they find out you’re a journo; if you’re nice to them they think you’re only doing it because you want to print intimate details of their lives. I don’t know what sort of newspaper they think the Chronicle is, for heaven’s sake…’
The town centre was busy, the lunchtime rush. A grey autumn day. The lights on the one-way system seemed to be taking forever to change.
‘… but I don’t work like that, I mean, it’s nice if people do tell me things, but they don’t get that the information I need is usually something really specific. Even if they give me a quote, the chances are I’m only ever going to use a few words of it. It’s just a job, after all, like any other job…’
The traffic moved again and I drove through the town centre and out the other side, heading for the estate where all the roads were named after poets, my mind on other things.
‘It all gets easier when you’ve got proper contacts, though – people who know you and trust that you’re not going to make them look like an idiot in print. I just like talking to people, making new friends… you probably noticed…’
We drove along the main road, the side streets one after the other named after people I’d learned about at school about a hundred years ago. Longfellow Drive. Wordsworth Avenue. Keats Road…
‘It’s this next one,’ he said.
I turned left. We drove along a wide road: semi-detached houses, big bay windows, neat front gardens edged with low brick walls. It was starting to rain.
‘Just after this blue car,’ he said. ‘This one.’
I pulled in. It was a normal-looking house, bigger than mine, with a porch. For a moment I thought it was quite big and maybe journalists earned more than I thought they did, and then I realised he probably still lived with his parents, like lots of young people these days who couldn’t get a foot on the housing ladder.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘you want to come in for a coffee? You look as if you could do with one. I could make you some lunch?’
‘Thanks, but I really need to go home.’
He made no signs of undoing his seatbelt or leaving my car. For a moment I had a sudden spark of fear, and wondered if he’d invited me in for something more than coffee. I was so bad at reading situations like this: my default position was always that nobody found me sexually attractive and therefore anyone who showed an interest in me was probably dangerous.
He half-turned in his seat towards me. I shrank back a little towards the door.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘can I give you a call later? Just to see how you’re doing?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘My battery’s nearly out.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said, looking at me as if he wanted to ask if I’d ever heard of magic things called chargers. At last he unclipped his seatbelt and opened the door. ‘See you soon, then,’ he said, leaning in. ‘And thanks for the lift.’
‘Bye.’
As soon as he’d slammed the door shut I pulled away from the kerb.
There was nowhere to park, of course, anywhere near the house. I walked back from Howard Street, head down, thinking about my mum. It was all I could think about now. Whatever he’d said – Sam – it had failed to register.
I could see the cat standing at the corner, her tail flashing from side to side, in greeting or petulance, it was hard to tell. When I got closer she stood and waited for me as though she’d reached the edge of her known universe and to cross the road was beyond her, sliding her body affectionately against the greasy metal pole of the street-light, territory marked by a hundred dogs before her.
‘Hello, puss-puss,’ I said quietly, and she meowed in response, rubbing against my ankle as soon as she could and then running in front of me, rolling on the ground and running again, showing me the way home. As we got through the door she scampered joyously towards the kitchen.
But it turned out she’d got a takeaway. A dead mouse, neatly dissected with the most succulent innards, tail and feet left for me to enjoy.
I woke up completely disorientated. I was on my bed, fully dressed, and the cat was asleep in the crook of my knees. It was ten past three and the daylight was fading already. I sat up quickly, and checked my mobile phone, which