I remained just inside the door and searched the room. Gareth was at his old bench: despite now being a manager, he was needed to set type for a few hours a day. I watched him like a stranger might. There was something unfamiliar about him. His face was more intent than I’d ever seen it and his body surer. It struck me that we are never fully at ease when we are aware of another’s gaze. Perhaps we are never fully ourselves. In the desire to please or impress, to persuade or dominate, our movements become conscious, our features set.

I’d always thought him lean, but watching him work, his shirtsleeves rolled up and the muscles in his forearms taut, I noticed the elegance of his strength. In his concentration and the fluidity of his movements, he looked to me like a painter or a composer, his placement of type as deliberate as notes on a sheet of music.

I felt a pang of guilt. I knew too little of what he did. I’d assumed it was nothing more than mechanical monotony. After all, the words were chosen by the editors, the meanings suggested by writers. All he had to do was transcribe them. But that was not what I saw. He studied a slip then made a selection of type. He placed it, considered it, took a pencil from behind his ear and made notes on the slip. Was he editing? With the surety of having solved a problem, he removed the type and replaced it with a better arrangement.

Only in his sleep would I see him this unguarded. I was surprised to realise that I longed to see him sleep. The thought pierced my heart.

Gareth stood up straight and moved his head from side to side, stretching out his neck. The movements must have caught Mr. Hart’s eye, because the Controller suggested a correction to the type on the forme he was inspecting, then walked towards his manager. Gareth saw him, and there was the slightest tightening of muscles in his shoulders and face: an adjustment to being observed. I too began to walk towards Gareth. When he saw me, a smile broke across his face and he was entirely familiar again.

“Esme,” he said. His delight warmed every part of me.

Only then did Mr. Hart realise I was there. “Oh, yes, of course.” There was an awkward silence as Mr. Hart and I both wondered whether we were getting in the way of the other’s conversation with Gareth.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Perhaps I should wait in the corridor?”

“Not at all, Miss Nicoll,” said Mr. Hart.

“Mr. Hart,” said Gareth, bringing us all back to the business we were there for. “Edits from Sir James?”