"Fraid so. Can you put up with me for a whole afternoon?" (Could I just!) "You'll need a warmer coat than that." (I'd already put on my smart grey jacket over my revealing top.) "And a scarf or something. Otherwise your hair'll blow away."

I changed into my brown duffel coat, fastened it up to my chin, and tied a scarf down over my ears.

"Sit tight!" he said.

We whizzed up the Hollo way Road and out on to the Ai, the wind slapping my head, my eyes stinging, my ears ringing. Shops. Houses. Trees. Flats. Houses. Trees. Whoosh! We couldn't talk; I tried to open a conversation but my words just got blown away. All I could do was watch Nathan's hands on the wheel and gearstick-he was wearing fingerless leather driving gloves-and his hunky profile as he concentrated on the road. His silver-flecked designer-stubbly jaw was clenched in a daredevil look of defiance. My stomach was clenched in a knot. I was trying to decide whether it would be better to die instantly or to live out my life in a wheelchair.

Peterborough emerged suddenly out of a fenland mist, the elegant nave and b.u.t.tresses of its cathedral swanning above the rooftops. I'd I'd never been here before. The exhibition centre was on the outskirts, a low featureless hangar of a building. The car park was almost empty. Nathan pulled up near the entrance, switched the engine off, and turned to me with a dimply smile. never been here before. The exhibition centre was on the outskirts, a low featureless hangar of a building. The car park was almost empty. Nathan pulled up near the entrance, switched the engine off, and turned to me with a dimply smile.

"Did you enjoy that, Georgia?"

I smiled weakly. I couldn't bring myself to say yes, even to him.

The exhibition itself was nowhere near as exciting as the journey. It was basically a display of tubes and phials with long technical explanations mounted on card, and samples of things glued together, mainly materials-laminates stuck to concrete, gla.s.s stuck to wood, steel stuck to steel. We seemed to be the only punters, apart from a man in a black-and-white sh.e.l.l suit who was walking round taking notes. Our footsteps click-clacked in the echoing s.p.a.ce. Well, what did I expect? The most interesting thing was a car, an old Jaguar, glued to a metal plate on its roof which was bolted to a chain suspended from the ceiling, so it dangled there in mid-air, spinning slowly if you touched it, held up by the power of adhesion.

"Wow! That's amazing!"

"Yes, I'll have to remember that next time I want to hang my car up," said Nathan.

I had a sudden thought.

"Nathan, do you think you could use glue to stick something like, say, a toothbrush holder on to bathroom tiles?"

"Absolutely. There are a number of purpose-made ad-hesives. Look for brands with 'nails' in the name. No-nails. Goodbye-nails."

"But you wouldn't use nails in a bathroom. It'd have to be rawplugs, wouldn't it?"

He gave me a sideways grin. "You mean instead of cooked plugs?"

"What d'you mean?"

"They're called rawlplugs, Georgie."

"Rawlplugs?"

"But you're right about one thing-they're on their way to obsolescence. Adhesives can do many of the same things nowadays."

My heart bounced up. Rawplugs were history!

Nathan was wandering around with a notebook, an intelligent frown furrowing his brow. I kept very close, hoping he would take my hand or slip an arm around my shoulder. Should I ask after his father? Should I mention Casualty'? Casualty'? I cleared my throat. I cleared my throat.

"Did you enjoy...?"

"Hey, look at this, Georgia."

He'd stopped to examine a photograph on display near the cyanoacrylates. It was a very distressing full-colour close-up photo of a bottom stuck to a blue plastic toilet seat. From the angle it was taken, you couldn't tell whether it was a man's bottom or a woman's. It had obviously been taken in a hospital: there was somebody in the background wearing surgical gloves and a mask. Just imagine if that was you-it would be bad enough getting stuck in the toilet and having to call for help, and then having blokes with tools break down the door, unbolt the toilet seat and rush you to hospital, and people phoning up-they would phone an expert like Nathan in this situation-for advice about solvents. And all the time you'd be wondering who put the glue there; in fact you'd probably be able to guess. You'd be fuming. Fuming but helpless. Then you'd have to be photographed for medical records. Everyone would be solemn and respectful, but behind your back they'd be laughing their heads off.

The explanation card at the side of the picture simply read: CYANOACRYLATE AXP-36C CYANOACRYLATE AXP-36C A PRACTICAL JOKE A PRACTICAL JOKE.

"Deary me," said Nathan.

Actually, that's not a bad idea, I thought.

The next stand was a display about the history of glue. There were pictures of trees with gum or resin oozing out and dark-skinned men catching it in little cups. There was a picture which showed Aztec builders mixing blood into their mortar. The explanation card said the Aztec structures were so strong they would withstand an earthquake. It seems that blood is sticky stuff, too-stickier than water.

