2nd message. George was cooking supper. Was I hungry? Since ignoring Axel's message, I had felt heavy, inert. I was reminded of my days smoking the O. It was as though I were a quarter pipe down. This mild trance was also faintly voyeuristic and I kept checking the neighbours windows for a glance of flesh. Before going to George I took a brandy into the garden and lay on the grass. From the corner of my eye I could see my fruit trees required attention. The rain had swelled the buds to breaking. The secateurs were here, on the grass somewhere. Should I prune or not? I allowed the weight of the decision to pass.

I liked to watch George fuss around in the kitchen. I gathered he enjoyed being watched, too, for he always seemed to have a new apron. Obviously, we had come a long way since we met at the members club. It was an absolutely sumptuous feast of chilli crab with a Rojak salad, Singaporean recipes that his Thai girlfriend had given him. She had recently returned to Thailand and he was happy to report they were getting on better than ever. When we met, George and I were bonding in despair over our divorces and, even now, irony was the air we breathed. Then, a misunderstanding. We were drinking the last of the brandy when George said he was going to the kitchen to get desert. I said no, surely not, haven't we had enough? He sat down, his face crumpled. I realise now, driving home, that he hadn't said anything about desert. He had been talking about Thailand- and going back there to find another girlfriend.

3rd message.  Guten Abend. Ich fordere, dass ihr freund Axel im krankenhaus. Er ist sehr krank aber er sagt, sie mussen sich keine Gedanken. Er wird bald besser. Danke.

This was bad, whatever it was, it was bad. Gertrude was no bearer of good news. It was late and I was drunk but I rang Thom. Serena answered, he was in bed, it's late. Why is it always Serena answering the door, the phone, pulling the blinds. It was while picturing the servility of this relationship in sexual terms that my heart leapt with joy. Thom had grabbed the phone. What is it, Dad? I need you to translate something for me. Wait, I'll get changed. No, Thom, we'll do it over the phone. I still need to get changed. I'll call you back, he said. Why did he need to dress properly? I had an image of him in twenty years as an international spy. Maybe he was checking out the hallway, listening for possible lesbianism, making a safe room for me, his agent. The image felt like a memory. Dad, shoot. I played the message down the line. The force of his concentration seemed to weaken my grasp on the phone.

It's Gertrude! Oh no, she says Axel's ill.

The news upset Thom so I tried steering the conversation back to him, to school, his Holocaust project.  After all, he had just got changed. He mentioned a rained off hockey practice. Hockey? Actually, Thom. I was drunk, interrupting him. Can you give me a word for word translation? I played the tape again.

Good Evening. I am calling to say that your friend Axel is in hosptial. He is very ill but he says you must not worry about him. He says he will be better soon. Thank you.