecating about yourself.

“No, I mean that we don’t do things with our hands.” Which sounded awful once it came out of my mouth. I sounded like someone called Lord Cecil talking to a man named Gavin who fixed his lordship’s Daimler so that he could take Imogen and Gideon to Royal Ascot.

He blinked at me and then said, “It’s just a matter of practice.” And then he shrugged. “So, what do you do?”

“I teach.”

“Oh, a teacher?” he said, as though pleasantly surprised.

“At university. I’m a lecturer, to be precise. In European history, though Cold War Eastern Europe is my specialty.”

His face fell. “Oh. You’re a lecturer.”

Something in his tone sounded as though he didn’t believe me. “I am… why?”

“No, I just thought… you look kinda young for a lecturer. Aren’t they more like bearded old men with fancy titles before their names?”

“Well, my beard would be a patchy affair if ever I chose to grow one,” I said, stroking my chin ruefully, “but as to the rest, I have a PhD.”

I don’t know why I was saying these things, since I could feel the distance growing between us with every word I uttered, and it was unfortunate. He was nice, and I didn’t mean to sound snooty. Suddenly I felt conscious about everything: my accent, my career, my expensive sweater, which I’d only bought to impress Jack.

Jack, who had his own BBC TV series, for heaven’s sake.

Desperately trying to move the attention away from me, I said, “What do you do?”

“Oh I’m a personal trainer.”

“As in—?”

“As in I train people,” he said.

“Oh, for, like—for, like, sports events and stuff? Like the Olympics or something? I’ve got a friend who—”

“Nah, mate,” he said with a laugh, “like in a gym. People book me to find out how to lose weight or bulk up, or how to train so as not to kill their heart, you know?”

“Ah.” I didn’t know what else to say, but that ah sounded stupid enough without my adding anything to it, so it was just as well.

We had finished the wine by then, and he went to his fridge and took out beer.

“Want some?”

I most definitely did. We drank it from the can, and I tried to make it look as though that was exactly how I drank it at home all the time—even though it wasn’t.

“So tell me, who is this guy?” he asked.

He meant Jack, of course, and I was a little taken aback by his forwardness. “He’s a colleague from work,” I said.

“And why is he being such an arse?”

“He’s engaged.”

I realised that did not make me sound like a good person. I’m the arse in this scenario.

“He’s… I mean, I had no idea he was engaged… or even that he was seeing someone. I was just… I mean….” I stuttered.

“I’m not judging,” he said with a smile that made it all the worse.

“I’m not judging” always means “judging isn’t necessary. What you’ve done is objectively, morally abhorrent.”

“I am,” I said unhappily.

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Look, let’s not talk about him. What games do you have?”

He was happy enough to show me his games, then his CDs—he had a good collection of classic rock albums, which he let me borrow—and then we talked of where all his other stuff would go and how he planned to make shelving and where he would put it…. It was midnight before I knew it, and I felt embarrassed for having taken up all his evening.

On the plus side, in the end, I almost forgot I had been stood up and that he was there to witness it. Once we’d drunk enough, the discomfort had left me entirely. I even told him about Oslo, and he offered to dog-sit Squire, which was nice. He said he loved dogs, asked about the name. I said it was silly but I named my dog after my favourite guitarist. He thought the name was cool and said he also liked the Stone Roses.

I remembered Jack once I returned to my place. I looked at my phone. No missed calls. No texts. I have indeed been stood up.

Great.

 

 

Thursday, 4 March

 

ON PLANE to Oslo. Haven’t seen Jack all week. Haven’t had any news of him either. He missed a staff meeting on Tuesday, so I’m not sure what’s going on. My working theory is that he told Sasha he was leaving her for a bloke and she made him balance books on his head all week as punishment. Or perhaps she ate him. She could use a decent meal.

