about him.'
'Well, good. I'm glad.'
Glen frowned for the duration of a blink. 'I'm saying I believe you're right, he's not for us. He wouldn't sell.'
Did he suspect her of doubting he'd visited the exhibition? Would the truth have made any difference? He was already saying 'OK, let's try and nail your other cousin down.'
'Have you had a chance to read her chapters yet?'
'Read them a couple of times. Once with dinner and once in bed.' He paused as if inviting a response before adding 'I think they work pretty well.'
'Well enough for us to make an offer?'
'Once you've worked your magic on them. And listen, don't let anyone tell you editing can't be just as creative as writing a book.'
'So we'll make an offer when . . .'
'Have we had her proposal for the next book?'
'She's working on it. She's found a setting for it.'
'Anywhere famous?'
'Maybe it will be by the time we're finished with it,' Charlotte said and couldn't understand why she was wary of saying 'Thurstaston.'
'Where's that? Why did she pick it, do you know?'
'It's on the coast looking out to the Irish Sea past Wales. We spent a night there with our other cousins the last time we camped out.'
'There'll need to be more to it. You're making it sound like a book for kids and a pretty old-fashioned one too.'
'I'm sure Ellen will invent something. She's done a lot of that already, after all.'
'Better make sure. No time like now.'
Even once he headed for his desk and she had room to move the heap of proofs aside, Charlotte still felt shut in. She had to glance behind her to check that the wall wasn't as close as the sense she had of a presence looming at her back. The darkness in the corner to her left was a shadow, not soil seeping through the plaster. It was absurd to delay speaking to Ellen, and she lifted her desk phone. As she began to wonder if the ringing wouldn't end until it snagged Ellen's automatic message, Ellen said 'Charlotte.'
'Just me. Not a reason to sound like that, I hope.'
'If you say so.' With no discernible lessening of nervousness Ellen said 'Had we better talk about Rory?'
'Why, what's the matter with him?'
'Nothing if you say not.'
'I don't know why I'd say anything was.'
'I thought he'd been, I suppose we'd have to call it
'He was just being Rory. We all know how he can be. He didn't do any harm. Your book's just between us,' Charlotte said, then had to append 'And the publishers, of course.'
'All right, no more Rory.' After at least a second's silence, which Charlotte found close to ritualistic, Ellen said in her original tone 'What about them?'
'We just need a little more from you.'
'I can send some more chapters over the weekend. That's all I'm doing now, the work you asked me to.'
'Well, I hope that's not your entire life.' Charlotte had the oppressive notion that in order to live her image of a writer Ellen had become a literary hermit locked away with her book. Another silence made her add 'We're waiting for an outline of your next one, and we think . . .'
'Go on. Whatever it is, you'll help me deal with it, won't you?'
Ellen's voice dwindled as Charlotte glanced over her shoulder again. Of course the slanting mass of shadow in the corner hadn't grown, and it was even less likely to have become more solid. It was certainly incapable of concealing a watcher. Nobody was spying on her from where the corner met the floor, and she needn't glare at the dark niche to convince herself. Once she began to feel she was putting off answering Ellen she turned back to the phone in a rage at her irrationality. 'All it is,' she said, 'the place you told me you wanted to use, we'd like there to be a reason for using it.'
'Thurstaston.'
Why did people keep saying the name? It was beginning to resemble some kind of invocation. 'I know you chose it because we were all there,' Charlotte said, 'but that won't be enough for your book.'
'I'd like to talk to you about that night.'
'Not now.' As she hastened to say this Charlotte had to wonder which of them was more on edge. She wasn't going to look behind her, but the view ahead was bad enough. She'd never realised how much the office brought to mind an underground bunker or an air-raid shelter that might collapse with a direct hit, the walls caving in beneath the weight of countless tons of earth. She tried to fend off these fancies by adding 'Unless it's for your book.'
'I don't know if it is.'
'Better leave it for now, then.' Charlotte wished it felt like more of a relief to ask 'Have you thought of anything that could be?'
'Hugh may have.'
'Sorry, what's this to do with him?'
'He wants to help. Between ourselves I think he's a bit sweet on me. Mind you, he hasn't seen me since we all met, and I'm sure –' Ellen trailed off or interrupted herself with a surge of determination. 'I do appreciate you all rallying around my book,' she said.
Perhaps Charlotte felt as if Rory and now Hugh were threatening her professional relationship with Ellen, although why should that work on her nerves so much? Somehow Ellen's remark seemed to aggravate the sense of earth pressing against the walls, staining the lights dim, creeping closer and livelier at Charlotte's back. 'So what's Hugh's contribution?' Charlotte had to ask.
'He says where we slept out that night, it's where someone used to live.'
'And how does that fit in?'
'I think he must have told me because it sounds like a magical name.' After a breath that Charlotte found unnecessarily hard to take, Ellen said 'Arthur Pendemon.'
It appeared to have power. Charlotte saw three of her colleagues stand up and retreat at once. In a moment she realised they were vacating their desks for the weekend. Rather than lending the basement a little more space, the exodus made her feel abandoned in a cell that was far too airless and not nearly light enough. She was absolutely not about to look behind her, even when two more people left their desks. Her job required her to stay on the phone and ask 'What do we know about him?'
'That's all Hugh did, I think. I haven't looked yet.'
Charlotte could perfectly well search for the name while talking to Ellen, and she made to transfer the receiver to her left hand. It had to be the shadow of her movement that fell across the computer screen; nobody had reared up out of the darkness at her back. Her colleagues would have noticed, however few of them remained. She raised the phone again as Ellen said 'Do you remember seeing anything?'
Charlotte found she had no great wish to learn 'Such as what?'
'Maybe we all slept where his house was, except I didn't notice any bits of it, did you?'
'That's my dream.'
'I don't understand. Why would you want that?'
'I didn't. Anything but. I mean it was – Glen, oh thanks.'
He'd veered to her desk on his way to the lift to return Ellen's chapters, dog-eared now. 'Monday,' he mouthed and left Charlotte with a brief squeeze of her upheld wrist, so that for a second she thought he meant to take the phone. She couldn't help wishing he had. The conversation had begun to feel like a trap into which she and Ellen were leading each other with no sense of its limits, let alone of a way to escape. 'What are you saying about him?' Ellen urged.
'Nothing. I'm saying I dreamed I had to go down under where there used to be a house.'
She felt as if the nightmare were poised to continue. The cellars might consist of rooms barely large enough
