The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'Lisbon,' I muttered. 'Why would I write "Lisbon" on my hand?'

I shrugged. The delicate red was a welcome friend and I poured another glass. I pulled out the UltraWord™ copy of The Little Prince that Havisham had given me and opened the cover. There was an odd smell of melons about the book and the paper felt like a sort of thin plastic, the letters a harsh black against the milky-white pages. The text glowed in the dim light of the kitchen and, intrigued, I took the book into the darkness of the utility cupboard, where the text was still as clear as day. I returned to my place at the table and tried the read sensitive preferences page, the words changing from red to blue as I read them, then back again as I reread them. In this manner I turned the PageGlow™ feature on and off, and then played with the levels of the background and music tracks.

I started to read the book, and as the first words entered my head a huge panoply of new emotions opened up. As I read the sequence in the desert I could hear the sound of the wind over the dunes and even the heat and taste of the scorched sands. The voice of the narrator was different to that of the prince, and no dialogue tags were needed to differentiate them. It was, as Libris had asserted, an extraordinary piece of technology. I shut the book, leaned back on my chair and closed my eyes.

There was a tap at the door.

I bade my visitor enter. It was Arnold.

'Hello!' he said. 'Can I come in?'

'Make yourself at home,' I replied. 'Drink?'

'Thank you.'

He sat down and smiled at me. I'd never really noticed it before but he was quite handsome.

'Where's everyone else?' he asked, looking around.

'Out somewhere,' I replied, waving a hand in the direction of the boat and feeling a bit dizzy. 'Lola's probably under her latest beau, Randolph is doubtless complaining to someone about it – and I've no idea where Gran is. Have a drink?'

'You've already poured one.'

'So I have. What brings you here, Arnie?'

'Just passing. How are things at work?'

'Shit. Miss Havisham is dying and something is wrong – I just don't know what.'

'I've heard Outlanders sometimes go through a period of "imagination freefall" when they start trying to create plot lines out of nothing. You'll settle down to it, I shouldn't worry. Congratulations, by the way,' he added. 'I read about your appointment in the paper.'

I held up my glass in salute, and we both drank.

'So what's the deal with you and Mary?' I asked.

'Over for a long time. She thinks I'm a loser and—'

'Tells you to go to hell. Yes, I've heard. What about Lola? Have you slept with her yet?'

'No!'

'You must be the only bloke in Caversham Heights who hasn't,' I declared. 'Do you want another drink?'

'Okay. What about you?' he asked. 'Tell me about your husband in the Outland.'

'I don't have a husband,' I told him, 'never did.'

'You told me—'

'Probably one of those "push off" comments we girls sometimes use. There was this guy named Snood in the ChronoGuard but that was a long time ago. He suffered a time aggre-ge-ga-gation.'

'A what?'

'He got old before his time. He died.'

I felt confused all of a sudden and looked

at the wineglass and the half-empty bottle of wine.