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engaged him on ‘how things could be different’. What things were these that needed changing? Under scrutiny, the scope narrowed from ‘everything’ to more mundane matters of housekeeping, ultimately alighting on his poor contribution and ending with ‘well, at least take the rubbish out on Thursdays’. It left behind a stale dissatisfaction, he felt, but he had no desire to stir up the silt once more.
    Jane was an austere blonde, intimidating in her meticulousness, the way she held her hair just so, a slightly metallic feel to its groomed edges. She had remained slim, despite no previous exercise regime, whereas he had started to puff a little around the midriff. He did query her sudden desire to improve her fitness, and her response had been characteristically calculated: ‘It amazes me that as a nation we have such high expectations of our soldiers and sportsmen, and such low standards for ourselves,’ she’d said as she left him in front of the television set one morning.
    There was truth in that, Gabriel had mused, while eyeing the replay of the England captain falling prey to a deft googly delivered by a Sri Lankan bowler with an unpronounceable name. He didn’t follow sport generally, but the repressed intrigue of cricket held some interest. His enjoyment – love would be too strong a word – of the game stemmed from the ever-present possibility of the best batsman in the world falling to a single good ball bowled by a teenager on debut. By contrast, football seemed thuggish. It was ridiculous that such loutish players should fall so easily and thrash about on the ground as though mortally injured, only to rush back into the fray and stomp on someone else’s ankle moments later. There seemed an indecent, almost foppish, melodrama to the game. And that someone could be paid so much and still not hit a target the size of a barn door remained inexplicable to him.
    The running in the early morning was but one of a few noteworthy changes in Jane’s lifestyle, Gabriel thought as he pushed the image of Mrs Pilkington’s diseased citrus back into its envelope. Clearly enamoured with the new tone in her muscles, she had started changing her attire in the direction of less is more. And she had discarded her department store underwear in favour of more frilly undergarments. Though for their marriage, the bedroom remained a draughty chamber.
    * * *
    The lecture hall was surprisingly full already and Gabriel glanced at his watch to see if he was late. Some students were waiting outside, enjoying the dregs of takeaway coffee or the last inhalation of nicotine. He felt a strange unease as he pushed through the throng, suddenly claustrophobic. A young man in a knitted jersey was staring at him. Gabriel glimpsed in his face something of the driver of the car that had knocked him over, and his fingers drifted to the small scab under his nose. The student turned away and started chatting to a friend. Gabriel sensed that he was being ignored while also being the focus of attention. He couldn’t quite locate the source of his disquiet, but made his way into the amphitheatre all the same. Once inside, there was more space to breathe and he felt his uncharacteristic panic ease. The long rows of desktops and swing chairs were tiered, extending from the presentation area up towards the back of the hall, with a central aisle for access. The pro-vice-chancellor was waiting for him at the podium, nodding his head inanely at the gathering crowd. He was a weedy-looking man with pockmarked skin and facial features that appeared to have been taken from a much larger character and stuck to his small frame. His huge ears stood out, giving him a startled look. The whole effect would have benefited from robust exfoliation.
    The man greeted Gabriel enthusiastically, his ears waving in the wind, and informed him that he was looking forward to the lecture. The man had a master’s degree in marketing, or something equally tawdry, and