Some words
deserve a second look.

Her finger. She'd pointed to the shorter glass, the one I'd put a little forward. I had chosen that position, and she'd noticed exactly what I wanted noticed. Then she wanted to use it somewhere I wouldn't arrange the light. I disliked that. The jug had failed at being a jug; this glass was doing its job. I wanted credit for choosing it and control over what happened after. An ambitious service to offer for the price of a glass.

She said, 'I only need one. It's for the water beside my bed.' There goes your kitchen. Then she asked the price of both, and I told her. I could have corrected myself while she considered it. Instead I lifted the taller glass out and set it beside the shorter one, as if their standing together proved something. She said she'd leave it, then. No purchase. I thanked her for coming in. I was suddenly excellent at courtesy.

I never said it. Not that day, not later. Every version began with how difficult my week had been; apparently I expected her to do some work before receiving an apology. I did make separate price cards after she left. Two little rectangles, very neatly cut. You would have admired my efficiency and been wrong again. I put them under the ledger. Please don't tell me what I could say to her now. I haven't finished telling you what I did then.

I could have put them out. Nobody needed to agree. The cards stayed under the ledger until closing; then I carried them to the window. Don't look relieved yet. I took the glasses out instead. Both of them, back onto the tray. The dish stayed. By Friday morning I'd made it possible for anyone to see that the window had changed, and impossible to buy what she'd wanted. Stay beside me. I haven't told you what I put in their place.

Grey linen. Folded into a low step, with the dish on top. I spent twenty minutes getting the front edge straight. The cards went underneath the dish; I hadn't even left them with the glasses. And yes, the dish was for sale. Its price was on the base, so someone had to ask me to lift it. You'd have managed that without much difficulty. I suspect you'd have asked me to lift it twice.

Yes, I thought it looked better. You needn't persuade me the number was useful. I knew. But don't put that woman on the pavement again; I don't know whether she ever saw the linen. Someone else came in on Friday and asked the price. I lifted the dish, read it out, and found the two cards stuck to its base. She asked whether those prices were for the dish as well. There was my beautifully clear arrangement.

I told her they belonged to two glasses I'd taken out. She asked to see them. I nearly said they weren't available, then fetched the tray instead. You can laugh now; I had to carry the whole thing because I hadn't brought anything to put the dish on. She chose the taller glass. I used its card and put the other beside the shorter one on the counter. Then she asked why I'd taken them out of the window.

I said I'd preferred the window without them. She said she preferred being able to see what there was to buy. Then she bought the taller glass. No grand confrontation; she needed me to wrap it. The shorter one stayed on the counter with its card until closing. I kept looking at it from the desk. Now I'd like to walk, if your shoes will permit it. You can ask what happened to that glass. I still know exactly where it went.

Mine. I bought it. Wrote the sale in the book, put the money in the till, wrapped it in the same paper I'd used for the taller one. You may keep this side of me; the pace is better already. I took it home in my bag. That sounds almost sensible until I tell you I didn't need a glass. I had six. I wanted that particular one off the counter before Saturday.

No expected visitor. Saturday was the next morning; I wanted the counter clear when I opened. Here, take my arm for the uneven bit, if you'd like. At home I unwrapped it beside the sink and drank water from it. It was a good glass. Pleasant rim, enough weight in the base. I disliked finding that out. I'd made an ordinary purchase difficult for her, then given myself exactly what she'd asked for.

I kept using it. It's in my cupboard now, second shelf, behind a mug with a chipped handle. You may look disappointed by the absence of a ceremonial cupboard. I don't think of her every time I reach for it. Sometimes I only want water. That's less impressive to tell you than a daily pang, but it's true. And I like your hand there. We have passed the uneven bit; you can decide whether it still requires assistance.

I moved the dish's price onto a card where it could be read from outside. Then I went to the desk. You can approve of the card without making it the morning I became a better woman. By ten I'd already been asked to move it because it spoiled the linen. Keep your hand there while I tell you this part. It was the person who kept setting my blue bowl upright. You asked who that was. Do you still want to know?

