One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“That’s how Thursday used to do it. Proud, loving—but not understanding a single word she said.”

“Land, I’m not her. I’ve got no idea what’s going on, I didn’t recognize Adrian Dorset, I didn’t know that you’d lost a leg and, and, and . . . I can’t see Jenny. I should just go and hide in a large cupboard somewhere until I’m whisked back into Fiction.”

He stared at me for a moment. “I never said her name was Jenny.”

“Damn.”

He took a step closer and held my hand. “You saw her?”

I nodded. “Jenny mentioned Thursday saying ‘Lyell was boring.’ Does that make any sense to you?”

“Thursday didn’t discuss her BookWorld work with me. She pretended it was a secret, and I pretended I didn’t know about it. Same as the SpecOps work. But I don’t know anyone called Lyell, and she hated boring people. Except me.”

“You’re not boring.”

“I am, but I’m okay with it. I’m the anchor. The shoulder.”

“And you’re all right with the support role?”

He laughed. “Of course! It’s my function. Besides, I love her. More than anything on the planet—with the possible exception of Tuesday and Friday. And I’m actually quite fond of Jenny, too, even though she doesn’t exist.”

“You’re a good man.”

He smiled. “No, I’m an average man . . . with a truly extraordinary wife.”

I rubbed my temples with the frustration of it. I so wanted to be her and have all this—Landen, the kids. There was a dull throb in my head, and I felt hot and prickly. It was a lot easier being fictional—always assuming that I was, of course.

“That’s another reason I should leave,” I said in a harsher tone than I might have wished. “This morning I knew who I was and what I was doing. Now? I’ve got no idea.”

And I started to sob.

“Hey, hey,” he said, resting a hand on mine, “don’t cry. There’s four hours to go before you vanish or not, and I’m not sure I can wait that long. I’m pretty confident you’re her. You called me ‘Land,’ you saw Jenny, you’re a bit odd, you love the kids. But there’s one simple way I’ll be able to tell.”

“And what’s that?”

“Kiss me.”

I felt myself shiver with anticipation, and my heart—my real heart, that is, not the descriptive one—suddenly thumped faster. I placed my hand on his cheek, which was warm to the touch, and leaned forward. I felt his breath on my face, and our lips were just about to touch when suddenly I once more felt the hot needles and Klein-Blue Wagnerian treacle, and I was back in the arrivals lounge at JurisTech. As Plum had promised, there was a glass of water and some cookies waiting for me. I picked up the water glass and threw it at the wall.

27.

Back Early

Plot 9 (Human Drama) revolved around a protagonist returning to a dying parent to seek reconciliation for past strife and then finding new meaning to his or her life. If you lived anywhere but HumDram, “go do a Plot 9” was considered a serious insult, the Outlander equivalent of being told to “go screw yourself.”

Bradshaw’s BookWorld Companion (3rd edition)

I found Professor Plum working on his Large Metaphor Collider. As soon as he saw me, he pressed a couple of buttons on his mobilefootnoterphone, uttered a few words and smiled at me.

“Oh!” he said in some surprise. “You’re back.”

“What happened? I wasn’t meant to come back for another four hours!”

“Transfictional travel isn’t an exact science,” he replied with a shrug. “Sometimes you’ll pop back early for no adequately explained reason.”

“Can you send me out there again? I was right in the middle of something important.”

“If Bradshaw allows it, I’ll be more than happy to.”