Some motherfucker had set my phone, for some reason best known to Beelzebub, to Manic Bastard Loud Volume, and had conspired with whichever god was running the show tonight to hide it somewhere underneath the random crap in my bag as opposed to in my back hip pocket, as usual.

I found the damn thing just in time to register the name on the call display and go through that split-second decision of which was the more painful option: to answer and risk waking even more people, or switch it off.

*

"You answered, right?"

"Yeah."

*

As you know, I’m sure, for Gretchen there is no such thing as too busy to answer the phone or too late to answer the phone. I would pay in spades sooner and later if I failed to answer.

"Yes?" I muttered, hunching over as if this would shield me from audibility to all but Gretchen.

"What’s the matter, did I wake you?"

"No."

"Why are you so quiet? Why can’t I hear you properly?"

I reached for the doorhandle. "Because I’m muttering, Gretchen."

"What?"

"I’m muttering. I don’t want to disturb anyone."

"Good grief, are you with another of your conquests?"

I felt my nostrils flare and my shoulders tighten. I could not fucking believe the contempt in her voice. Katherine had warned me and I hadn’t listened because damn me, I know better. Wanker.

I squinted at the display screen. Sure enough, 2:45am. "No, I’m just..."

"What?"

Slightly louder: "What do you want, Gretchen?"

"Oh, good grief, straight down to business, isn’t it, screw the small talk."

"I’m sorry, I..."

"I mean, I think I’ve got a right to be upset. I organise a fantastic, innovative exhibition, I put a lot of time, and effort and personal energy into it, and not only do people not turn up but would you believe that bitch Katherine Greely has the affrontery to... are you listening to me?"

I had omitted the obligatory ‘uh-huh?’s and ‘oh dear’s that one has to employ frequently, but not gratuitously, as a continuo to Gretchen’s soliloquies, partly through trying to keep quiet, but mostly through distraction at trying to operate the fiddly door mechanism which turned out to need both hands and some concentration.

"Sorry, I’m just..."

"Look, I really can’t hear you, you know. Can’t you speak up?"

"No, Gretchen, not just yet, can you hold on a second?"

"What?!" She sounded incredulous.

"No, really, look, Gretchen, it’ll only take another 10 seconds while I..."

"Are you trying to fob me off?"

"What? I..."

"You are, you’re trying to fob me off, I can tell."

"Listen, if you’d just..."

"I don’t have to take this, you know."

"That’s right, you..."

"I can’t believe you, you’re so incredibly selfish!"

"Huh...?"

"You don’t care about me, you don’t care about Steven, you don’t care about anyone! No-one but yourself."

"Gretchen, that’s not true, I..."

"Really, I don’t know why I bother."

"Gretchen, please..."

"It’s not too much to ask, is it?"

"Gretchen, please don’t cry..."

"Well, I’ve had enough, I can’t do this any more."

"Oh, Gretchen...!"

"I’m going to find someone who’ll listen to me, someone who cares..."

"But..."

"Goodbye!"

"Gretchen..." Booooop.

I blinked down at the handset. 2:48am. "Who the fuck is Steven?"

*

"That bloody woman!" P’s hands slam down on the table. Customers look round from their coffee at the skinny bugger with the crazy hair shouting and carrying on by the window. "I swear she is evil..."

"She’s not evil..." J is keen to stave off another of P’s ‘Why the CIA need to visit Gretchen for the sake of humanity’ tirades.

"I know, I know: she’s unhappy, she’s frustrated, she’s misunderstood, she’s a good person really, and blah blah blah..."

"Actually, I was going to say: ‘She’s not worth the effort.’"

P raises an eyebrow. "Really?" J is appraised seriously for a moment. "What’s bringing this on?"

"I dunno. A new perspective, maybe..."

"Kinell."

J screws up her face slightly to one side, her expression part-rueful, part-serious. Mostly, though, she just looks tired. Tired and... resigned?

P frowns sympathetically. "Go on, then, get on with the story. What happened next?"

*

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