"Thank you."

"Have you got a blender?"

"I think so."

"Just whizz the leaves up in that and make him drink it."

"Nothing for me? No tea, or seeds, or fruit dipped in milk?"

"Well, we've tried everything for you. So it must be him."

Technically, Moira was right: it was him. He wore a condom.

"I'll try it tonight."

"If you try it tonight, you have to try everything. If you see what I mean. Down in one and upstairs."

"I'll try it Saturday night, then."

Oh, dear God. Why on earth was she giving this woman information about their sexual timetable?

"Oh. He's a Saturday-night man, is he?"

"I should get on with some work."

"Nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed."

But of course she was. She was ashamed of the implied monotony and she was ashamed of her inability to tell the meddling old crone where to get off.

"Oh. Alan. Hello. We don't see you in here very often."

Moira was addressing a man in his seventies who appeared to be wearing both an overcoat and a raincoat, as well as two or maybe even three scarves. He was clutching a jam jar containing what looked like a rotting pickled onion swimming in murky vinegar.

"Someone said you were interested in the shark."

"We are," said Moira, firmly. "Very."

"I've got his eye."

From: Annie Platt

. . . It's you. I read enough fiction to know it's detail that makes a story seem real, and anyone who has gone to all the trouble of making that lot up deserves a reply anyway. And if it's not you, I don't really care, to be honest. I'm having an e-mail conversation with an interesting and thoughtful man who lives a long way away, so where's the harm? (I suppose there's another way of looking at this, which is that you're a lunatic, and all your children and grandchildren are simply the product of a damaged mind. If it turns out that you're a lunatic I might actually know I might actually know, then I swear to God I will kill you. But please ignore that if you're not. And I'm proceeding on the basis that it's you.)As you have probably worked out, I know people who think a lot of your work, and who think a lot about you. I have thought about you sometimes, but not that often, until relatively recently. Your name cropped up once or twice on a trip I took recently. And your new album, Juliet, Naked Juliet, Naked-or rather, the response to it that a couple of overenthusiastic fans had-got me thinking more about you, and about Juliet Juliet, than I'd ever done before. I have never written anything like that before, either, but the two albums helped me to see some things that I suspect I've always thought about art and the people who consume it ravenously, but which weren't quite in focus. Of course, there are a lot of things I would like to ask you about your missing two decades, but you probably don't want to be interviewed.I'm sure that if you put any two random strangers in a room together and got them to talk about their lives, all sorts of patterns and themes and opposites would emerge, to the extent that it would look as though they hadn't been chosen randomly at all. For example: you have too many children who you don't know, and it's making you unhappy. I have none, and I don't think I will have any, and that's making me unhappy, more so than I would have believed possible, three or four years ago. So all the time I've spent with the man that I'm not having children with is beginning to look like all the time you've spent drinking and not making albums. Neither of us will get that time back. And yet, agonizingly, it's not quite too late either. Do you ever think that? I hope you do.I am writing this from my office, which is in a small seaside museum in a small town in the northern half of England. I am supposed to be preparing an exhibition about the summer of 1964 in this town, but we don't have very much to exhibit, apart from some rather unpleasant photos of a dead shark that got washed up on the beach that year. And, as of this morning, an eye that apparently belonged to the shark, once upon a time. A couple of hours ago, a man came into the museum with something, very possibly a shark's eye, floating in vinegar in a jam jar. The man claimed his brother had cut it out of the shark with a penknife. So far, it's our prize exhibit. You wouldn't like to write a concept album about the summer of 1964 in a small English seaside town, would you? Although it still wouldn't give me much to show.

She stopped typing. If she'd been using pen and paper, she would have screwed the paper up in disgust, but there wasn't a satisfying equivalent with e-mail, seeing as everything was designed to stop you making a mistake. She needed a fuck-it key, something that made a satisfying ka-boom noise when you thumped it. What was she doing? She'd just received communication from a recluse, a man who had been hiding from the world for twenty-odd years, and she was telling him about the shark's eye in a jam jar. Did he really want to know about that? And what about her need to have a child? Why not tell someone else? A friend, say. Or even Duncan, who as far as she knew was unaware of her unhappiness.