Oh hell, I’m being cattish again. Truth is, I want to know what happened, and I’m tired of this constant to and fro. If he’d marry her at last or tell me there wasn’t going to be anything between us, I think I’d swallow it eventually (ha!), but this never-ending uncertainty is killing me.

Anyway, Oslo will do me good. I’ve brought some good reading with me—Brigands of the Moon and The Glass Bead Game. I’ve arranged meetings with some of my friends from my doctoral days, and I’m going to stay at my colleague’s house, so I don’t have to shell out for a hotel or feel lonely and depressed all week. It’s kind of like a holiday for me, really.

As a single man, there’s not really anywhere to go without either committing to a party-fuelled visit to a Greek island, courtesy of Lucy, or a family vacation with Amelia and Mark and Co. At which I would inevitably feel like a spare part.

I’m going to try to sleep now.

 

 

Saturday, 13 March

 

OSLO CAME and went too quickly. I hardly had time to properly take in the place, the changes, or to speak to anybody. But I had a good time, and though I don’t feel remotely rested, I was glad to land in Heathrow.

Alex picked me up at the airport. It was by prior arrangement, but I was still surprised to find him waiting for me at Arrivals. Alex is a good-humoured sort of person, and you know that’s true of a man who keeps a joyful demeanour even after he’s just traversed the M25 to pick up his neighbour for no earthly reason but that he’d promised to do so one night after drinking a box of wine and several beers.

In the car, he asked me about my trip. He seemed to think it was a holiday, so he was surprised when I told him my paper, which I presented there, had gone well.

Then he congratulated me on my achievement, which again was a little odd, since my having presented it didn’t amount to anything much. It’s not like it got automatically published for having been presented or anything like that.

I was mortified to find out that Squire had chewed up Alex’s copy of Lord of the Rings. I promised to buy him another, but he waved it off as nothing. To make it up to him—because really, he did come through like a champ—I invited him to dine with me that evening. It sounded nice when I said it, and he lit up on hearing it, which would have been gratifying if I had any skills in the kitchen.

The thing I eventually presented to him did not look or taste nearly as good as what I had in mind. It was meant to be spaghetti bolognese, but with the pasta cooked a trifle too long and the sauce from a jar, it was not exactly something you give to a friend as a thank-you. More as a “here, now beat it.”

He was polite about it, ate it all, and said it was fine.

“I’m not much of a cook,” I said by way of apology.

“I could teach you. I always used to cook for my family.”

“You know, it would have been polite to contradict me.”

“Oh yeah, no,” he said laughing. “You must have misheard me. What I actually said was that you should think of opening up some sort of, er, restaurant.”

“If you keep it up, I’ll make dessert.”

“Are you actually threatening me with dessert?”

We laughed.

“Honestly, though, I can teach you pasta dishes at least,” he said. “I mean, they’re dead simple, anyway, but I have some family recipes that are real winners.”

“Family? You’re not Italian, are you?”

“Not entirely,” he said. “My dad’s American, but his family is originally from Italy. My mum’s English.”

He told me he was brought up in England, mostly (which would explain the accent), but that his family travelled a lot, all over the world, as he was growing up.

“I’m not your simple, muscled bumpkin,” he said. “I’ve been places, I’ve seen things.”

He looked ridiculously proud of himself as he spoke. It was strange seeing him at my table, but in a good way. He is easy to get on with, and the better I like him, the more handsome I find him. Not that he isn’t handsome. In fact, he is, in a sort of obvious way, which never normally appeals to me. He’s tall, with an upper body shaped like a V—all the more noticeable because he was wearing a nice T-shirt and a pair of jeans that, when surreptitiously examined while he was putting away the dishes, showed off his rather nice legs and arse.

He has that ability to loom and intimidate, so when I met him in the staircase, he’d alarmed me. But now that I know him better, it feels like a ridiculous reaction. He’s pretty mellow and easy-going—being around him is such a sweet relief from all the horrible drama that has drained me recently. His hair is lightly curly and dark; his eyes are large, brown and smiling, surrounded by thick black lashes; and because I was watching him, he wrinkled his nose and said, “What? Have I got something stuck in my teeth?”

