ISSN 1758-6488
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Creative Writing Fiction |
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There is a knock on the door – my door, the office door, not O’Hagan’s. I get up and walk around the desk, slip between two of the room dividers and cross the office to open the door, which cannot be opened from the outside unless you know the code.
‘Hello,’ I say to the student who is standing there.
Her name is Grace, I think. I see a lot of students, hear a lot of names.
‘Hiya.’ Her voice is slightly uncertain and her eyes look everywhere but at mine. With her dyed black hair and pale skin, she has the androgynous look of an emo kid or a goth. ‘It’s Grace. I’m in your First Novels class.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I remember. Come in.’
We sit with my desk between us, and she still doesn’t look at me, until I briefly turn away and then I am peripherally aware of her gaze momentarily settling on me.
‘What did you want to see me about, Grace?’ I ask.
‘The… er… First Novels class.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m having trouble finding copies of some of the books on the list.’
‘Maybe you weren’t at the introductory session,’ I say. ‘I explained then that a number of these titles are out of print but that in most cases secondhand copies are easily available from online booksellers or secondhand bookshops, where they still exist.’
‘Right,’ she says, looking at the two books on my desk. ‘I managed to find this actually,’ she adds, pointing to The Bell Jar. ‘But it looks different.’
‘This is an old copy,’ I tell her. ‘Secondhand. But The Bell Jar is in print. The Jane Solomon is not in print, but you can pick up copies online very cheaply.’
She nods, looking at the floor.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘I can’t remember,’ she says. ‘I mean, yes, there was, but I can’t remember what it was.’
‘Email me when you remember.’
‘My internet connection is down. Can I call you?’
‘Of course.’ I look at my Spartan desk. ‘I don’t have anything to write my number on.’
She rummages in her pockets and comes up empty-handed. From her bag she produces a dog-eared five pound note and a pen. I dictate the number and she writes it on the banknote.
I see her to the door. The cutting I had been looking at is still sitting in the middle of my desk. I pick it up again.
O’Hagan’s desk is old, square, solid, four drawers either side, two in the middle. He claims it came from a Victorian lawyers’ office in Doughty Street, next door to Dickens’ house, and it may well have done but it looks identical to that of Antonia Fraser, previously featured in the same slot. Behind the desk is a bookcase with glazed doors full of volumes the uniformity of which suggests they are copies of O’Hagan’s own titles. Between the armchair and the desk is a small three-shelf bookcase of the type that tips books at an angle, but the spines are too far away to be legible. Closer to the camera, an urn sits on the floor next to the armchair. Three books sit on top of it in a neat little pile, clearly the books O’Hagan was last looking at as he sat relaxing, but they cannot quite be made out. All I can say with any certainty is that none is a trade paperback with orange spine and black text.
