Therefore I pick up the receiver and speak crossly.

‘Hello.’

‘Clara?’

‘Who else is it likely to be?’

‘Good morning.’

The doctor.

‘I am about to go out on the lake and I thought I’d give you a chance to say Happy Birthday to me.’

‘I am post-operative. I need my sleep.’

‘I am the best judge of that. Everyone here has been up for hours.’

‘So?’

‘So, say Happy Birthday.’

‘Mother called you Ivan.’

‘That is my name.’

‘I always forget.’

‘I’m glad you were talking about me. That makes me feel good.’

‘Only en passant. A mention. I had to say, “Who is Ivan?” ‘ She laughed.

‘I must go now, my brother is hooting outside the door.’

‘Is your brother an owl?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Happy Birthday.’

‘Thank you, Clara. Please take care of yourself.’

‘Fish murderer.’

‘Philanderer.’

That is that. He has gone. Nothing for it but to get up.

Good morning, Ireland.

The Gingerbread Woman

(continued)

Of course he was right. It hadn’t been that voice echoing round my garden that had made me lose my breath; it was the first symptom of that disease called love. But I won’t plonk those words on the page just like that; I will be more roundabout in my approach as, indeed, we were with each other.

He had telephoned the following Monday; I remember the day of the week as I had hoped that he might call over the weekend. I had in fact hung around the telephone rather like an adolescent, in the hope that he might ring.

I was just on my way out the door, almost late for my first lecture. I stumbled back into the room and grabbed the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘Clara.’

‘I was just on my way out the door.’

‘I’ve been at work for two hours. I was going to call before, but I didn’t know what time you got up. I didn’t want to frighten you out of your sleep. Have you time to talk?’

‘Not now. I’ll be late if I do. I’m going to have to run anyway.’

‘This evening. How about this evening?’

‘I can’t do anything this evening. There’s a young Irishwoman here from home to do a reading at Ireland House and I have to be there.’

‘Why?’

‘I just do. It’s more or less part of my job.’

‘You’re putting me off.’

‘No. I promise.’

‘What time is this reading over?’

‘About ten, but I have to take her out to eat. I really can’t manage tonight.’

‘I’ve booked a table in this great place on Brooklyn Heights.’

‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to take someone else, or cancel.’

‘Clara …’

‘I have to go. Give me your number – I’ll ring you later in the day.’

‘No. I mean … well, no. I’m going to be in and out all day. Clara …’

‘No,’ I said, quite firmly. ‘I’m really sorry.’ I was.

He put down the phone.

Well, that’s that, I thought to myself as I ran across Sixth Avenue. End of that story.