“No!” I said with a laugh. “No, I’m just tired after the flight.”

He apologised and left soon after. I didn’t mean him to go, but in the end, it was probably for the best. I really am tired, and with tiredness and some alcohol, all my defences would go, I’d come on to him, and then our acquaintance would go from generally awkward in a friendly way to bloody painful.

Lucy was right, I need to get laid.

 

 

Monday, 15 March

 

I’VE BEEN playing catch-up all day and will be doing so all week. With two catch-up seminars squeezed between a pair of two-hour lecture blocks, I’ve been running around campus like a demented bull, shoving students aside and trying to get from one end to the other. Added to that I’ve been talking all day, from nine to six thirty. So now that I have given Fidel Castro’s speech at the 1986 Communist Party Congress a run for its money, I’m stuck at home with piles of essays, one PhD thesis draft, two MA dissertation drafts, and the application some aspirant for a PhD submitted last week.

And I haven’t even opened my email inbox yet.

 

 

Tuesday, 16 March

 

TOO BUSY to write all, so quick update:

Got a response about my article at last, and they accepted it. I’m over the moon. I’m supposed to be quicker about these things, so after this week’s over, I’ll be getting on with the next one.

My sister emailed me, saying she’ll be in the UK in two weeks, and we arranged to meet.

And finally I bumped into Jack in the hallway of our department. Literally bumped, as in I was putting something on the noticeboard and didn’t notice him standing right next to me. He was unshaven, which made him look his forty years, and he said he had so much to tell me. Honestly, though, he’s not even bothered to ring or text after having stood me up, and I’m beginning to suspect that in a way he sees me as somehow less worthy of proper treatment than if I were a woman. You know, it’s like the women in his life are fancy French restaurants for which he will dress up, make an effort, produce a ring, while men are like burgers he will devour with his hands, toy with when the fancy strikes him, and drop like a hot potato when something better comes along.

At least that’s the conclusion I’ve come to, and I just won’t put up with it.

I told him I was busy, which was the truth, and left.

 

 

Wednesday, 17 March

 

HAD A very intense sex dream about Jack.

It was kind of weird, though, because we never took our clothes off. Nor do I remember us touching. Odd.

Woke up at three, couldn’t get back to sleep. Read a bit, but kept staring at the same page, losing my place all the time, and finally gave up on it. At around half past six, I heard some noise in the corridor. I opened my door to see what was happening and found Alex, covered in sweat, his hair tied back in a tiny ponytail; he’d just returned from jogging, apparently. He had his headphones on, from which the steady beat of some umtsy-umtsy-umtsy music could be heard, so he mouthed “Sorry!” and then lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe sweat off his face.

And yes, I could see his well-defined stomach. He went back into his flat while I still stood there, gaping after him.

I am officially a gross pervert.

And I definitely need to get laid.

 

 

Thursday, 18 March

 

THE WEEK from hell continues. I’m tense, stressed, and tired, and I’m beginning to regret that I ever went to Oslo. Also, for some reason, Jack seems to be everywhere.

Today I saw him as I walked to the cafeteria, and then on my way back. Each time he tried to speak to me, but with my schedule this week, I hadn’t the time. So at the staff meeting, which involved some of us getting together to discuss the ins and outs of organising a postgraduate seminar for social history of the late twentieth century, he came and sat in. This was odd, of course, because he’s a World Wars man, so neither the period nor the subject matter had anything to do with him. But he didn’t say anything, just sat there, listening to us bicker about the terrible sandwiches this one catering company had provided last time.

You’d be surprised how passionate people get about the sandwiches and pastries we get at those seminars and conferences.

Finally, on my last lecture of the day, I was about to explain the midseventies to a bunch of undergrads, when the door opened and Jack walked in, silently, and sat in one of the back rows.