And she was flirting, in her own reserved and complicated way. She wanted him to like her. How else to explain the circumlocutions about the Tucker Tour of America, and her relationship with "people who think a lot" of his work? It would have been much simpler to say that the man she lived with, the man she wasn't having babies with, was a Tucker Crowe obsessive, but she didn't want Tucker to know that. Why not? Did she think he was going to jump on a plane and impregnate her, unless he found out what kind of person she lived with? Even if they embarked on a passionate affair, she could imagine it would be difficult to persuade Tucker not to take precautions, given the unwieldy and unhappy family he already had. Oh, God! Even the self-directed sarcasm was pathetic. It still involved jokes about contraceptive arrangements with a man she had never met.

But if she didn't write about shark's eyes, what was she going to tell him? He'd read everything she had to say about his work, and she couldn't just bombard him with questions-she sensed that would be a good way of never hearing from him again. She was the wrong person to engage in an e-mail correspondence with Tucker Crowe. She didn't know enough, she didn't do enough. She wouldn't reply.

She was supposed to be composing a delicate letter to Terry Jackson, the town councillor who'd had the stupid idea for the 1964 exhibition in the first place, but she couldn't concentrate. She reopened the e-mail to Tucker.

Where did Juliet Juliet come from? Do you know? Have you read come from? Do you know? Have you read Chronicles Chronicles, Bob Dylan's autobiography? There's a bit in there where someone, a producer maybe, tells him that they need a song like "Masters of War" (was it that one?) to finish the album off-this is in the eighties, when he was recording But she couldn't remember the name of the album either, and she couldn't remember what Dylan said when the producer whose name she couldn't remember asked Dylan for a song like the song she couldn't remember, to finish off whatever the album was. She deleted what might have been an interesting line of inquiry. Duncan would know it all, of course, and Duncan should be the one writing to Tucker, except that Tucker wouldn't want to hear from him. And, of course, she still hadn't told Duncan about what she'd found in her in-box, and she didn't want to, either.

She didn't need to know anything about Dylan, she realized eventually. She was just using a book to make her point for her, the way academics do.

Where did Juliet Juliet come from? Do you know? And what happens to those places? Do they just get overgrown? Or might you stumble across them one day? I'm sorry if that seems too nosy, and I've just promised myself that I wouldn't bombard you with questions. If you want to see any photos of my dead shark, just shout. That seems to be all I have to offer in return. come from? Do you know? And what happens to those places? Do they just get overgrown? Or might you stumble across them one day? I'm sorry if that seems too nosy, and I've just promised myself that I wouldn't bombard you with questions. If you want to see any photos of my dead shark, just shout. That seems to be all I have to offer in return.By the way, when I got home last night I started reading Nicholas Nickleby Nicholas Nickleby, in your honour.

Was that last line too creepy? Bad luck if it was. It was true, anyway. This time, she clicked on "send" before she could change her mind.

six.

It was okay, Duncan thought, that he and Annie had never been in love. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, and it had functioned perfectly well: friends had matched up their interests and temperaments carefully, and they'd got it right. He had never once felt itchy, in the way that two connecting pieces of a jigsaw never felt itchy, as far as one could tell. If one were to imagine, for the sake of argument, that jigsaw pieces had thoughts and feelings, then it was possible to imagine them saying to themselves, "I'm going to stay here. Where else would I go?" And if another jigsaw piece came along, offering its tabs and blanks enticingly in an attempt to lure one of the pieces away, it would be easy to resist temptation. "Look," the object of the seducer's admiration would say, "you're a piece of a phone booth, and I'm the face of Mary, Queen of Scots. We just wouldn't look right together." And that would be that.

He was now beginning to wonder whether the jigsaw was the correct metaphor for relationships between men and women after all. It didn't take account of the sheer stubbornness of human beings, their determination to affix themselves to another even if they didn't fit. They didn't care about jutting off at weird angles, and they didn't care about phone booths and Mary, Queen of Scots. They were motivated not by seamless and sensible matching, but by eyes, mouths, smiles, minds, breasts and chests and bottoms, wit, kindness, charm, romantic history and all sorts of other things that made straight edges impossible to achieve.

