The Last Letter from Your Lover

winced at the familiar awfulness. Phillip was going from desk to desk, asking if anybody would like tea, the shirt Anthony had pressed for him that morning crisp on his skinny back. He felt suddenly – gratefully – at home. This was where his new life started. It was going to be fine. They would be fine. He refused to look at the Foreign Desk. He didn’t want to know just yet who they had sent to Stanleyville in his place.
    ‘Here.’ Don threw a copy of The Times at him, a story circled in red. ‘Do us a quick rewrite on the US space launch. You’re not going to get any fresh quotes from the states at this hour, but it’ll make a short column on page eight.’
    ‘How many words?’
    ‘Two fifty.’ Don’s voice was apologetic. ‘I’ll have something better for you later.’
    ‘It’s fine.’ It was fine. His son was smiling, bearing a loaded tray with almost excessive caution. He glanced towards his father, and Anthony nodded approval. He was proud of the boy, proud of his bravery. It was indeed a gift to have someone to love.
    Anthony pulled his typewriter towards him, fed carbons between the sheets of paper. One for the editor, one for the subs, one for his records. The routine had a kind of seductive pleasure. He typed his name at the top of the page, hearing the satisfying snap of the steel letters as they hit the paper.
    He read and reread the Times story and made a few notes on his pad. He nipped downstairs to the newspaper library and pulled up the file on space missions, flicking through the most recent cuttings. He made some more notes. Then he placed his fingers on the typewriter keys.
    Nothing.
    It was as if his hands wouldn’t work.
    He typed a sentence. It was flat. He ripped out the papers, rethreaded them into the cylinder.
    He typed another sentence. It was flat. He typed another. He’d shape it up. But the words resolutely refused to go where he wanted them. It was a sentence, yes, but nothing that would work in a national newspaper. He reminded himself of the pyramid rule of journalism: most important information in the first sentence, fanning out in lesser significance as you went on. Few people read to the end of a story.
    It wouldn’t come.
    At a quarter past twelve Don appeared at his side. ‘You slung that piece over yet?’
    Anthony was sitting back in his chair, his hands on his jaw, a small mountain of screwed-up paper on the floor.
    ‘O’Hare? You ready?’
    ‘I can’t do it, Don.’ His voice was hoarse with disbelief.
    ‘What?’
    ‘I can’t do it. I can’t write. I’ve lost it.’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What is this? Writer’s block? Who do you think you are – F. Scott Fitzgerald?’ He picked up a crumpled sheet and smoothed it out on the desk. He picked up another, read it, reread it. ‘You’ve been through a lot,’ he said finally. ‘You probably need a holiday.’ He spoke without conviction. Anthony had just had a holiday. ‘It’ll come back,’ he said. ‘Just don’t say anything. Take it easy. I’ll get Smith to rewrite it. Take it easy for today. It’ll come back.’
    Anthony gazed at his son, who was sharpening pencils for Obits. For the first time in his life he had responsibilities. For the first time in his life it was vital that he could provide. He felt Don’s hand on his shoulder like a great weight. ‘What the hell am I going to do if it doesn’t?’

irish boy chasing san diego girl is like trying to catch a wave with one hand . . . impossible . . . sometimes just gotta sail away and wonder.
    Male to Female, via text message

25
    Ellie stays awake until four o’clock in the morning. It’s not a trial: for the first time in months everything is clear to her. She spends the early evening solidly on the phone, cradling the receiver between neck and shoulder as she watches her computer screen. She sends messages, calls in favours. She wheedles, cajoles, won’t take no for an answer. When she has what she needs, she sits at her desk in her pyjamas, pins her hair and begins. She types swiftly, the words spilling easily from her fingers. For once she knows exactly what she has to say. She reworks each sentence until she’s happy; she shuffles information until it works in the way that has most impact. Once, rereading it, she cries, and several times she laughs out loud. She recognises something in herself, perhaps someone she has lost for a while. When she has finished, she prints out two copies and sleeps the sleep of