40
London calling II: The midget phones back
Monday, January 16
I was beside myself all night. So violently did I thrash about, it would have taken a slow motion camera to confirm there was only one person in the bed. Up and about I was only slightly more in control of my limbs, forced as they were to lumber into a Gabriel-free kitchen, arms wanting to make green tea, legs wanting to carry it up the stairs, arms wanting to place the hot tea on a book for fear it burn the white paint on the bedside table, lips wanting to kiss her on the head and seek an approximation of my chances.
The phone rang in the hall at nine o’clock, precisely two hours after I had muttered at dogs and walls and windows and mirrors long enough to believe I was in no way equipped to take the call.
I got to it halfway through the first ring.
It was Gabriel.
She told me where she was. She told me to get on the next train to London and be there by tonight. She told me not to ask questions. She told me who was on her way to look after the dogs. She told me to be nice.
