Sick as DOG this morning.“ As a travel writer, he was no Bruce Chatwin, but still she would 

slip  the  postcards  in  the  pocket  of  a  heavy  coat  on  long  soulful  walks  on  Ilkley  Moor, 

searching for some hidden meaning in “VENICE COMPLETELY FLOODED!!!!“.

Who‘s this  Dexter  then?‘ her mother asked, peering at the back of the postcards.“Your 

boyfriend, is he?‘ Then, with a concerned look: “Have you ever thought about working for 

the Gas Board?‘ Emma got a job pulling pints in  the local pub, and time passed, and she felt 

her brain begin to soften like something forgotten at the back of the fridge.

Then  Gary  Nutkin  had  phoned,  the  skinny  Trotskyist  who  had  directed  her  in  a  stark, 

uncompromising production of Brecht‘s  Fears and Miseries of the Third Reich  back in ‘86, 

then  kissed  her  for  three  stark,  uncompromising  hours  at  the  last-night  party.  Shortly 

afterwards  he  had  taken  her  to  a  Peter  Greenaway  double-bill,  waiting  until  four  hours  in 

before reaching across and absent-mindedly placing his hand on her left breast as if adjusting 

a  dimmer  switch.  They  made  Brechtian  love  that  evening  in  a  stale  single  bed  beneath  a 

poster for The Battle of Algiers, Gary taking care throughout to ensure that he was in no way 

objectifying her. Then nothing, not a word, until that late-night phone-call in May, and the 

hesitant words, softly spoken: “How would you like to join my theatre co-operative?‘”