“…So if you imagine that suddenly, out of nowhere, Nixon visits China, and then, almost as unexpectedly, Japan and China forge a Joint Statement, you can see that the USSR couldn’t help but think…,” I was saying before I lost my train of thought.

I looked up at him, because maybe he’d come to tell me something. But he just sat there and listened.

I turned to the students. “Well, what do you think the USSR must have thought?”

“An anti-Soviet alliance was forming?” said one of the kids in the front, the one who looked like a spotty elf.

“Yes, exactly.” I looked at the clock. It was still twenty minutes before the end of class. “Let’s stop here and discuss the excerpt from Davies in your handouts. Ten minutes,” I instructed. “Groups of five. Hassan, have you anyone to read with? No, that is last week’s handout—has everybody got the right handout? Yes, that one. Ten minutes, people. Bullet points, and pick a speaker among you.”

The students collected in the rows, and that gave me an opportunity to walk up the stairs towards the top back row, where Jack was sitting. “Can I help you with anything?” I asked.

He looked at me with surprise. “I just came to listen in.”

“I was under the impression that you already did your degree.”

“One can always learn a thing or two. Even in the most unlikely places.” He gave me that smirk that means he thinks he’s outwitted the room. I used to find it charming. Now I didn’t feel impressed at all.

“Well, I suggest an adult education course in a community college. If you ask them to speak slowly, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

He smiled. Some of the students started listening in, so I turned to them.

“Are we done? Shi Jie, Kacper, can you start?” I returned to the front of the room.

When the lecture finished, I packed my things and walked out as quickly as I could. I don’t know what he wants from me, but I’m seriously getting tired of this.

 

 

Saturday, 20 March

 

SARAH INVITED me to have lunch with her today, ostensibly to continue discussing that postgrad seminar, though of course the thing was never mentioned once between us when we got together.

It was pretty apparent that she wanted to gossip. In fact, the moment we sat down, she said, “Well, guess what!”

“What?”

“Apparently they’ve called off the engagement!” She seemed excited about this. In fact, her tiny blue eyes were twinkling at me from above the menu of Café Rouge.

“They? They who?”

“Tsk!” she said impatiently. “Jack and Sasha of course!”

She watched me carefully for a reaction, which was why I was very careful not to show any.

“It’s unofficial at the moment, but she moved into a hotel room and it’s all going a bit wonky between them, from all I’ve heard.”

My heart sank. He dumped her. He dumped her for me? Could it be? What does this mean? Is that why he’s been following me around lately? I didn’t ask, of course, because Sarah would have a field day with me, so I schooled myself to say, very properly, “Well, that’s very sad. They were a lovely couple.”

Naturally she was disappointed in my reaction, expecting tears of joy, maybe, but I didn’t feel any. Joy, that is. I felt confused. More than anything, I wanted to talk to Jack. So I distracted her by asking about her new cat, thereby also distracting myself from trying to pry any more information out of her. I told myself I’d let this lie and see what happens, but as soon as I got home, I texted Jack, and a few minutes later, he called me.

“Hey.” He sounded unbelievably sexy.

I didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to sound pathetic by saying something about Sarah telling me about his engagement, so I was silent for a little while.

So he said, “Are you there?”

“Er, yeah. I just thought…. It seemed like you’ve wanted to talk to me these past few days and I was awfully busy, so I just thought I’d ask if everything’s all right with you.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I want to see you. Can I come and see you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sasha’s not here. She’s moved out.”

“Oh,” I said. “Er, maybe tomorrow? Can you come over tomorrow?”

“Your place?”

“Sure.” We said goodbye shortly after, and I tried to sit down to work, but honestly, it was like the chair was made out of spikes. I couldn’t sit still.