And jigsaw pieces were not known for their passion, really, either. People could be passionate about jigsaws, but the jigsaws themselves were orderly-passionless, even, you could say. And it seemed to Duncan that passion was a part of being human. He valued it in his music and his books and his TV shows: Tucker Crowe was passionate, Tony Soprano, too. But he had never really valued it in his own life, and maybe now he was paying the price, by falling in love at an inopportune time. Later, he wondered whether Juliet, Naked Juliet, Naked had done something to him-woken him up, shaken some part of him that had gone numb. He'd certainly been more emotional in the days since he first heard it, prone to sudden lurches in the stomach and the occasional, inexplicable prickle of tears. had done something to him-woken him up, shaken some part of him that had gone numb. He'd certainly been more emotional in the days since he first heard it, prone to sudden lurches in the stomach and the occasional, inexplicable prickle of tears.

Gina was a new staff member at the Advanced Performing Arts program, teaching pimply and deluded teenagers that they would never, ever be famous-or, at least, not in their chosen fields, although Duncan harbored the suspicion that some of them were insane enough to stalk and eventually murder somebody they idolized. Gina was a singer, an actor, a dancer, and though she still harbored dreams of doing some of those things professionally, life had worn all of the dreaminess off her. The people who worked in Advanced Performing Arts were freakishly young-looking middle-aged men and women, always waiting for phone calls that never came from touring theater companies and agents; but if Gina still blew on those hopes to keep them glowing gently, she did it outside college hours. And she didn't talk about herself all the time, either, despite having spiky hennaed hair and a lot of chunky jewelry. She sat next to him on a coffee break on her second day, asked him questions, listened to his answers, proved herself to be knowledgeable about some of the things that were important to him. The day after, when she asked whether she could borrow the first season of The Wire The Wire and told him that she'd taken the job to get away from a terminally ill relationship, he knew he was in trouble. Two days after that, he was wondering what happened when a jigsaw piece told his interlocking friend that he wanted to join a different puzzle altogether. And also, less whimsically, he was wondering what sex with Gina would be like, and whether he'd ever find out. and told him that she'd taken the job to get away from a terminally ill relationship, he knew he was in trouble. Two days after that, he was wondering what happened when a jigsaw piece told his interlocking friend that he wanted to join a different puzzle altogether. And also, less whimsically, he was wondering what sex with Gina would be like, and whether he'd ever find out.

He'd made very few friends on the staff, mostly because he regarded his colleagues as uncultured bores, even the ones who taught arts courses. And they in turn thought he was a weirdo, forever chasing up some obscure tributary of the mainstream to get to the source of whatever he happened to be interested in that week. They thought he was faddish, but in Duncan's opinion that was because their tastes were set, like concrete, and if the next Dylan came to perform for them in the staff room, they'd roll their eyes and continue to look for new jobs in the Education Guardian Education Guardian. Duncan hated them, and that was partly why he'd fallen so hard for Gina, who seemed to recognize that major works of art were being created every day. She was going to be his soul mate, and in a town like this, with its cold, gray sea and its bingo halls and its shivering senior citizens, soul mates came along every couple of hundred years, probably. How was it possible not to think about sex, in those circumstances?

They went out for a drink on the day he took Season One of The Wire The Wire into work with him, hidden inside a newspaper and then placed in his satchel so that Annie wouldn't see what he was up to. Of course, it was only the secrecy of the act that would have given her any idea, so presumably the smuggling was for his benefit, rather than hers, a way of investing a mundane loan with the faintest scent of adultery. He called Annie to tell her he was going to be late getting home, but she, too, was still at work, and she didn't seem to be troubled by, or even curious about, his whereabouts. She'd been weird, the last few days. He wouldn't be at all surprised if she'd met someone, too. Wouldn't that be perfect? Although he wouldn't want her to leave until he had worked out whether this thing with Gina had potential, and it was early days, as yet, seeing as they hadn't actually been on a date. into work with him, hidden inside a newspaper and then placed in his satchel so that Annie wouldn't see what he was up to. Of course, it was only the secrecy of the act that would have given her any idea, so presumably the smuggling was for his benefit, rather than hers, a way of investing a mundane loan with the faintest scent of adultery. He called Annie to tell her he was going to be late getting home, but she, too, was still at work, and she didn't seem to be troubled by, or even curious about, his whereabouts. She'd been weird, the last few days. He wouldn't be at all surprised if she'd met someone, too. Wouldn't that be perfect? Although he wouldn't want her to leave until he had worked out whether this thing with Gina had potential, and it was early days, as yet, seeing as they hadn't actually been on a date.