My older sister. She came in with two coffees, put mine beside the ledger, and stood looking at the window while hers cooled. She said the card interrupted the line of the linen. Not an order. I picked it up before she'd finished explaining where it might go instead. Put it flat behind the dish, where the price faced the ceiling. You may dislike that. She hadn't even asked for it to disappear.

She said, 'I meant beside it, on the wood.' Then she reached past me and stood the card against the dish, off the linen. You could read it from outside. I told her I'd put it there later, which was absurd while it was already there. She asked why I always made a correction sound like an accusation. I took my coffee to the desk. You can loosen your grip on my sleeve; the river hasn't acquired another uneven patch.

The card stayed. The bowl was different. I wanted it on its side, with the inside facing the street; she wanted it upright because people might think it had fallen. We had that conversation three times. On the fourth morning I found it upright and left it. No customers to rescue, no unreadable price. I simply hadn't wanted another discussion before opening. I was angry with her all day, and when she asked what was wrong, I said nothing.

She said, 'You asked me to keep coming in.' I had. The first week I was doing the accounts, I asked her to look at the window every morning because I couldn't bear to leave the desk. I hadn't said the invitation could end. That didn't give her the bowl forever, but I'd let her keep arriving as help and greeted her as interference. Your promise is appreciated. Keep walking with me. I haven't told you what she asked to stop doing instead.

She asked to stop coming before opening. Said she could bring coffee later if I wanted company, but she didn't want to begin every day finding out whether she'd been useful or irritating. I said later was usually busier. A splendid answer to an offer she hadn't made. There was a spare chair beside the desk. It had a box of wrapping paper on it. I remember that more clearly than what I did with my coffee.

It was busier. It was also a useful fact to hide behind. She said, 'Then ask me when you have time,' and took her cup away. Not a slammed door. I resent how often that would improve the telling. On Monday I arrived early and found the bowl exactly as I'd left it. I turned it onto its side. Then I stood at the door looking along the street for her. I had got the morning I'd apparently wanted.

On Wednesday. I asked her to come at half past eleven and said I'd make the coffee. She came at twenty-five past, which I noticed with the generosity you'd expect. I had moved the paper onto the floor. Before she sat down, I told her the bowl was staying on its side. She said she hadn't come to see the bowl. Then she asked if we could sit somewhere she wouldn't have to watch me reach for the ledger.

On two dining chairs at the back, facing each other. I left the ledger open. After a minute she asked whether I wanted to hear about her morning. I said of course, rather indignantly. Until then I'd assumed she had nothing happening before she came to me. That's the part I dislike telling you. She had brought something of her own to ask about, folded in her coat pocket. I remember putting my cup down when she showed me.

A leaflet for a furniture restoration course. Six Saturday mornings, starting at nine. She'd circled the part about bringing a small piece to work on. Her sentence was, 'Would you come with me to the first one?' There, unabridged. I asked who was teaching it. She showed me the name, and I asked whether materials were included. Both reasonable questions. You can probably hear how pleased I was to have found some.

I was usually at the desk by nine on Saturdays. I could have asked to change that. I didn't. I said she could bring the piece into the shop and we could look at it there. She folded the leaflet along its old creases and said she wanted to learn from someone who knew how. Fair enough. I'd never repaired a chair. But I'd managed to offer myself as the alternative to a teacher within three minutes.

She did. She wanted someone to arrive with, because she hated the first few minutes when everyone seemed to know where to put their coat. Then she intended to go alone. The piece was her kitchen stool; one leg shifted when she sat on it. I said I'd never known her worry about entering a room. She said, 'You generally see me entering yours.' I stopped arguing about materials after that. I hadn't realised how much I relied on her looking certain.

