‘That was quick.’
‘Oh dear.’ Alfie hangs his head. ‘Oh Christ. I’m not sure how to tell you this …’
Fear rises in her chest.
‘What? What is it?’
‘He’s not actually a lecturer at Cambridge Cambridge,’ Alfie says, modulating his voice as if to impart terrible news. ‘He’s at … fuck, how to say this?’ He whispers melodramatically, ‘He’s at the other place. The University of Southern Anglia.’
He laughs.
‘Oh my God, your face!’ he says. ‘You’ve gone all pale! I’m sorry, it was just a joke.’
She stands, too quickly, and grabs her bag with such force it knocks over what remains of the gin.
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Hey, hey,’ Alfie says, hands outstretched as if fanning a fire. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Sorry.’
Alfie looks crestfallen. He reaches into his jeans pocket and fishes out another packet of peanuts.
‘For the journey,’ he says. ‘You might need sustenance.’
She takes the nuts.
‘Thank you.’ She doesn’t say sorry.
‘Bye, Cosima-Cozzie.’
‘Bye, wanker,’ she says but not unkindly. He blushes as she leaves.
Outside, she looks up the University of Southern Anglia on her phone and starts the long walk back across town.
XVI.
Martin
WELL, FRANKLY, IT WAS THElast thing I was expecting. I had been in the cottage watching the latest episode ofHouse of the Dragonaccompanied by the cat and a glass of inoffensive New World Pinot, when the phone rang. My landline never rings, not if I can help it. I checked my watch. It was just after 10 p.m.
‘Who could that be?’ I asked Maurice, who looked at me through half-closed eyes and thumped the tip of his tail decisively against the sofa cushions.
I paused the TV and let the phone ring out. In the silence, I pressed play, stroking the top of Maurice’s head in the rhythmic, smooth way he appreciates. I know I shouldn’t love this televisual dross as much as I do but we all have our vices. Besides, the chap who plays Daemon Targaryen is rather fetching with all that peroxide hair.
The phone rang again.
‘Oh do leave me alone,’ I said, rising from the sofa. Maurice miaowed resentfully and leapt onto the floor, aggrieved by the impertinence.
In the hallway, I picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hello there, hi, am I speaking to Martin Gilmour?’
‘You are.’
