Oliver's day

THEREFORE from Day 29's corridor, on Tuesday Ollie worked the morning bookshop shift, and Miriam asked what he was reading and he said a memoir about a man who threw one pebble into a pond and watched the ripples for forty years, and she said that's not you, love, is it, and he said no, Miriam, it's not. At lunchtime Imogen from Soho emailed short and professional — we will be in touch about October — and Jules texted from the bar of the upstairs room in Kentish Town with a single line: the autumn slot is yours if you want it, mate; the romance: Rae was at the bookshop at three holding a Margaret Drabble and a small paper bag with a scone in it, and they stood at the counter for ten minutes while Miriam smiled her non-smile. The embarrassment: walking home along the Tufnell Park Road he passed a bus stop where a teenager was playing a clip on his phone — Ollie's voice, the panic attack reveal — at full volume, and Ollie walked past and the teenager did not look up, the dark comedy of being unrecognisable by his own confession landing like weather, and a quote-tweet from Pryce himself landed on his timeline at half-five saying the brave arc continues, mate. He walked home, opened his door, and decided, on his own doorstep, that he would take the Soho October slot and that Pryce's brave was still hanging in the air but that the Moleskine was, finally, on a new page.