I said yes. Then I asked about carrying the stool; you may enjoy being almost right. I arranged the morning away from the desk, and we met outside the class at ten to nine. She had the stool. I had a little chair from my kitchen, which surprised her because I'd said I was only coming for company. Nothing was broken on it. Slow down here, Vivienne. I want to tell you why I brought it before you decide I was being helpful again.

I wanted the brown paint off it. I'd wanted that for years. There was a pale patch under the seat where the brush hadn't reached, and I liked it better than the parts I could see at breakfast. I told my sister I'd brought something in case there was time. She asked whether I'd booked a place. I hadn't. Apparently I expected a chair to be accepted as an application. You may admire the logistics; the motives were less organised.

She'd reserved a place; we paid there. And she didn't negotiate. She said, 'Ask him,' and took her stool inside. I stood in the doorway holding mine by the back until the teacher asked whether I was bringing in another seat. I said I wanted to learn to remove the paint. There was a cancellation. I paid for the six mornings. That wasn't what I'd arranged with the shop, of course. I'd arranged one. There is your properly inconvenient wish.

I told her I'd booked. She looked at the chair and said, 'You've always hated that brown.' Then she asked me to take the bench opposite. Hers was narrow, and she wanted space to turn the stool over. I had already put my bag beside hers. I moved it. For the first hour I could see her listening to someone without knowing what they were saying. I wanted to go across twice. The second time she was laughing. That was harder.

Yes. I was jealous. She'd needed me at the door and stopped needing me before I'd put my bag down. I stayed at my bench and asked the teacher where to begin. At the break I told her I wanted the next five mornings too. She said, 'Then you'll have to ask at the shop.' She knew what I hadn't arranged. Keep your arm there. When I went back that afternoon, I took the course dates to the desk. I haven't told you what answer I got.

Nobody. That's an inconvenient beginning, but it's the correct one. I was alone when I got back. I put the leaflet across the open ledger and copied the five dates onto a sheet. Beside each I wrote what had to be finished by Friday. By closing I had a respectable little plan. The leaflet was underneath it. You asked what I said: nothing, that afternoon. I had produced something to discuss without having to begin the discussion.

Ada. She worked Saturdays with me and had opened for the first class. On Monday I showed her the sheet. She asked whether the Friday list meant I wanted her to stay late. I said no, I'd do those things. Then she asked which extra jobs she'd have on Saturday. There were two: take a delivery if it came early, and write down any account questions. She said she could do that. I kept explaining the list. She put her finger on the first date.

She said, 'What time will you be back?' Noon, I told her. She wrote twelve beside each date and handed me the sheet. That was the answer. No speech about deserving a hobby; I would have disliked that intensely. I disliked the speed instead. I'd made myself ready to bargain, and she wanted to know when she could take her lunch. I did go the next Saturday. Before you congratulate me, I managed to spoil a piece of the chair.

A gouge across the front edge of the seat. I pushed the scraper when it caught. The teacher had told me to stop if that happened; I wanted one clean strip to show my sister at the break. You needn't rescue it with an adjective. I turned the chair so the mark faced me and put the scraper down. Then I asked him to come over. He looked at it and asked what finish I wanted. That was when I realised I'd only decided what I wanted taken off.

I said I wanted to see the wood. He wiped the cleared strip with a damp cloth so I could see more of its colour. It was yellower than the patch underneath. I didn't like it. There: years of disliking brown had apparently qualified me to dislike yellow. He had some painted samples on the shelf. I asked to look at them, then felt absurd about paying to remove paint so I could put paint back.

A blue so dark I took it for black until I held it nearer the window. I put it beside the pale yellow sample and kept moving it back into the light. You see why I didn't bring this to you for an efficient verdict. My sister came over at the break. I showed her the gouge first. She said, 'Yes, I can see that. What are you holding?' I'd hidden half the blue under my thumb.

