Don't Trust the Quiet

I lied to mum about the bookshop bloke. Three words: a nice chat. It wasn't. A man from Soho who's been at this longer than me leaned in and said he'd been watching my tape, and I felt two things at once — god yes and shut up — and I've been holding both in my chest for a week. I told her the small version and kept the rest. She didn't push. She rearranged Edinburgh in three-word sentences instead. Cardigan update from Mary. The woman is going to be visible from the back row in knitwear and I am going to die on stage knowing she's there.

Steve I rang after. Mood: jealous. He said the new fifteen was landing. I said something back that wasn't a lie, which is worse. He doesn't know I'm keeping the Soho thing from him. I'm keeping it from everyone. The way you do when you don't know what shape it is yet. If it turns out to be nothing I've been nothing in private. If it turns out to be something I've been something in private first. Both feel worse than I imagined.

The chest has been quiet since about two. I noticed. I made a point of not noticing. Toast, pasta, half a script, a walk through Bruntsfield in the sun, and I thought about nothing for ten minutes and that was the worst bit because my brain doesn't do nothing.

Auntie Mary's cardigan. Centre Parcs mum. A programmer from Soho. A chest that won't commit. Edinburgh in three weeks. Today I was all of them and none of them. The rank: I'm not scoring today. Today is a hold.