– he always calls me a hopeless romantic. Or ruder things to that effect.
*
Kay, on other end of phone: Honestly, Leon. I think if you had your way, all of your friends would be over the age of eighty.
Me: He was an interesting man, is all. I enjoyed speaking to him. And – concert pianist! World’s coolest profession, no?
Amused silence from Kay.
Me: Still seven to go, though.
Kay: Seven what?
Me: Seven Johnny Whites.
Kay: Oh, yeah.
She pauses.
Kay: Are you going to be spending all your weekends traipsing across Britain trying to find an old man’s boyfriend, Leon?
I pause this time. Had sort of planned on doing that, yes. When else am I going to find Mr Prior’s Johnny? Can’t do it during working week.
Me, tentatively: . . . No?
Kay: Good. Because I see you rarely enough as it is, with all your visits and your shifts. You do see that, don’t you?
Me: Yes. Sorry. I’m—
Kay: Yep, yep, I know, you care about your job, Richie needs you. I do know all that. I’m not trying to be difficult, Leon. I just feel like . . . it should bother you more. As much as it bothers me. The not seeing each other.
Me: It bothers me! But I saw you this morning?
Kay: For about half an hour, for a very rushed breakfast.
Flash of irritation. Gave up half an hour of three-hour power nap to allow for breakfast with Kay. Deep breath. Notice where we are out of window.
Me: Got to go. I’m pulling into the prison.
Kay: Fine. Let’s talk later. Will you text me what train you get?
I don’t like this – the checking-up, the texting about trains, always knowing where the other person will be. But . . . it’s unreasonable of me. Can’t object. Kay already thinks I’m a commitment-phobe. It’s a favourite term of hers at the moment.
Me: Will do.
But I don’t, in the end. Mean to, but don’t. It’s the worst argument we’ve had in ages.
19
Tiffy
‘It’s the perfect venue for you, Katherin,’ Martin gushes, spreading the photos out on the table.
I smile encouragingly. Though initially I thought the whole enormous-venue thing was ridiculous, I’m starting to come around to it. Twenty different YouTube videos have been made by various Internet celebrities sporting outfits they claimed to have crocheted themselves from Katherin’s instructions. After a tense unscheduled meeting with the MD in which the head of PR did a quite convincing job of pretending to know what this book was, let alone have budget allocated for it, the whole Butterfingers office is now up to speed and abuzz with excitement. Everyone seems to have forgotten that last week they didn’t give a crap about crochet; yesterday I heard the sales director declare she’d ‘always suspected this book would be a winner’.
Katherin is perplexed by all of this, particularly the Tasha Chai-Latte thing. At first she reacted as literally everyone does when they see some random person making tons of money on YouTube (‘I could do that!’ she announced. I told her to start by investing in a smartphone. Baby steps.) Now she’s just irritated at Martin having taken control of her Twitter account (‘She can’t be trusted with this! We need to maintain control!’ Martin was yelling at Ruby this morning).
‘So, what is a proper book launch?’ Katherin asks. ‘I mean, normally I just potter around drinking the wine and chatting to any old lady who bothers to turn up. But how do you do it when there are all these people?’ She gestures to the photo of a gigantic Islington hall.
‘Ah, now, Katherin,’ Martin says, ‘I’m glad you asked. Tiffy and I are going to take you along to one of our other big book launches in two weeks’ time. Just so you can see how these things are done.’
‘Are there free drinks?’ Katherin asks, perking up.
‘Oh, absolutely, tons of free drinks,’ Martin says, having previously told me that there won’t be any at all.
I glance at my watch as Martin returns to the task of selling the enormous venue to Katherin. Katherin is very worried about the people at the back not being able to see. I, on the other hand, am very worried about getting to Leon’s hospice on time.
It’s the evening of our visit. Leon will be there, which means tonight, after five and a half months of living together, he and I will finally meet.
I’m oddly nervous. I changed my clothes three times this morning, which is unusual – normally I can’t imagine the day