I’m sorting through the papers on my desk when the office door is slung open, and in walks my mentor. ‘So, is this what you call writing?’ she says, nudging at the heaps of notes.
I put a saving hand on the avalanche. ‘Just clearing a space,’ I say, ‘sorting it all out.’
‘Course you are.’
‘I can’t think in this muddle.’
Mentor leaves the doorway and leans past me to throw open the window, drawing in a gust of wind that scatters my tidying across shelves, floor and my lap. All that’s left on the desk is my brand-new notebook. ‘Look at that,’ she says. ‘You haven’t even creased the spine yet. What would Ruth say?’
‘I would have found it.’
‘After you’d read everything on top of it. Then what? Lunch, I suppose, or do I mean tea?’
‘It wouldn’t have taken me that long. Anyway, I’m saving this notebook,’
‘For something special?’ Mentor scuffs her walking boot through the drift of words on the floor, crumpling and creasing.
I wince. ‘Do you have to?’ I say.
Mentor snorts, and turns abruptly, scrunching more paper, then exits, leaving the door and window open.