Where are you?” “I’m at home,” says Gina. “Paul, it’s nearly midnight. You never ring at a civilized hour.” “Because you don’t answer then, do you? And you’re too busy in pursuit of news to call back. Or you’re on the other side of the world. OK—I’ll go.” “Don’t,” says Gina. “As it happens, I’m not in bed yet. And Philip’s away. Where are you?” “Where do you think I am? At Allersmead. As per usual. As so often. Where a guy of my age should not be—in the parental home.” “Listen, Paul . . .” “In fact, I’m applying for a job at Wisley. Seeing that I’ve got all this horticultural experience. D’you think they’ll take me? I’ve written ever such a persuasive letter. And sent my credentials.” “Ah,” says Gina. “What credentials exactly?” “My CV demonstrates flexibility, if nothing else. Barhand, hospital porter, school groundsman, motorbike courier, fruit picker, car-park attendant. Wide experience of living circumstances: several squats, various sofas and put-U-ups, share of a flat with—um—five others, agricultural workers’ hostels, shared room at rehab center.
