‘Fine, fine. Anyway, which bloke?’
‘The author. The one you read like you’re a diabetic and his books are made of insulin.’
‘Shut up,’ she says, smiling. She feels her cheeks begin to colour, and turns her back before he can tease her any more. ‘I’ll bring you up a hot chocolate in a bit, if you like.’
‘You won’t,’ says Ethan, to her back. ‘You’ll forget. And you’ll fall asleep on the sofa. But when I wake you up, I’ll have made you a tea.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you back.’
She closes the door behind him, feeling pretty good. She retrieves her phone from her trouser pocket and calls up her email. Sure enough, Rufus Orton messaged her half an hour ago when she was on the drive home. Subject: Help!
She plonks herself down on the sofa and starts to read, deciding that her food can most definitely wait. Rufus Orton is her favourite author. He’s written eight books and a volume of poetry. He’s been longlisted for the major literary awards on three occasions. One of his books was adapted for the screen, though it was an arthouse movie made in Belgium and unrecognizable from the source material. She’s read each of his books twice. Just six months ago she felt giddy that he retweeted one of her funny little Tweets. Five months ago she was doing cartwheels that he had followed her back on Twitter and sent her a Facebook friend request. When he replied to her self-deprecating fan-girl missive, she thought she had got as close to her icon as the fates would ever allow. Now they are close to friends. They talk a lot online. She’s helped him out with some research for a new book. And he’s agreed to come to the prison, teach a class, and make her look pretty damn spectacular in the eyes of her bosses.
She reads the message twice, whispering to herself as she does so.
Hey you. What a bloody day. Trying to do the American copyedit on the latest one. Oh my God, these people! It’s good that there’s a job that provides suitable employment for the severely autistic but they are so bloody picky! Apparently I used the phrase ‘she flashed a smile’ 14 times between chapters six and nine. So? I mean, can you picture it – me sitting here trying to think up 13 different ways to describe a flash of smile. Anyway, I’m digressing. Just wanted to check in to say hello and see how many we’ve got signed up for next week. Will feel a right prick if it’s just you and me, though there are worse ways to spend a day, of course. Do I just ask for you at reception? Really appreciate this chance. As I said last time, if you could pull some strings and get the payroll people to pay me up front, it would really be a help. Wolves at the door, and all that. Anyway, give me a call if you like. Shonagh’s working late, the teens are battling monsters, and I intend to be quite drunk soon. Take care. R.O. xx.
She sits back, feeling good. Looks at her hands and realizes they are sweating. She feels giddy and nervous. She wants things to go well, but more importantly, she wants Rufus to feel he made the right decision when he said ‘yes’ to teaching a six-week course in creative writing to the inmates at HMP Holderness.
She thinks about calling him. Imagines his voice, loquacious with drink. Realizes, at once, that she is still too shy to speak to him in person. Better to send a message. Better to keep things professional.
Hi Rufus. Got your message. Course I did – that’s why I’m writing! Anyway, nine signed up. Not bad at all, considering. The poet who came last year only got two, and that was because one of them had misread the poster and thought iambic pentameter was an Olympic sport that would allow him access to javelins. So, looking good. We actually got a request in from one of the prisoners on the Vulnerable wing, but I turned it down. Too many possibilities for things to go wrong. Really not a very popular chap, so best off saying ‘no’. So yes, all systems go. Do just ask for me on reception and I’ll be there quick as a flash. I’ve told you, haven’t I? Bring a passport, and be careful what you bring in your satchel. Really looking forward to it. Very best, A.H.
She doesn’t put a kiss on the end of the message. Doesn’t notice she’s used the word ‘satchel’ until after it’s been sent. Cringes a little. He’ll know at once that she’s been stalking his social media profile. He has a battered leather satchel with him in a lot of his photographs. Has a professorial look about him, though there’s enough rumbled bad boy about him to suggest he likes his port and stilton with a cocaine chaser.
She heads to the kitchen. Decants her food, heats it up, and sits down at the little round table. Eats it with a fork because nobody’s watching. Tells her voice-activated virtual assistant to play some Irish folk, feeling like somebody from the future. The kitchen fills with plinky-plonky strings and heartfelt vocals that make her feel as though she should be supping Guinness and sitting on a sack of potatoes.
She plays with her phone. Slurps up bean sprouts and water chestnuts. Gets up and drinks milk from the bottle, knowing she would tell Ethan off at once for doing any such thing.
Checks her phone. No reply yet.
Agitated, she turns her thoughts to today’s shift. She’d been a bit surprised to receive the request from the Vulnerable Prisoner wing. Normally they would do anything in their power to avoid mixing with the general population. Holderness is a category B prison, and there are some very bad men within its walls. But it’s the nonces – the sex offenders, the paedos and the grasses –
