Working Wonders

Sven wrinkled up his nose in confusion. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes, don’t you see? Arthur, you’re absolutely right – we can get an idea of how the whole place could be. It will be mystical, magical – the city will be dead, but we – we can bring it alive, through knowing what people miss every day, through the power of our free imaginations – don’t you see?’

Arthur was half pleased, half slightly grumpy. ‘Well, yes – that’s exactly what I was …’

‘Ooh, and I can make soup,’ said Cathy.

‘Not potato soup,’ said Sven. ‘That’s rank.’

‘How rank can a potato be?’ asked Marcus. ‘It’s a potato. That’s like calling bread offensive.’

Arthur stood at the back of the room, quite amazed. Gwyneth looked over to him.

‘They’re arguing about the soup,’ said Arthur quietly to Gwyneth. ‘I think Rafe’s won on points.’

‘Well, it was your idea,’ said Gwyneth. ‘But, incidentally, he didn’t convince me. I don’t want to clatter about on my own in the pitch dark to meet you lot.’

‘Oh, please come,’ said Arthur, realizing suddenly that he was gazing at her.

Marcus, Sven and Cathy had gathered round Rafe, who was pointing things out on a map.

‘I mean,’ he was saying, ‘have you ever looked at the top of the high street? I mean, really looked at it?’

‘I’m usually too busy trying to avoid the syringes,’ said Gwyneth.

‘I’ll pick you up if you like,’ said Arthur.

Gwyneth glanced sideways to avoid his eyes. ‘Um … yeah. Okay.’

‘I mean, just, you know, in my car. You know, just to take you to this work thing!’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’ And she sounded as anxious to correct the misunderstanding as he was.

It was freezing. Properly, unbelievably freezing. After his broken sleep the night before, Arthur found tearing himself from his bed before four a.m. was a near impossibility, managed only by the warming thought of Gwyneth in bed – possibly naked – right now. Groaning, he stumbled into the kitchen, boiled some hot water and fumbled around for something to put into it. Let’s see – Marmite, toadstools (growing, sadly, rather than handwrapped) or an old bottle of Grand Marnier. His stomach rumbled warningly and he decided instead just to brush his teeth fifteen times.

Gwyneth’s house was actually rather charming – set back from the road, it formed the top two floors of one of Coventry’s not terribly widespread Edwardian villas. Arthur was just debating how much he cared about waking up the whole street by sounding the horn, as opposed to stepping out of the car and losing all feeling in his extremities, when the front door opened and a slight figure slipped out.

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