I held it out. She thought it would be too dark beside my table. I told her the table was by the window, as though she'd never eaten there. Then I stopped and asked to borrow the sample until Saturday. The teacher said yes. I took the yellow too. Not to be fair: I wanted to see whether she was right. You're both distressingly fond of yellow. I put them against the chair at home before making tea.

The blue. I left it propped there through breakfast and chose it the next morning. I asked the teacher to show me how to fill the gouge before painting; I wasn't keeping it as a lesson. You'll see how well that went if you come on Sunday. Nine, coffee and eggs, just us. But I'd like an answer about something besides the chair. Tonight you asked what I wanted for supper. What would you like me to make room for on Sunday?

I like chives. I'm less certain about being assigned the coffee in my own kitchen before you've found the door. I invited you because I'd like to make you breakfast. That may sound excessively territorial over three eggs, but it matters to me. You fed me tonight. I'd like a turn. Would you still want the omelette if I made it, or is holding the pan part of what you're asking for?

The stove is two steps from the table. I can disappoint you without leaving the room. Come at nine, not twenty to, and keep me company while I cook. You can stand beside me if you leave enough room for my elbow. But I don't want every plate I put down to be returned as a chore you owe me. You asked me for potatoes tonight. Was it easier to hear what I wanted because you were the one serving?

I usually scramble them. You may have asked for the only breakfast at which I can be less competent than I intended. Soft in the middle, chives. I'll try. And I enjoyed supper; I'm not proposing to search the cupboards for ulterior motives. You can enjoy making something and be relieved to have a task. I'd like you to bring yourself at nine, though. No emergency pastries in case I mishandle the eggs. Can you bear to arrive without a reserve breakfast?

Notice whatever you notice. I'd rather you didn't crouch in the doorway hunting for the flaw. I filled it myself, then sanded too much from the patch and had to fill it again. Under the blue there's still a shallow dip; you can feel it more easily than see it. I wanted to tell you that before you arrived, which is suspiciously like handing you a report. So here's a different question. On Sunday, will you sit in it before I explain anything else?

I normally sit in the blue one. The other chair faces the window, which is pleasant until the sun reaches the glass and you spend breakfast looking past your own reflection. I wasn't allocating you a place permanently. I wanted you to try something I'd made usable. And yes, I intend to eat. If the omelette needs a minute, you can tolerate my back for a minute. I won't burn it to demonstrate that you're welcome.

A little. I pictured you in it when I asked you, and you've inconveniently developed a preference. But the other seat is available. It usually has books on it. I moved them to the shelf this afternoon, before coming to supper. That isn't a declaration concealed in furniture; I wanted to ask you over, and I knew I'd find a reason to postpone it if I got home to a room with nowhere for you to sit.

A cookbook, a novel and a book about repairing furniture whose advice I now read before touching anything. You can be pleased. I did want you there. The novel is the one with the cracked spine. I've written in its margins, which my sister considers vandalism. On one page I've disagreed with myself so often there's barely room for the printed sentence. You may look at the shelves on Sunday. I haven't agreed to lend you that one.

After breakfast, then. I'll read the passage and cover the margin with my hand. You can disagree with the printed page before you meet any of my objections. And don't spend breakfast trying to earn the reading by praising the eggs. Choose the seat you want once you've tried the blue one. I cleared a chair because I wanted company, not a favourable report. There's something in that passage I defended for years. I'm not sure I can still defend it aloud.

You may ask. But 'liked' and 'defended' aren't quite the same thing. There are sentences I've enjoyed while thinking them wrong, and others I've supported because someone at the table dismissed them too easily. I don't want you studying my face for the correct objection. Read the page with me first. Then ask the personal question. If I start describing a fictional sideboard, you have permission to interrupt.

No. Forgetting would require more supervision than remembering. And you're right; I've arranged quite an entrance for a page that may simply bore you. I haven't read that part again since I cleared the chair. I opened the book, saw my oldest note and shut it. So when I say I can't defend it aloud, I'm not reporting a brave new opinion. I haven't yet checked whether the printed words say what I remember.

