‘I never said anything of the sort,’ you said, shaking your head. ‘What kind of narcissistic knob would say something like that?’
‘I remember it distinctly,’ I said, refilling my own glass now. ‘I can even remember where we were when you said it.’
‘Honestly, Edith, if that’s how you see me, then I don’t know why you married me at all.’
‘Well, if you’re not going to write,’ I said, ignoring this remark, ‘then what are you going to do? You can’t just sit around the flat all day staring at the four walls.’
‘I’ll figure something out,’ you said. ‘Someone needs to do the shopping and the laundry and so on.’
A shadow fell across the table and I looked up to see a boy standing there. He was young, in his early twenties, with floppy blond hair. His skin was pale but his cheeks had a slight redness to them. If Eton College had a brochure, which they probably did, he could easily be the cover star.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ he said, looking from me to you and back to me again. ‘It’s Edith Camberley, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised that he knew who I was. I had never once been publicly recognized.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ he repeated, toying with a silver ring on the middle finger of his right hand. ‘My name’s Garrett Colby. I’m one of your students. Or I will be, anyway, from next week.’
‘Oh,’ I said, feeling strangely excited. ‘How nice to meet you!’
‘I saw you but wasn’t sure whether to come over or not. I’m sorry to interrupt you.’
‘You’ve said that three times now,’ you remarked, and I threw you a look but you deflected it with a smile, reaching for one of the mint chocolates that had come with the coffees and popping it into your mouth, masticating noisily.
‘It should be an interesting year ahead,’ I said.
‘I must admit I’m quite nervous,’ he replied.
‘What are you working on?’ I asked him. ‘A novel?’
‘Short stories,’ he said. ‘I’ve been writing stories since I was a boy.’
‘But you’re still a boy,’ you told him. ‘You look about twelve.’
‘I’m twenty-two,’ he replied.
‘You don’t even look like you shave.’
Poor Garrett blushed even deeper and I felt sorry for him. I tried to kick you under the table but succeeded only in banging my toe on the leg of your chair.
‘Just ignore him,’ I said. ‘My husband is being ridiculous.’
‘What kind of stories do you write?’ you asked.
‘They’re mostly about animals,’ he said.
‘Animals?’
‘Yes. I’ve been working on first-person stories narrated by … well, animals.’
‘What sort of animals?’ I asked.
‘There’s one narrated by a giraffe,’ he replied. ‘And another by a gorilla. I published one in Granta last year that was narrated by a pelican.’
‘Of course, strictly speaking, a pelican is a bird, not an animal,’ you said.
‘That’s true,’ said Garrett. ‘But I let birds in. Is there a collective noun for animals and birds?’
‘Banimals,’ you said. ‘Birdimals. Animirds.’
‘They sound fascinating,’ I said, although, to be honest, I thought it all sounded a little strange.
‘So, you’re a children’s writer?’ you asked, looking at the boy. ‘Or hoping to be?’
‘No,’ said Garrett, taking a step back, and I could see, for some reason, that he felt insulted by the remark. ‘No, they’re very definitely for adults.’
‘Then why don’t you write about people?’ you asked. ‘Actual human beings. Aren’t you interested in them?’
‘I am, yes, but it’s the relationship between people and animals that interests me most,’ he replied. ‘It’s hard to explain. You’d probably have to read one, to be honest.’
‘Fortunately, that will be my wife’s job,’ you said. ‘Not mine.’
Garrett looked a little upset now, as if he regretted having approached us in the first place, and glanced back towards his own table, where another young man was seated, staring over at us with an anxious expression on his face.
‘And who’s that?’ I asked, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Another student?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Well, no. I mean yes, he’s a student but not on the creative-writing course. He’s studying medicine.’
‘Veterinary medicine?’ you asked.
‘No, regular medicine. We met a few weeks ago. We both arrived in Norwich early to settle in. We’re in the same halls.’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’ you asked, and I stared at you, wondering why you were trying to embarrass him, but there didn’t seem to be anything unkind in the tone that you’d used.
‘Sort of,’ said Garrett, growing a little more confident now. ‘We’re not sure yet. Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.’
‘You’ve said.’
‘I just wanted to say hello.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ I said. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you on Wednesday.’
He smiled and nodded. The expression on his face as he walked away was one of humiliation crossed with disappointment. I turned to remonstrate with you but before I could open my mouth he’d returned.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt you,’ he said.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ you said, looking away in irritation.
‘It’s just’ – and now he was looking at you, not me – ‘didn’t you used to be a writer too?’
I felt a sudden spasm in the pit of my stomach, like someone had just pushed me from a great height and I was tumbling down, unable to grab hold of anything to prevent me from falling.
‘What do you mean used to be?’ you asked.
‘It’s just that when I knew Miss Camberley was going to be the course tutor—’
‘Please call me Edith,’ I said.
‘I read her novel. Or re-read it, I should say. And then I looked up some interviews with her and they mentioned your name. It’s Maurice Swift, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ you said.
‘I think I read your novel too.’
‘Which one?’
‘Two Germans.’
‘You think you read it?’
‘When I was in school, I mean. I think I borrowed it from the library.’
You smiled a little. ‘But you’re not sure?’ you asked. ‘It might have been something else? It might have been Murder on the Orient Express, for example? Or War and Peace?’
‘I’m fairly certain it was Two Germans. It’s just that I can’t really remember what it was about, that’s all.’
‘Well, it was about two Germans. The clue is in the title, you see.’
‘Yes, of course. I suppose what I mean is that I can’t remember the plot.’
‘Well, never mind,’ you said. ‘There wasn’t much of one, anyway.’