Now, it seems, for nothing. Ten minutes pass. He is looking at his watch when his mobile phone rings. ‘Hi … Yes, we are … Well yes, but we waite... … Room 436. Left out of the lifts … yes, of course.’ He switches off the phone, tells her, ‘It’s John.’ He has told them that’s his name, perhaps it is. ‘Had trouble getting here – only just found somewhere to park. Here in five minutes.’ She nods. It is impossible to know whether she is pleased, relieved, anything. She gets up and goes into the. "Andrea giggled like a mental patient. "You can't make me, you can't make me..." Well what are you going to do with the rest of your life?" I countered. The bliss of the marijuana high was edging into paranoid, defensive territory. "Not much future in professional apathy." I," Andrea said proudly, "am going to be a poet." Bullshit," I said. "You spend a summer reading Sylvia Plath and all of a sudden you're an oppressed soul who needs to express herself through art?"Andrea pouted. "You're. More

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