Part 22 (2/2)

'Look, could we get a move on d'you think?' says Alice, testily. 'It's just I've got to be somewhere at nine-thirty . . .'

'Where?' I ask, suddenly anxious.

'Just going to see someone - is that okay with you?' She snaps. Lucy and Patrick share a look.

'Of course, but I thought we were going for a drink, that's all . . .'

'Can't now. I've got a Hedda Gabler re-call if you must know' and I bridle slightly, and accidentally press the buzzer.

'Sorry!'

'Actually, I don't think my buzzer's working at all,' says Lucy Chang, and Patrick s.n.a.t.c.hes it off her, likes it's poor Lucy's fault, and jabs at it with the huge Swiss Army knife he keeps on his big bunch of keys. Alice and I glance at each other warily and we seem a long way from being a winning team.

After that, I don't bother answering any more questions, even the ones I actually know the answers to. I just leave them 217.

I.

DAVID NICHOLLS.

I.

to Lucy, mainly, and Alice, occasionally, and as soon as Patrick has given his post-match a.n.a.lysis - don't get trigger-happy with those buzzers, always concede to the person with greater expertise in that area, listen to the question, be wary of interruptions - Alice has got her coat on and is heading for the door. Just before she exits, though, in the spirit of appeas.e.m.e.nt, she says, 'Oh, by the way, some friends of mine are having a party tomorrow night, twelve Dorchester Street, eight o'clock? You're all invited,' and then she smiles an apology at me, I think, and goes.

I walk home with Lucy Chang, who lives up the hill from me, and she's actually incredibly nice. I realise that Lucy is the first Chinese person I've really talked to outside of a restaurant environment, but decide not to say this out loud. Instead we talk about what it's like training as a doctor and she's very interesting on the subject, but very quiet, and I have to lean in to hear what she's saying, which makes me feel a bit Prince Philipish.

'What made you want to be a doctor?'

'My parents, really. They always said being a doctor was the highest ambition you could have. You know, actually making a difference to the quality of life.'

'And you enjoy it?'

'Absolutely. I love it. How about you, how about literature?' 'Oh, I like it. I just don't know if I'm improving the quality of anyone's life, that's all.'

'Do you write?'

'Not really. I've just sort of started writing a bit of poetry.' I'm still practising saying this aloud, but Lucy doesn't sneer, not out loud anyway. 'Sounds a bit pretentious, doesn't it?'

'Oh, not in the least. Why?'

'I don't know, it's just like Orwell said; the natural response of the Englishman to poetry was extreme embarra.s.sment.'

218.

LWell, I don't know why. Some might argue that poetry is actually the purest form of human expression.'

'Yeah, well, you haven't read my poems.'

She laughs quietly, and says, 'I wouldn't mind reading them. I'm sure they're very good.'

'And I wouldn't mind you operating on me either!' I say, and then there's a pause while we both try to work out why this sounds dirty.

'Well, let's hope it doesn't ever come to that!' and we walk on a bit further, trying to shake off that 'operate-on-me' comment, which is still hanging in the air between us like a fart in an art gallery.

'So - dissecting anything good at the moment?' I ask eventually.

'The cardiovascular system.'

'Right. And do you enjoy that?' asks Prince Philip.

'Yes, yes I do.'

'And is that what you'd like to specialise in when you leave?'

'Surgery I think, though I don't know in what area yet. I'm torn between heart and brain.'

'Aren't we all!' I say, which sounds pretty witty to me. In fact I say it before I can actually work out what it means, so that it just hangs there in the air, too. And then Lucy comes up with a complete non-sequitur.

'Alice is cool, isn't she?'

'Yes. Yes. She can be.' It was a non-sequitur, wasn't it?

After a while. 'Very beautiful.'

'Hmm.'

After a while. 'You seem pretty close.'

'Well, yes, I suppose we are. Sometimes.' And encouraged and surprised by this new-found easy familiarity between Lucy and I, say, 'Patrick is a very strange man, isn't he? I think perhaps he . . .' but Lucy stops suddenly, and puts her hand on my forearm and squeezes slightly . . .

219.

'Brian - can I tell you something? Something personal . . .'

'Of course,' I say, then realise what she's going to say . . .

'This is a little embarra.s.sing for me . . .' she says, frowning.

She's going to ask me out! 'Go on, say it . . .'

'Ok-aaaay . . .' she says, taking a deep breath . . .

What should I say? Well - no. Clearly I have to say no ...

'Here goes . . .'

. . . but how do I let her down gently, without upsetting her . . . ?

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