'Ask her why she stayed.' Four words, underlined. No date, no useful identification of 'her'. I know who I meant: the woman in the novel. I don't know whether I was asking the author to explain her or reminding myself that someone ought to ask her. I remember arguing that she had made a choice. The note makes me wonder whether I was as satisfied with that argument as I sounded.

Six. An alarming performance from someone who used to keep accounts. My sister heard it, more than once. She'd lent me the book before I bought my own copy. I remember telling her that staying needn't mean the woman had failed to imagine leaving. She asked me which part of the page showed that. I remember my answer less clearly than her question. On Sunday, before I uncover the margin, I'd like to see whether I can actually point to it.

It's an adequate reason. I'd still like to say goodnight here. I want Sunday to be the first time I open that door to you; I hadn't realised I cared about that until you asked. You would probably behave impeccably on the doorstep, which makes refusing you rather inconvenient. Stay beside me a minute before we separate. You needn't inspect a building to establish that I enjoyed having supper with you.

Yes. There, you have your arm back. And you're right about the certificate. I made your request sound needier than it was because I disliked giving an answer that disappointed you. That was unhelpful. As for ceremony, you've turned to face me with a speech prepared about doorstep conduct. I can survive a little. What I would like, standing here, is to kiss your cheek. May I?

Take your moment. I'm discovering that being looked at is much less convenient when nobody is asking me a question. All right. A kiss on your cheek, and now I step back before you accuse me of obstructing the public steps. I wanted to do that during supper, actually. When you asked about the potatoes. I decided you'd think I was avoiding answering, so I asked for them instead.

I will. And if I'm staring at the pan after the eggs are on the table, you may return the favour. I haven't yet tried sitting opposite you in my own kitchen with nothing left to fetch. That part of Sunday concerns me more than the omelette. There, something for you to know before nine. Goodnight, Vivienne. I'm taking these steps now. Leave me the undignified pleasure of turning round to see whether you're still there.

The butter is already in. If I sit now, your arrival will smell of burnt breakfast. Give me the minute we negotiated, and then you can have me in the chair. I saw your one-handed wave, incidentally. It was sufficient; I managed to reach the top without requiring an encore. While I do this, tell me something you noticed on the way here. Something outside my kitchen. I'd like to know what sort of morning you've brought in.

Did the plant accept? No, don't answer; I'm folding this, and I can't afford to laugh at a sensitive moment. There. One side is less elegant, so naturally that's mine. I'll bring both plates. You can release your hands from exemplary service now. I put the novel on the shelf rather than the table this morning. I caught myself laying it beside your fork, as though breakfast required an agenda. For once, I wanted to find out what we'd say without one.

You can have the folded corner. Here, both plates within reach; choose before I develop further opinions. I'm sitting down now. Those earrings move when you're trying not to smile. I like them, although the bus apparently deserves the credit. What occasion would the first pair have announced? You don't have to show them to me. I'm curious whether you were dressing for something you wanted, or something you thought I expected.

I was pleased. I hadn't prepared a face for the door, so you'll have to accept that one as reliable. And thank you for telling me about the middle; I was trying not to watch your fork. Mine is soft too. Good. I can stop supervising it. There is something I left out when I invited you: I kept the rest of the morning free. Breakfast and the book needn't be the whole visit. Have you somewhere to be afterwards?

The fork has resumed its proper duties. Yes, decide after we've eaten. But you needn't watch for me to become politely tired of you; if I want the room back, I'll say so. I would rather risk an awkward sentence than spend Sunday making increasingly weak coffee. Do you want another cup when we've finished this one? That is a question about coffee. I'm beginning to understand why people simply put the pot within reach.

Paper, then. I've finished; let me move my plate so the book doesn't acquire chives. Here it is. This sheet covers the outside margin. I'll read the three sentences before we begin dismantling them: 'At the gate she heard the cart leave. She carried her bag back upstairs and opened the window above the yard. When he called her name, she did not answer.' That's the passage. What do you think she has chosen?

