‘Take a look.’ It was the day that they met in Thomas’s office, the day that Thomas had returned to work with his left arm in plaster. Both had registered surprise when Azalea popped her head around the door. ‘Good Lord – it’s you! From the escalator. Did you track me down?’ Thomas had asked, aware, as he did, just how awkward this question sounded. ‘Of course I tracked you down. But that was because of your paper.’ She held the document up to show him, and they both found themselves looking at it with expressions of surprise. ‘It had nothing to do with what happened at Euston.’ Thomas suffered a moment of bewilderment. ‘Are you . . . are you all right?’ Azalea screwed up her face. ‘All right how?’ ‘You know – after the accident.’ ‘Ah.’ She put her hand on her side. ‘I did break a rib.’ ‘Of course. You thought you’d broken a rib, didn’t you? I mean . . . you said at the time you thought . . . you know, you’d broken one. A rib.’ Thomas found his grasp on the English language crumbling.
