I have not wanted to be parted from my mobile phone. Living in hope, that’s called, and it’s a mug’s game. I pointed the miniature antennae towards England when I heard her voice. I don’t suppose it makes any difference. ‘I tried to e-mail you, but you didn’t answer. So I hope the offer is still open,’ she said. There’s a crystal quality to her voice. I don’t mean sharp. Clear, I mean, like a stream, and strangely familiar to me, a whisper I remember from before. And her voice on the phone frightens me, too, in a basic, instinctual way. I almost hate her for it. I resent like hell the smarminess of the dealings I have with her. Don’t let me offend you by blinking my eyes in a manner displeasing to you. Allow one, if you will, to trail around after you with one’s begging bowl, and we’ll both feel an awful lot better. Infuriates me. I don’t like making beds by myself. I’m too old for all the flapping and straightening and tucking in this side, walk around to the other side.
What do You think about The Italian Romance (2009)?
