“Well, you did vanish without a trace—what was I meant to do?”

I couldn’t believe it. The little scumbag had sought solace in the arms of a miserable cow who wasn’t good enough to carry his bag, let alone be his wife. I stared at him, speechless. I think my mouth might even have dropped open at that point, and I was just wondering whether I should burst into tears, kill him with my bare hands, slam the door, scream, swear or all of the above at the same time when I noticed that Landen was doing that thing he does when he’s trying not to laugh.

“You one-legged piece of crap,” I said at last, smiling with relief, “you did no such thing!”

“Had you going though, didn’t I?” He grinned.

Now I was angry.

“What do you want to go and do that stupid joke for? You know I’m armed and unstable!”

“It’s no more stupid than your dopey yarn about me being eradicated!”

“It’s not a dopey yarn.”

“It is. If I had been eradicated, then there wouldn’t be any little boy. . . .”

His voice trailed off, and suddenly all our remonstrations vanished as Friday became the center of attention. Landen looked at Friday, and Friday looked at Landen. I looked at both of them in turn. Then, taking his fingers out of his mouth, Friday said:

“Bum.”

“What did he say?”

“I’m not sure. Sounds like a word he picked up from St. Zvlkx.”

Landen pressed Friday’s nose. “Beep,” said Landen.

“Bubbies,” said Friday.

“Eradicated, eh?”

“Yes.”

“That must be the most preposterous story I have ever heard in my life.”

“I have no argument with that.”

He paused. “Which I guess makes it too weird not to be true.”

We moved towards each other at the same time, and I bumped into his chin with my head. There was a crack as his teeth snapped together, and he yelped in pain—I think he had bitten his tongue. It was as Hamlet said. Nothing is ever slick and simple in the real world. He hated it for that reason—and I loved it.

“What’s so funny?” Landen demanded.

“Nothing,” I replied. “It’s just something Hamlet said.”

“Hamlet? Here?”

“No—at Mum’s. He was having an affair with Emma Hamilton, whose boyfriend, Admiral Nelson, seems to be trying to commit suicide.”

“By what means?”

“The French navy.”

“No . . . no,” said Landen, shaking his head. “Let’s just stick with one ludicrously preposterous story at a time. Listen, I’m an author and I can’t think up the sort of cr—I mean, nonsense you get yourself into.”

Friday managed to squeeze off one shoe despite the best attention of my double knots and was now tugging at his sock.

“Handsome fellow, isn’t he?” said Landen after a pause.

“He takes after his father.”

“Nah—his mother. Is his finger stuck permanently up his nose?”

“Most of the time. It’s called ‘The Search.’ An amusing little pastime that has kept small children amused since the dawn of time. Enough, Friday.”

He took his finger out with an almost audible pop and handed Landen his polar bear.

“Ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It’s something called Lorem Ipsum—a sort of quasi Latin that typesetters use to make up blocks of realistic-looking type.”

Landen raised an eyebrow. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“They use it a lot in the Well of Lost Plots.”

“The what?”

“It’s a place where all fiction is—”

“Enough!” said Landen, clapping his hands together. “We can’t have you telling ridiculous stories here on the front step. Come on in and tell me them inside.”

I shook my head and stared at him.

“What?”

“My mother said Daisy Mutlar was back in town.”

“She has a job here, apparently.”

“Really?” I asked suspiciously. “How do you know?”

“She works for my publisher.”

“And you haven’t been seeing her?”

“Definitely not!”

“Cross your heart, hope to die?”

He held up his hand.

“Scout’s honor.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, “I believe you.” I tapped my lips. “I don’t come inside until I get one right here.”

He smiled and took me in his arms. We kissed very tenderly, and I shivered.

“Consequat est laborum,” said Friday, joining in with the hug.

We walked into the house, and I put Friday on the floor. His sharp eyes scanned the house for anything he could pull on top of himself.

“Thursday?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s just say for reasons of convenience that I was eradicated.”

“Yuh?”

“Then everything that happened since the last time we parted outside the SpecOps Building didn’t really happen?”

I hugged him tightly.

“It did happen, Land. It shouldn’t have had, but it did.”

“Then the pain I felt was real?”

“Yes. I felt it, too.”

“Then I missed you getting bulgy—got any pictures, by the way?”

“I don’t think so. But play your cards right and I may show you the stretch marks.”

“I can hardly wait.” He kissed me again and stared at Friday while an inane grin spread across his face.

“Thursday?”

“What?”

“I have a son!”

I decided to correct him.

“No—we have a son!”

“Right. Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I suppose you better have some supper. Do you still like fish pie?”

There was a crash as Friday found a vase in the living room to knock over. So I mopped it up while apologizing, and Landen said it was okay but shut the doors of his office anyway. He made us both supper, and I caught up with what he was doing whilst he wasn’t eradicated—if that makes any sense at all—and I told him about Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, WordStorms, Melanie and all the rest of it.

“So a grammasite is a parasitic life-form that lives inside books?”

“Pretty much.”

“And if you don’t find a cloned Shakespeare, then we lose Hamlet?”

“Yup.”

