“Of course.”
“It was a safety requirement.”
“Naturally.”
“You sound delighted.”
“I’m picturing your chin. I haven’t seen it in years.”
“And you’ve coped admirably.”
“Send me a photo.”
“No way.”
“I could ask Mum.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I work in diplomacy, AJ. I know how to apply pressure.”
“You are a terrible person.”
“I’m an interested stakeholder.”
The rain presses harder against the window. On television, someone has bought a chair with worrying confidence.
Then Graham clears his throat.
“I’m jealous,” he says.
I sit up straighter. “Sorry?”
“I said I’m jealous.”
“Of the beard loss?”
“No. Of the fire station.”
I stare at the muted television without seeing it.
“You’re jealous,” I say.
“I heard how strange it sounded the first time.”
“Of me?”
“A little, yes.”
“Do you need medical attention?”
“Possibly.”
“Graham, I have spent a week being publicly humbled by firefighters while wearing borrowed kit. At one point, a man called Kev referred to me as babyface while I was carrying equipment that appeared to have been manufactured by evil spirits.”
“And yet.”
“And yet what?”
