caffeine, no wheat, no dairy, no alcohol. Sod that. All the consultation had done was make him feel anxious about ignoring the prim, clear-skinned young womanâs impossible advice, which probably made the symptoms worse. She had told Nigel the problem was that human evolution was much slower than the changes human beings had wrought on themselves with post-industrial nutrition.
Nigel didnât share his own theory: that his digestive system was the victim of a more personal failure to evolve. His belly had started to ache the moment he was removed from the carelessly processed diet of his childhood and forced to consume the grains and pulses and alien vegetables of his unusually progressive boarding school. By the time he had finished A-levels, the general middle-class diet had caught up with the headmasterâs pioneering, yogurt-manufacturing wife and he was condemned to a lifetime of discomfort. Only in his student years had he found respite, confirming that existing on a diet of white-bread golden syrup sandwiches, Pot Noodles and bags of crisps eased the cramps and torrential shittings that otherwise tormented him. Sophie wasnâthaving it; she said it was all in his mind and forced him to eat courgettes as an example to the boys.
At the station Nigel took a cab, resenting the expense. When he arrived the house looked deserted, with no lights on, but it turned out that this was because everyone was in the kitchen at the back, eating. Everyone being Patrick, Louise, Holly (he had forgotten about her again) and the journalist, who introduced herself as Mia.
âHi!â the girl exclaimed, as though welcoming him. As though his arrival had made her day. Having prepared to be defensive, Nigel was stirred to be winning. She was very attractive. She had glossy black hair and tight jeans and boots and looked a touch, a pleasing touch, oriental.
âIâm so sorry about your mother.â
Nigel made the noise and pulled the face suitable to acknowledging bereavement. He stopped Louise from fetching him a plate, explaining heâd had a sandwich on the train (actually, a palliative bag of salt and vinegar crisps). Patrick, whom heâd been expecting to look besieged, was convivial. Perhaps it was the right time of day, with the wine on the table. And the tight jeans.
âThis charming young lady is here to pick what passes for my brains these days,â Patrick announced. As Louise rolled Nigel a look about this, she noticed Hollyâs plate, still full of glutinously overcooked pasta.
âHolly, youâve got to eat something.â
âI told youâIâm not hungry. Can I get down now?â
She scarcely looked to be wasting away. Louise sighed and told her there were yogurts. The girl, ignoring this, got up without looking back and slouched out of the room, already texting. Her departure allowed Nigel to sit next to Mia.
âYes,â said Nigel. âWhich paper are you from?â
Mia laughed. âIf only. Iâm a student. Iâm writing my thesis onâon Patrick.â
A little bow of the head to Patrick acknowledged the recent privilege of using his first name. Patrick dipped his head back, receiving the tribute. Nigel remembered that he could be charming.
âItâs not an interview, then.â
Bloody Louise.
âI thought you saidââ Louise objected.
âWell, itâs a little bit two birds with one stone. Is that really awful? I was thinkingâhorseâs mouth, for the thesisâsorry, that sounds terribleââthe girl flashed an even-toothed smile of contrition at Patrickââbut then maybe something for the student paper, if thatâs okay. I feel awful about the timing and everything.â
But not so awful that she hadnât got her feet under the table.
âLife of a sort goes on,â Patrick reassured her.
Nigel moved himself to be suspicious. âWhich university?â he
Marc Nager, Clint Nelsen, Franck Nouyrigat