I had this chapter Cate from work wanted me to proofread for her, which I’d promised to do today, but all the words swam in front of my eyes. I had a glass of water and went over to the window. I wondered about taking up smoking. For maybe an hour, I was like this, and then there was a knock on the door.

I knew it was him, knew he had come even though I’d told him to come tomorrow. And yet, when I opened the door and saw him, I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. He looked tired and unshaven, and then he stepped in and took me in his arms, just like in an old movie, and he kissed me. He kicked the door shut behind him. Without breaking the kiss, I walked backwards until I fell onto my sofa, and he was on top of me, deepening the kiss, hungrily, and grinding against me….

God knows where this would have ended had I not pushed him back. “Hey, hey!”

“Hm?”

“I can’t do this.”

“Your first time?” he asked, a little surprised.

“What? No!” We sat up. I patted my hair back into place. “No. I mean, I want to know what’s going on.”

He straightened his shirt and leaned back a little. “Well?” he said. “I told you, didn’t I?”

“No, Jack, you didn’t tell me anything. I want to know, is it over between you? I mean, over over? Not ‘we’re taking a break’ over; not ‘we’ll see how things go’ over, but did you actually break it off? If you’re going to reconcile after you’ve had your way with me, I want to know. I’m not playing games, Jack.”

“She moved out,” he said. “And she’s going back to the States at the end of the month. We’ve some things to sort out still, but it’s over between us.”

I watched him closely as he spoke. He didn’t seem upset about the end of the relationship.

“It was a mistake,” he said with a sigh, and then he rubbed his eyes. “We’ve been on and off for years, and I thought… I don’t know. I thought it would be neat to finally settle down or something. But then she came to the UK, and it wasn’t there… that thing, you know, when you connect with someone? I mean, she’s great, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a chemistry thing. We were never really suited, but what with the long distance and everything, it’s sometimes hard to tell, you know? It’s different with you.” He leaned towards me and kissed me again.

“So what,” I said, pulling back, “you’re going to be gay now? For me?”

“For you?” he sounded surprised. “You’re not the first guy I ever….”

“Oh.”

“No, I mean, you and I, we connect, don’t we? I mean, we talk and there’s… I don’t know… sparks.” He was usually more eloquent than this, and I guessed that he must have been really tired, but it was sweet of him all the same to say it, and I let him off the hook. Besides, he was kissing my neck, and so I asked, “Do you want to stay over?”

“Hm?” he looked up. “Can’t. Early morning tomorrow.”

He returned to kissing me, punctuating his assault on my lips with words.

“I just wanted to see you for a little bit today. I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I’m flesh and blood, you know.”

He said some other things, but I was already plucking at his trousers by then, a little distracted. And then there was a knock on my door. We scrambled to our feet, putting our clothes to rights.

“Who is it?” I asked, tucking my shirt back into my trousers.

“Alex.”

Well, this was awkward. Jack lifted an eyebrow at me. “Well?”

“Well, nothing. I’ll get rid of him.”

“No need,” he said. “I should go. I really am knackered, and when I have you, I want to be fully conscious and rested.”

So we went to the door together, and I opened it to find Alex standing there with cake on a plate in his hands. So this was more than awkward.

“Oh,” he said, looking from me to Jack.

“Er, hi, Alex,” I said, then turned to Jack. “This is my neighbour,” I explained, and then turned to Alex again. “Er, this is Jack. What’s up?”

“I just made some cake,” Alex said, looking sheepish as hell. “I thought you’d want some.”

“Oh, thanks.”

Jack bent over the cake, sniffed it, and said, “Nice. All right, I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then he pinched my bottom. I jumped. “Nice to meet you, Alex,” he threw over his shoulder as he took the stairs down.

Alex and I stood there for a while, listening to him leave the building.

“Oh mate,” Alex said ruefully, “I just totally cock-blocked you, didn’t I?”

“Er, it’s all right. That cake looks good.”

“Not as good as sex, I bet.”

I let him in.

The cake was fucking delicious, though, so there’s that.