'Opened the window.' I remember now. I told her the woman was making the room habitable, so she intended to remain. My sister said she might simply want air. I found that unbearably flippant. Hearing it aloud, it seems a fairly serious objection. I still dislike your missed-lift explanation; it makes the return sound like an accident. But I can't dismiss it from these sentences. May I uncover the margin? I'd like to know whether I ever wrote down my sister's answer.

Then coffee first. There, the sheet is off. Under 'Ask her why she stayed,' I've written 'air?' in pencil. Smaller than everything around it, naturally. I did record her objection; I've been remembering myself as less willing to listen than I was. Look, there's something else beside the last sentence: 'Who expects an answer?' That is my handwriting too. I don't remember writing it. Shall we keep that question between us when I turn the page?

Here is your coffee. I'll put the pot here, safely beyond your expressive elbow. Yes, I'll copy it. But I meant the reader as well as the man: I have been expecting the woman to explain herself because I defended her. That's an uncomfortable demand to discover in my own pencil. Give me a moment before we read on. You needn't agree that my old question means that; it's what it asks me this morning.

On the sheet, please. I've copied the question; here's the pencil. I accept the distinction, though I still want to know when my interest became a defence. Now, the next paragraph: 'He called once more, asking where she had put the receipt. She took it from her bag and laid it on the sill, beneath the blue cup. Then she went downstairs.' Well. I had entirely forgotten the receipt. Your expressive elbow may remain; my certainty should probably move.

The things she notices while something important is happening. A cup still needs putting somewhere. I liked that the room didn't disappear because she had a decision to make. That's what I remember enjoying, anyway. This morning I like the receipt under the cup: useful, slightly irritating, impossible to make grand without effort. And I like hearing you revise an opinion in the middle of saying it. It makes me want to read the next bit aloud rather than privately check it first.

Yes. Here, halfway, and the sheet beside it. You may give the receipt a perfectly ordinary voice. My sister read the beginning aloud to me before she lent me her copy. I haven't told you that. She stopped because I kept interrupting to argue; I said I'd rather read it myself. I'd forgotten how much I liked listening before I needed to be right. Start where my finger is. If I interrupt, you may ask whether I've actually heard the end of the sentence.

I think you made her delay. You slowed down at 'although', quite beautifully, and now I can hardly see the rug without suspecting it. That's a compliment to your voice and an objection to your evidence. May I read that sentence back? I want to try it briskly. Also, please don't count my silences. I invited you to ask if I'd heard the end, not award me a small certificate when I had.

'At the foot of the stairs she stopped to straighten the little rug, although she could already hear him opening the cupboard.' There. Briskly. Now she sounds annoyed with the rug, which is a third possibility neither of us required. I'll put the book back between us. I preferred your reading, actually. I could see the staircase. Mine was mostly a demonstration, and I became rather eager to reach the cupboard and prove my point.

Yours. And 'damned' is sufficiently precise; here, I've written both questions. The curled corner is your addition, incidentally. We ought to charge you rent for all this furniture. Before you read, there's something I want to check at the front. I remember my sister laughing when I first complained about the woman straightening things. I thought she was laughing at my argument. Now I'm wondering whether I'd just straightened something myself. May I look at her inscription?

You may look. It says, 'For Vera, who always saves my place.' No date. That doesn't explain the laughing, and I won't pretend it does. I used to keep a finger in her book when she went to answer the door. I'd forgotten that until now. Here, I'll turn back to our sheet. I still want your voice. But first, would you ask me why I stopped reading with her? I think I gave you the convenient answer.

She went to the door. I kept her place, then read ahead while she was gone. When she came back, I told her the next paragraph settled our argument. She asked where to begin, and I pointed further down the page. I had already read the part she would have read to me. She didn't close it; I asked to borrow it. That's the movement of the book, as I remember it. I made it sound as though she had simply tired of my interruptions.