They cycled, at Duncan's insistence, to a quiet pub on the other side of town, on the other side of the docks, away from students and staff. She drank cider, a choice Duncan admired, although he was in that frame of mind where anything she ordered-white wine, Baileys and Coke-would have demonstrated her sophistication and exotic singularity. A pint of cider suddenly seemed like the drink he'd been wanting all his life.

"So. Cheers. Welcome aboard."

"Thank you."

They took a big pull of their drinks, and made appreciative lip-smacking sounds indicating (a) that they'd earned this drink and (b) they didn't really know what to say to each other.

"Oh. So." He delved into his bag and produced the boxed set. "Here it is."

"Great. What's it like? I mean, what other programs is it like?"

"Nothing, really. That's what's so great about it. It sort of breaks all the rules. It's a one-off. Unique."

"Like me." She laughed, but Duncan saw the opportunity to inject some early sincerity into the occasion.

"I think that's right," he said. "I mean, obviously there are loads of ways in which, you know, you're different from, well, from an American TV series about Baltimore's underclass. It's actually about lots of other things, too, but all the other things it's about doesn't make it more like you, if you see what I mean, so I won't go into them." This wasn't coming out right, but he was going to plow on anyway. "But in some important ways, you're the same."

"Really? Go on. I'm very curious." She looked amused, rather than appalled. Perhaps he could get away with this.

"Well. I've only just met you. But when you were sitting in the staff room earlier today . . ." He just wanted to pay her a compliment, tell her that he found her attractive, that he was glad she'd come to teach at the college. But now he was stuck with this stupid Wire Wire thing. "Well, you stuck out like a sore thumb. In a good way, not a sore-thumb way. Everyone else there is so staid and bitter, and you lit the place up. You're cheerful, and energetic, and pretty, and . . . Okay, thing. "Well, you stuck out like a sore thumb. In a good way, not a sore-thumb way. Everyone else there is so staid and bitter, and you lit the place up. You're cheerful, and energetic, and pretty, and . . . Okay, The Wire The Wire isn't cheerful. Or pretty. But when you look at all the other programs around. Well, you just have to look at it. And you." isn't cheerful. Or pretty. But when you look at all the other programs around. Well, you just have to look at it. And you."

He thought he'd got away with it, just about.

"Thank you. I hope you won't end up disappointed."

"Oh, I won't."

The terminally ill relationship that Gina had left behind in Manchester was with a choreographer who idolized his mother and hadn't touched her in two years, or said anything kind to her in three. He was almost certainly gay, and hated Gina for failing to cure him of his attraction to other men. What she most wanted in the world was a kind, attentive man who clearly found her attractive. Sometimes you can see car crashes from a long way off, if the road is straight and both vehicles are heading toward each other in the same lane.

Gina vaguely remembered Tucker Crowe, but she was happy to be educated. The day after their drink, Duncan played her Naked Naked and and Dressed Dressed, back to back, on her iPod in her small and heartbreakingly under-furnished one-bedroom apartment up the hill at the back of the town, away from the sea and from Annie, and they went to bed together shortly afterward, when she'd said exactly the right things about the rawness and unadorned simplicity of Naked Naked. To Duncan anyway, it was sex that felt like sex, too, something needy and alarmingly uncontrollable, rather than something that happened on Saturdays after he and Annie had rented a DVD. Forty-eight excruciating hours after that, in the Indian restaurant around the corner, he was telling Annie that he'd met somebody else.

