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yet he already missed London more than he had thought possible. He missed the familiarity of Oxford Street, the warmth of Covent Garden – even Londoners. Every now and again, as he stared at the sky, he overheard a passing conversation and the Manchester accent reminded him of all the times he’d been abroad and heard words spoken but had been unable to make sense of them. And for those few moments he was completely and utterly lost in translation.

Hanging on the telephone
    Later that afternoon, back at Beech Road, Rob had tired of emptying boxes, setting up flat-pack shelves and finding new homes for his possessions, which had once had a perfect home in Tooting. At an all-time low, he picked up the phone and called Phil at work under the guise of finding out how Lee, the new graphic-design trainee, was coming along and to check up on the most recent project that had come in from a food-packaging client. On a social basis Rob and Phil rarely spoke on the phone for longer than a few minutes: one of Rob’s proudest pub facts was that he and Phil had once called to arrange a drink and their conversation had lasted a staggering eight seconds and contained five words – a personal record.
    Today, however, Rob established a new record – for endurance. Without even realising it, the two men were on the phone for over an hour (smashing a previous record of twenty-five minutes). Although they talked about work most of their conversation was taken up with matters they would normally have reserved for the pub. At one point Phil joked that, if they stayed on the line and opened a can of beer each, they could have a virtual drink together. Rob named their virtual pub the Telecom Arms and made himself landlord. Although it was a joke, he felt the same lump in his throat that he’d had on the night he had left London. Phone calls to Phil would never be the same as a pint and a chat with him in person.
    ‘I’d better go, mate,’ said Phil, at last. ‘I’ve got a tonne of work still to do before I can think about going home.’
    ‘Yeah, of course, mate,’ said Rob, gathering himself together. ‘No problem.’ He paused, then added, ‘Before you go, any idea when you and Woodsy might make the trip up here to sunny Manchester?’
    ‘You’re top of the list, mate,’ said Phil, ‘as soon as our workload goes down. The sooner you get your ISDN line the better.’
    Rob laughed. ‘They said it should be fitted by the beginning of next week, you slave-driver.’
    ‘I emailed you a file this morning. Did you get it?’
    ‘I’ve only just got the computer set up. I’ll check it out in a minute. What is it?’
    ‘Nothing much,’ said Phil, ‘but I guarantee you’ll love it.’
    ‘Right,’ said Rob. ‘And I’ll send you the ideas I’ve had so far on the Voss-Pearce Consulting site.’
    ‘Cheers,’ said Phil. ‘I’ll take a look at them and mail you first thing in the morning.’
    Rob pressed ‘end call’ and sank back into the sofa. He thought about unloading the dishwasher before Ashley got home but he couldn’t be bothered. He thought about unpacking his suitcases but he couldn’t be bothered with that either. Then he thought about the email Phil had sent him and suddenly found some energy. He took the stairs two at a time, ran into the spare room and turned on the computer.
    Within minutes he was downloading the attachment on Phil’s email, which turned out to be an MP3. As he listened to the track on his computer speakers, Rob found himself grinning, but as the song ended, he suddenly felt sad. He wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone in the world, least of all himself, but he missed Phil – he missed him like he’d miss his right arm if he lost it. In fact, he thought, as he listened to the song again, I’d willingly give up a limb just to go for a drink and a chat about nothing with him. An arm. A leg. A foot. Pretty much anything.
    Rob stood up, grabbed a blank CD-R from the desk behind him, dropped