“And the SuperHoop is inextricably linked to the avoidance of a thermonuclear war?”

“It is. Can I move back in?”

“I kept the sock drawer just how you liked it.”

I smiled. “Alphabetically, left to right?”

“No, rainbow. Violet to the right—or was that how Daisy liked—Ah! Just kidding! You have no sense of—Ah! Stop it! Get off! No! Ow!”

But it was too late. I had pinned him to the floor and was attempting to tickle him. Friday sucked his fingers and looked on, disgusted, while Landen managed to get out of my hands, roll around and tickle me, which I didn’t like at all. After a while we just collapsed into a silly, giggling mess.

“So, Thursday,” he said as he helped me off the floor, “are you going to spend the night?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’m moving in and staying forever.”

“Let me guess! You want me to rub your back?”

“Please. Right there in the small where you used to do it so well. I’ve really missed that.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, nothing. Why, did you have something in mind?”

I giggled as he pulled me closer. I breathed in his scent. I could remember pretty well what he looked like and how he sounded, but not his smell. That was something that was instantly recognizable as soon as I pressed my face into the folds of his shirt, and it brought back memories of courting, and picnics, and passion.

“I like your short hair,” said Landen.

“Well, I don’t,” I replied, “and if you ruffle it once more like that, I may feel inclined to poke you in the eye.”

We lay back on the bed, and he pulled my sweatshirt very slowly over the top of my head. It caught on my watch, and there was an awkward moment as he tugged gently, trying to keep the romance of the moment. I couldn’t help it and started giggling.

“Oh, do please be serious, Thursday!” he said, still pulling at the sweatshirt. I giggled some more, and he joined in, then asked if I had any scissors and finally removed the offending garment. I started to undo the buttons of his shirt, and he nuzzled my neck, something that gave me a pleasant tingly sensation. I tried to flip off my shoes, but they were lace-ups, and when one finally came off, it shot across the room and hit the mirror on the far wall, which fell off and smashed.

“Bollocks!” I said. “Seven years’ bad luck.”

“That was only a two-year mirror,” explained Landen. “You don’t get the full seven-year jobs from the pound shop.”

I tried to get the other shoe off and slipped, striking Landen’s shin—which wasn’t a problem, as he had lost a leg in the Crimea and I’d done it several times before. But there wasn’t a hollow bong sound as usual.

“New leg?”

“Yeah! Do you want to see?”

He removed his trousers to reveal an elegant prosthesis that looked as though it had come from an Italian design studio—all curves, shiny metal and rubber absorption joints. A thing of beauty. A leg amongst legs.

“Wow!”

“Your uncle Mycroft made it for me. Impressed?”

“You bet. Did you keep the old one?”

“In the garden. It has a hibiscus in it.”

“What color?”

“Blue.”

“Light blue or dark blue?”

“Light.”

“Have you redecorated this room?”

“Yes. I got one of those wallpaper books and couldn’t make up my mind which one to use, so I just took the samples out of the book and used them instead. Interesting effect, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure that the Regency Flock matches Bonzo the Wonder Hound.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but it was very economical.”

I was nervous as hell, and so was he. We were talking about everything but what we really wanted to talk about.

“Shh!”

“What?”

“Was that Friday?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“A mother’s hearing is finely attuned. I can hear a half-second wail across ten shopping aisles.”

I got up and went to have a look, but he was fast asleep, of course. The window was open, and a cooling breeze moved the muslin curtains ever so slightly, causing shadows of the streetlights to move across his face. How much I loved him, and how small and vulnerable he was. I relaxed and once more regained control of myself. Apart from a stupid drunken escapade that luckily went nowhere, my romantic involvement with anyone had been the sum total of zip over the past two and a half years. I had been waiting for this moment for ages. And now I was acting like a lovesick sixteen-year-old. I took a deep breath and turned to go back to our bedroom, taking off my T-shirt, trousers, remaining shoe and socks as I walked, half hobbled and hopped down the corridor. I stopped just outside the bedroom door. The light was off, and there was silence. This made things easier. I stepped naked into the bedroom, padded silently across the carpet, slipped into bed and snuggled up to Landen. He was wearing pajamas and smelt different. The light switched on, and there was a startled scream from the man lying next to me. It wasn’t Landen but Landen’s father—and next to him, his wife, Houson. They looked at me, I looked back, stammered “Sorry, wrong bedroom,” and ran out of the room, grabbing my clothes from the heap outside the bedroom door. But I wasn’t in the wrong room, and the lack of a wedding ring confirmed what I feared. Landen had been returned to me—only to be taken away again. Something had gone wrong. The uneradication hadn’t held.

“Don’t I recognize you?” said Houson, who came out of the bedroom and stared at me as I retrieved Friday from the spare bedroom, where he was tucked up next to Landen’s aunt Ethel.

“No,” I replied, “I’ve just walked into the wrong house. Happens all the time.”

I left my shoes and trotted downstairs with Friday tucked under my arm, picked up my jacket from where it was hanging on the back of a different chair in a differently furnished front room and ran into the night, tears streaming down my face.