Page 91 of How to Fan the Flames

My phone rings before I can press call.

I stare at the screen for half a second, because I have been thinking about work and Pippa and the station and apparently forgot I have a brother who sometimes appears in my life like a well-dressed audit.

I answer. “Are you dead?”

There is a pause.

Then my brother says, “Lovely to hear your voice too.”

“I assume if you’re calling on a Tuesday afternoon, either you’re dead or there’s been an international incident.”

“I work at the Foreign Office, AJ. There are always international incidents.”

“Then why are you calling me? I have no transferable skills.”

“That has never stopped you having opinions.”

“True. I could provide remarks.”

“Please don’t. Some of us are trying to keep the country functioning.”

I smile and roll onto my side, propping the phone between my ear and the pillow. Graham’s voice always sounds as if he is calling from a room with thick carpets and people using acronyms near flags. He is two years older than me, which he has managed to turn into a lifelong air of responsible disappointment.

He is also, annoyingly, a good brother.

“Where are you?” I ask. “Somewhere terrifying?”

“Whitehall.”

“As I said.”

“I had ten minutes between meetings. Thought I’d check in.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m your brother.”

I look at the rain moving down the window. “I’m touched by your concern.”

“You sound odd.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“How?”

“For one thing, I can hear the telly.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I definitely can. What are you watching?”

“News.”