And then there is Farid. Andrew descended like the wrath of God on the police and the Border Agency, claiming wrongful imprisonment, corruption and much else besides. Farid was out of the IRC the same day, and Andrew has no doubt that he can get him leave to remain for the duration of his medical studies. The question is whether remaining is what he wants. I have had a letter from him. Courteous as ever, he thanked me for my help and for Andrew’s intervention but stopped short of committing to staying. My experience of being incarcerated is burned into my soul, he wrote. I don’t know yet whether those burns can heal. I was impressed by the extended metaphor. I can see why Dora loves him. Whether he stays will, I think, depend on Dora, who is proving unexpectedly resourceful. If he stays and if she does well enough in her A levels in the summer, she will see if she can pick up a place at one of the London colleges so they can be together. Her father, I assume, has not been apprised of this plan. There is another act of this drama to come.
So Andrew has done well, as has Lavender, who urged him to ring me on his return from Argentina, almost before he had his coat off and certainly before telling him about the problems with the dishwasher and the need to look for a new au pair. This is why, for the first time in fifteen years, Andrew is invited to my birthday party. Lavender is invited, too, of course, as are Ellie and Ben and Annie and Jon. And Freda. I have warned her that this will be a dinner party at my hotel and that we shall be sitting round the table for a long time talking about grown-up things but she is quite confident that she is up to it. It will be my fifty-first birthday, not one to make a fuss of but I spent my fiftieth on my own, drinking leek and potato soup and rereading The Mill on the Floss. I was thoroughly miserable and I can’t remember now why I thought it was a good idea. I shall make up for it this evening with overpriced champagne and a new dress.
I am wearing the dress now, sitting in the bar, waiting for the others to arrive. Annie’s boyfriend, Jon, is not coming. He is working, apparently, but Annie sounded worryingly flat on the phone and I shall be glad of a chance to have a good look at her and see if she is all right. In fact, I think I need to keep an eye on her. I have let her slip away because it was what she seemed to want and because it was easier. If I were in London, would things be better between us? This is not just idle speculation actually. In my bag I have a letter inviting me to an interview for a job at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. SOAS is El Dorado for an English Language teacher; it is full of very bright, highly motivated students from all over the world and one would feel in the very heartbeat of the global future there.
It is also in Bloomsbury, which I find unreasonably romantic and exciting, and I have already trawled websites to see whether my huge fortune from the sales of my house and my mother’s flat would buy me a broom cupboard there, and it turns out that I could get quite a comfortable studio flat just minutes from the British Museum. Since I have dispossessed myself of almost all my belongings, a studio would suit me very well. I am absurdly excited about the prospect and desperate to get the job. I panicked when I first got the interview letter, feeling that the past two years had left me horribly out of touch with current theory and practice, but since then I have spent three solid days in the wonderful SOAS library, braving the rolling stacks and genning up. Now I feel ready to dazzle my interviewers.
I must not count chickens yet but I can’t help thinking about a London life. I missed it terribly when I was first marooned in Marlbury but over the years the town expanded to fill my life and I forgot about it. Perhaps it is the cultural starvation of the past eighteen months that has made me suddenly hungry for London all over again. Perhaps it is the need to be near Annie (and I could keep an eye on Dora and Farid if Dora’s plans work out). And, yes, perhaps I am also thinking that David is in London. I have no idea if he wants to see me but he did tell Paula to trust me, and that is not nothing. And I have his phone number. Paula gave it to me; my grudging reward for services rendered. I haven’t used it yet; no point if I’m not going to get the job. But if I do, well…
Chapter Headings
The chapter headings here are all titles of novels which have won the Booker/Man Booker prize in the past 47 years and have been popular choices for book groups.
The Sea John Banville 2005
The God of Small Things Arundhati Roy 1997
Offshore Penelope Fitzgerald 1979
Bring Up the Bodies Hilary Mantel 2012
The Gathering Ann Enright 2007
Something to Answer for P.H. Newby 1969
In a Free State V.S. Naipaul 1971
Troubles J.G. Farrell 1970
The Inheritance of Loss Kiran Desai 2006
Disgrace J.M.Coetzee 1999
The Old Devils Kingsley Amis 1986
The Blind Assassin Margaret Atwood 2000
The English Patient Michael Ondaatje 1992
Possession A.S. Byatt 1990
Rites of Passage William Golding 1980
How Late it Was, How Late James Kelman 1994
The Ghost Road Pat Barker 1995
The Sense of an Ending Julian Barnes 2011
Last Orders Graham Swift 1996
The Remains of the Day Kazuo Ishiguro 1989
Staying On Paul Scott 1977
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