She was calm when he told her.

"Right," she said. "And by 'met,' I presume we're talking about something more than meeting."

"Yes."

"You've slept with her."

"Yes."

Duncan was sweating, and his heart was racing. He felt sick. Fifteen years! Or more, even! Was it really possible simply to jump from the belly of a fifteen-year relationship into the clear blue sky? Was it allowed? Or would he and Annie be made to attend courses, to see counselors, to go away together for a year or two and explore what had gone wrong? But who would make them? Nobody, that's who. And there was alarmingly little tying him down. He was one of the first people to complain about the increasing encroachment of the state into personal lives, but, actually, shouldn't there be a little more encroachment, when it came to things like this? Where was the protective fence, or the safety net? They made it hard for you to jump off bridges, or to smoke, to own a gun, to become a gynecologist So how come they let you walk out on a stable, functioning relationship? They shouldn't. If this didn't work out, he could see himself become a homeless, jobless alcoholic within a year. And that would be worse for his health than a packet of Marlboros.

"I should qualify that. Yes, I've, I've, you know, yes, slept with her, as you say, but it may well have been a mistake. Can I ask you: do you find this very upsetting? Because I have to say, I do. I didn't really think it through."

"So why are you telling me about it?"

"Would it have been an option for you? Me not telling you?"

"It's a choice that's rather difficult to offer, though, isn't it? It was an option for you. But you can't really ask me whether I want to know whether you've slept with someone else or not. I'd have smelled a rat."

"Unless I'd asked you when I hadn't slept with someone else, I suppose. If I'd asked you right at the beginning, and then kept asking you . . ."

"Duncan!"

He jumped. She hardly ever shouted.

"Yes. Sorry. I got sidetracked."

"Are you telling me you want out?"

"I don't know. I did know. But now I don't. It suddenly seems like a big thing to say."

"And it didn't earlier on?"

"Not . . . not as big as it should have done, no."

"Who are you sleeping with?"

"It's not . . . I wouldn't use the present continuous. There's been an, an incident. So 'Who have you slept with?' is probably the question. Or, 'With whom did this possibly one-off incident take place?' "

Annie was looking at him as if she might kill him with her cutlery.

"She's a new colleague at work."

"Right."

She waited, and he began to babble.

"She . . . Well, I was just very attracted to her immediately."

Still nothing.

"It's been a long time, in fact, since I've been as, as drawn to somebody as I am to her."

Silence, but of a deeper and altogether more menacing quality.

"And she loved Naked Naked. I played it to her last . . ."

"Oh, for Christ's sake."

"Sorry."

He knew he should apologize, but he wasn't entirely sure what for. It wasn't that he was innocent of all charges, or even that he felt he had any kind of defense. It was just that he was no longer sure how many offenses he'd committed. Annie's irritation at the mention of Naked Naked . . . Was that because he'd played it to Gina? Or because she'd liked it, when Annie hadn't? . . . Was that because he'd played it to Gina? Or because she'd liked it, when Annie hadn't?

"I do not want to talk about Tucker fucking Crowe in the middle of this."

So that was probably it: he shouldn't have mentioned Tucker at all. He could see that.

"Sorry. Again."

For the first time in a couple of minutes, Duncan found the courage to look at Annie's eyes. There was an awful lot to be said for familiarity, if you thought about it. It was an extremely underrated virtue, ignorable until the very moment that you were in danger of losing whatever or whoever it was that was familiar-a house, a view, a partner. This was all ridiculous. He would have to extricate himself from the other situation. Surely, with the henna and the clunky jewelry, Gina must be used to one-night stands. Oh, that sounded terrible. He didn't mean that. He just meant that she must have moved in circles where the one-night stand didn't seem particularly shocking. She'd been in touring musicals, for God's sake. He'd just ignore the whole thing, pretend it hadn't happened and avoid her during coffee breaks.

"I'm not moving out of my home," said Annie.

"No. Of course not. Nobody's asking you to."

"Good. As long as that's clear."

"Completely."

"So what's reasonable?"