I wanted her agreement first. When she said we should read the paragraph aloud anyway, I said there was no point; I'd just told her what happened. I remember that sentence rather well now. Then I wanted the book to myself. Both, in that order. But I haven't chosen a passage for you this morning. I've delayed one, with your permission. Please let that difference survive the comparison. I am enjoying this, including the parts where you are inconveniently attractive and wrong about me.

Only that I missed her voice once I had the book at home. I could have said that when I returned, and asked her to read again. I didn't. That is the less convenient part; the quarrel wasn't the only opportunity I had. Now, yes, your finger beneath the line, please. I would like to hear what he takes from the cupboard before I acquire another opinion about my character. You may even make him sound disagreeable, provided you let him finish.

Whether they're both having tea. The cup makes me hear an invitation, though I dislike that he doesn't turn. Your task is possible; I don't hear it first. And I won't tell you what happens because I don't remember. I remember being certain about this book much better than I remember the book. Put 'milk for two?' beneath our rug, if you like. Then keep reading. I want to hear whether she comes into the kitchen before either of us decides where she belongs.

He reaches for the cloth. I was about to write that down before you turned him into a man who leaves everything to her. But she gets there first, and I don't know why. Perhaps she doesn't trust his washing. Perhaps she wants something to do with her hands. I would like one minute with that possibility. You may look impatient; it suits you more than the expression you wear when you're trying to look patient.

Yes. At the shop, someone offered to add up a column while I finished another. I checked theirs before I finished mine. Not because I found an error; I didn't. I disliked being ready to leave before everyone else. With figures in front of me, I could remain without asking whether anyone wanted me there. Don't put that beside the woman's cup. It belongs beside my name. And I have written 'he reaches', as requested.

Once that I can remember clearly. I'll tell you after the page, because I want the rest of it too. And yes, checking the sum probably looked insulting. I hadn't considered that part until you said it. Here, move your cup; the sheet is catching underneath. There. Read from the sink. I shall keep my hands on my own cup, which is already clean, and make no useful contribution whatsoever. An alarming prospect. You seem pleased.

Yes. We put the accounts away and ate bread on the step outside. I remember crumbs collecting in the fold of my skirt, and wanting to laugh without moving them. The person beside me asked whether I liked having my name above the door. I said it was good for business. That wasn't what they'd asked. Put the sheet in the book, would you? I want to tell you what I almost said, and I don't want to watch the next page while I do.

'Yes. I like coming round the corner and seeing it before anyone sees me.' That was the sentence. Fairly tidy, I'm afraid; the difficulty wasn't composition. I liked having a moment outside when I belonged there and nobody had yet asked me to do anything. Then I heard how pleased with myself I sounded, although I hadn't spoken. So I supplied a commercial advantage. Please don't make that the secret explanation of everything that happened afterwards.

They said, 'I meant do you like it.' I remember looking up, which was absurd; I knew what it said. Then I offered them the end of the bread. They took it. We talked about whether it would rain. There was room; I furnished it with weather. But you have an advantage over them: you know there is another answer. Would you really have waited beside me, or would you have tried to charm it out?

I'd probably have improved your joke. Then we could both have enjoyed how well the evening was going without my answering anything. I like being funny with you; it is sometimes a very agreeable escape route. But I am looking at you now. Yes, I liked my name there. I liked the long stroke of the V, which I insisted on, and I liked that someone could give directions using it. I'm finding this harder to say than the regrets.

I wanted you to be able to take it. I also wanted you to keep reading to me, which made letting go of it rather easier. Here, halfway again, still shut. I haven't finished enjoying your company merely because we've finished the page. But before we open it, I want a turn at being curious. Have you ever liked seeing your own name on something? Tell me the first thing you picture. And allow me the pleasure of not yet knowing the story.