 

 

Thursday, 25 March

 

WORK’S BEEN piling up for everyone recently. I see Jack about the department, but when I ask when he’s coming over, he says he can’t because he’s moving Sasha out, or because he has to help with her preparations to get back home. It’s not that I don’t think it’s good he’s helping her, considering the trouble he made her go through, but I have a serious case of blue balls, and it’s not even funny anymore.

The furthest we got was when he sneaked into my office yesterday and we made out on my chair. He sat in it and I sat astride him, trying to get as close as possible, which was fucking frustrating in those circumstances. It was like we were teenagers, and not in a good way.

On the plus side, Sarah told me I’m being considered for deputy head of department. This was surprising to me, considering that I haven’t really done anything administrative often, but I told her I was happy to do it if they asked me. Whatever gene is responsible for ambition, I don’t have it. By now, Lena, with her crazy drive, would have been head of school. Which reminds me that I have to clean my place, because she’s going to be here soon.

This morning I told Jack of her visit, and he said he could drive me to the airport to pick them up. That was a welcome surprise. What with a potential promotion and a hot boyfriend, I might not look like such a loser next to my super-accomplished sister.

“Let me take you and your sister and her boyfriend to that new French place near Covent Garden,” he said.

“Are you sure? That’s pretty boyfriend-like behaviour, you know.”

“Fuck it, let’s get married,” he said, nibbling on my neck.

The man’s driving me crazy. I told him to come and see me tonight, but he said he had this meet-and-greet with some people with whom he was organising a reception for the Japanese ambassador, who was going to speak about British POWs at the town hall. He told me this with his hand in my trousers, and assured my ear that he would think of me the entire time. It was quite fitting, what with the underlying theme of torture and all.

 

 

Saturday, 27 March

 

URGH.

I don’t know why I’m even surprised anymore. At half past three, Jack was going to come and pick me up in his car, and we were going to the airport to pick up Lena. I had told her ahead of time to not book any taxis or anything, that I’d be there with my boyfriend (yeah, I’m an idiot, sue me), and then we’d go to her hotel and on to the restaurant, at which I had booked us a table for four. Half past three arrived, but Jack did not. I had to call him three times before he picked up, sounding distracted. He apologised half-heartedly and said he was really swamped today and he’d have to cry off. I was too angry to say anything, so I just hung up on him, mid feeble apology.

Instead I tried feverishly to calculate how I could best get to the airport on time. Then I remembered Alex.

I felt like a prick imposing on him again, but went anyway and banged on his door. Luckily I found him at home. He had been napping, evidently—he was in a T-shirt and boxers, his hair standing on end, and he was unshaven. But when I explained, in my blubbering manner, that I needed a ride to the airport to pick up my sister, he shrugged and said, “Okay.”

“So, what happened?” he asked once we were in the car.

“Nothing. I got distracted with work and—”

“Aw, Christ, don’t tell me that man stood you up again!” he said. “Nah, don’t glare at me, mate. The guy’s no good, and I told you so before. I get bad vibes from him, I tell you.”

“Well, thanks,” I said. “It doesn’t matter right now, anyway.”

He shook his head at me but didn’t comment further. “So, where’s your sister coming from?”

So I told him about my sister and her boyfriend and her UN job, and he didn’t mention Jack again, which allowed me to focus on the thing at hand.

Lena and Yi Chen were already waiting for us when we arrived. She called me from Arrivals while we were still negotiating the M25, but once I saw her, all thoughts about the circumstances of this meeting left me because Lena had a rounded stomach! As in, she is pregnant. So it was some ten minutes before either of us was able to do anything other than hug and congratulate/accept gushing congratulations.

“My God, woman! Tell me it’s what I think it is!”

“Well, you’re not so gay that you forgot how humans reproduce, Leo,” she said in her usual dry way. “It’s a baby, you numpty!”

“You’re huge! How far along are you?”

