The dog snuffled and snored, there was a hum of traffic coming from the street, and the intermittent squawk of rainbow lorikeets flying overhead. Andrew sat in the darkening studio, eyes closed, sipping his beer; the thud of his heart softened and the squeeze in his head eased.

He needed to cut back on these events, on teaching, too. They took too much out of him and, besides, were no longer the financial necessity they once were. He was mentally sifting through his upcoming engagements, counting off those from which he could withdraw, when the phone rang. He guessed it would be his mother, ringing to check how the lecture had gone; he let the call pass to the answering machine. Soon he’d prepare a meal, just a few more minutes in the peace and quiet, when the phone rang again. Yes, definitely Sylvie. She’d be checking on him when he was sixty.

He had not wanted a phone, and with a public telephone box just up the road, he didn’t need one. But Sylvie had insisted, his friends, too. The public phone was all very well, they said, but what if they wanted to call him? He’d always hated the telephone. As a child he’d watch his mother with the receiver jammed to her ear, exclaiming and gesticulating, grimacing and laughing; he’d see how exposed she was, and he would cringe for her. And the other person on the end of the line, they might be laughing at you or making fun of you; they might be bored and itching to finish the call; if the cord was long enough, they might even be using the toilet. You can’t read people if you can’t see them, which made the telephone an unnerving and risky prospect. Not that he’d said any of this to Sylvie, he simply explained logically and coolly why he didn’t need a phone.

There was, however, to be no discussion, his mother had said. He lived alone, he worked alone, and his place was located on the opposite side of the city from her and his father. (This was more than a mere statement of fact, it was a complaint.) ‘I need to be able to contact you,’ she said. ‘And you may need to contact us. You could be seriously injured, you could be unconscious.’ In which case, a phone would be of little use; but realising how worried she was, he relented.

Now the phone rang a third time. He slipped his feet from under the sleeping dog and picked up.

Sylvie’s familiar voice came down the line. ‘I knew if I hounded you long enough, you’d answer.’