He first came to me at 5pm on a Tuesday. I'd phoned in sick with the flu and spent most of the day with a turkey baster up my nose trying to clear my sinuses. One of my more enlightened friends Ebony told me that she did this every morning, not with a turkey baster (she was vegetarian) but with a small ceramic pot. Titling her head to the side, she poured saltwater into one nostril until it gently drained out the other, clearing all the muck and germs in time for breakfast. I get the flu a lot so she thought this might be helpful but the baster was too big, it wouldn't fit up my nose, and the salt solution dribbled down my chin and stained the front of my nightie without a drop reaching my sinuses. I opted for a whisky toddy instead.
A stormy relationship? Well, yes, I suppose it might have been.
But then a relationship has to be stormy, nowadays, to get a mention in the newspapers. I’m old enough to remember a time when a more tender sentiment prevailed in the public press, and every marriage made in theatre-land was ‘a grand romance’ or ‘a sparkling match’ or ‘a union of twin artistic spirits’, as long as the gentleman held the door open and the lady didn’t run off with a carpet-fitter…
As Max stepped outside he delighted in the fine mist dampening his hair, the sudden slickness of the pavement greeting his Oxfords. The rain began to soak his shirt, thunder clapped in the distance, and he felt himself relax, knowing this would mean fewer pedestrians on his streets. Yes, it was around 10 o'clock on a Tuesday night, but this was New York, after all, and there was always someone around. What Max prized about his home—the fact that after trading hours, almost no one hangs around Wall Street, making the area a ghost town—his wife Lena detested. More and more Max felt himself drawn out onto the streets, and on these occasions, he valued the deserted, almost post-apocalyptic air of the neighbourhood.
I am not really reading. I'm thinking about my bag. I didn’t know if I should bring it. I thought it might be presumptuous - embarrassingly so - to think if everything goes well then we’ll do it tonight. But to not have it would be worse. If he wanted to … and I couldn’t. An opportunity missed. He might be put off. And then, disappointed, never contact me again. I don’t know if I could go back trawling the site. So I brought it, and now I'm looking past my book at it, and worrying it's too obvious. If I were the sort of person who carried a handbag this wouldn't be a problem. The bag-for-life is just too orange.
Longtime contributors Niall Boyce, Jonathan Pinnock & Richard Smyth all have books out which you'd be well advised to buy, then read, then buy for others. All genres are catered for, from novels (Niall's Veronica Britton) and short stories (Jonathan's Dot Dash) to nonfiction (Richard's Bumfodder)
KATY LIAR'S DEBUT NOVEL
Liar Katy Darby's debut novel, a Victorian drama called The Unpierced Heart (previously titled The Whores' Asylum) is now out in Penguin paperback. It's had nice reviews in The Independent on Sunday, Sunday Times & Metro (4*).
OUR INTERVIEW WITH ANNEXE MAG!
They came, they saw, they asked us a bunch of interesting questions. Interview by Nick of Annexe Magazine with Katy of LL: here