“Five months,” Yi, who was dragging several large bags for the both of them, looked tired. “Four to go.”

“He sounds like he’s having to carry the thing,” Lena said. “Let me tell you, it’s a lot harder than it looks.”

“Don’t ask her to demonstrate,” Yi said to me. “She will.”

I introduced them to Alex. Though Lena and Yi had just completed a six-hour flight, they were both dressed in suits. Alex, who had been sleeping only moments before we left, was still in his slacks.

I could see Lena frowning a little. “You’re Professor Jack Gordon?” she said, astonished.

“Eh?” Alex said. “Oh no, don’t worry, I’m just—” He glanced at me, apparently reading my expression. “Something sprung up, and I came instead. I’m Leo’s neighbour.”

Lena looked at me, took it all in at a glance, and decided not to mention it again. By way of smoothing over this little hiccup, she said, “I wish I had neighbours that kind. Mine just wrestle with each other and have armies of lawyers attending their big loud parties to which they do not even invite me, the bastards.” Then she put her hands together. “Right, well, shall we?”

Alex and I helped Yi with the bags. Lena assured us that she was not transporting her fossil collection, but even among the three of us, the baggage was hard to carry through to the parking lot. Alex was able to carry two bags by himself while Yi and I dragged the third, giant one together.

Despite the initial awkwardness, the ride into town was all right. Lena sat up front, and I sat in the back with Yi Chen, and though I couldn’t exactly hear what Lena was talking to Alex about, they were talking and seemed to get on well.

Yi leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. “No offence,” he said to me, “but you’re so lucky you will never get a woman pregnant.”

“Why would I take offence?” I said. “Besides, the thing that’s paining you is that you got my sister pregnant, which I’ll never have to suffer, even if I weren’t gay.”

“True,” he said with a sigh. “Hey, be a pal and wake me in, like, eighteen years or so, eh?”

He napped for most of the drive. Alex dropped them off at their hotel, and then I told them I’d pick them up for the meal later tonight. Once Alex and I returned to our building, I thanked him for his help, but he shrugged it off.

“Hey, it was nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“No, you’ve come through for me, and I owe you a big one, honestly. I’ll take you out for a drink or something. In fact, why don’t you come to dinner with us? It’s a nice restaurant, French.”

“Nah, it’s all right. You catch up with your sister. She’s really cool,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “Have fun tonight. Do you want me to take Squire?”

I told him I couldn’t impose with my dog on top of everything else, but he said it would be no problem, that he was going to go out running this evening, and he could take Squire with him, so I ended up acquiescing.

Dinner with Lena and Yi went well. They were both refreshed and rested, and we talked of the wedding they were planning. They’ve been talking about getting married for years now, but I wondered if now, with the baby on the way, they might actually do it.

“It’s the timing,” Lena said when I asked her. “What with work, and travel, and now the baby, I haven’t the time to think of these things. I mean, yeah, we could just nip out to Vegas, but then Mummy and Daddy would probably electrocute us through the nipples.”

Yi laughed. “Yeah, if we don’t invite the Fitzalans and the Montgomerys and the Herberts….”

“They’ll throw a fit!” Lena said. “So, if we do it, it’s got to be done properly. And I just can’t see how.”

It was amusing to me that they’d worry so much about pleasing Mum and Dad, considering that our parents had a little shrine in their honour in their house in Sussex.

I suppose keeping up with their expectations must be as hard as failing them constantly.

“Well, if you let me know in advance,” I said, “you could go to Vegas while I drop my lacklustre career and decide to join a cult. They’ll be so busy being disappointed with me, they won’t notice the wedding.”

“Deal!” said Yi at once, stretching out his hand to me.

On the whole it was great to catch up with them. When I got home, I wondered whether to ring Jack, but frankly I was too angry with him to predict a happy conversation. And I don’t like to quarrel.

Screw him, I’m going to bed.