I tried another tack.

"You seem very close to your father..." I ventured.

"Ah, yes. Tati." He paused. I waited for him to continue, but he just wandered on, looking at the exhibits.

"Have you always lived with him?"

"Not always."

I followed him round the stand, casually brushing against him when he stopped at the corner of the display, but he didn't seem to notice.

"My parents live in Yorkshire," I said. "I miss them. But I couldn't live with them."

"I don't know that I can live with Tati much longer."

I brushed against him again, this time more determinedly. Surely my intentions must be totally obvious. He opened his notebook and scribbled something down.

"It might make a nice article for Adhesives in the Modern World Adhesives in the Modern World, Georgia," he suggested. "Something about the history of adhesion. Glue past and present. What d'you think?"

Maybe he just didn't fancy me. Maybe I wasn't intelligent enough for him. Maybe he was involved with someone else. The thought filled me with gloom.

"Mmm. Good idea."

"Or even glue past, present and future."

The designer stubble on his chin gleamed with dashes of silver as he spoke.

"I don't think I could do the future bit."

I was thinking of Mrs Shapiro. When you see a good man you have to grebbit quick. Should I just grab him?

"You could just speculate. Glue made from recycled carrier bags. Glue made from liposuction by-products. Glue made from stray cats and dogs. Glue made from boiled-up illegal immigrants. Melted-down social undesirables." He gave me a sideways grin. "No?"

"Like you told me once the n.a.z.is made glue out of Jews?"

"Very good glue it was, too. Now Jews are trying to make glue out of Palestinians. But with less success." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "They say G.o.d told them to."

I stared at him. How could he joke about that? He saw the look in my eye.

"Sorry, it's only metaphorical glue. A sticky mess. And I mean the Israeli state, not the Jews. We have to distinguish."

"Really?" What the h.e.l.l was he talking about? "I'm not sure I understand..."

"I'm what they call a self-hating Jew. A gay self-hating Jew."

Ah! Gay! That explained everything! I smiled inwardly, grateful that he'd told me before I'd made an utter fool of myself. But why the self-hatred? Could it be because he was gay?

"Do you really hate yourself, Nathan?"

"As much as custard."

"Custard's one of my favourite things," I hurried to rea.s.sure him.

"Mine, too. Especially made with eggs and vanilla with a sprinkling of nutmeg."

"So why...?" Maybe it was his height. "You know..."

"Sorry, Georgia, I didn't mean to inflict my obsessions on you. Self-hating is just a label the neo-Zionists use for people who disagree with them; you're either an anti-Semite or a self-hating Jew."

He gave me a hunkily intelligent grin, pushing back his horn-rimmed gla.s.ses that had slipped down his gorgeous nose. Gay. What a shame!

"We just got it out of a tin. Bird's." I heard my voice prattling on, filling the silence. "But they weren't anti-Semites, my parents. My Dad's a socialist. He once thumped someone for calling the man in the fish and chip shop a wop. Mum's more...more of an anarchist, I suppose. She'd thump anybody for anything."

Even as I said it, I was thinking about the banter of the men in the Miners' Welfare at Kippax. Poofs. Gays. Queers. Pansies. They were the casual everyday slights that were the currency of contempt down our way. Dad might not be an anti-Semite, but I'd never heard him threatening to thump someone for using those words. Mum on the other hand had once ticked Keir off for calling one of his teachers a poofter. "He's very nice, your Mr Armstrong, even if he is hormo-s.e.xual."

"What about your your father?" I asked. father?" I asked.

"Yes, well Tati moved in with me after mother died, and Raoul moved out. It's sort of put paid to my love life."

"Is he rude to your friends?"

"Oh, no. He just sings."

I laughed. "That sounds nice."

"It is. But there are only so many lieder a person can take." He murmured conspiratorially, "I keep hoping a nice widow will take him off my hands."

We'd stopped in front of another photo-it was a little girl whose hands were stuck together. She was crying, her mouth open, her eyes screwed up in pain.

"Oh, dear. As it says in the manual, one of the disadvantages of adhesive bonding is that disa.s.sembly is usually not possible without destruction of the component parts," Nathan remarked drily.

It was one of the things about adhesives that had always secretly troubled me. I stared. There was something so hopeless about the mess the girl was in that my heart went out to her.

"I know what you mean by self-hating, Nathan. I hate myself sometimes."

"Do you, Georgia?"

"Yes. I mean, I often feel stupid. Or hopeless. Or despicable. Or I just wish I was somebody else." My voice was wobbling pathetically. "I feel as though I've made a mess of my life."

What would it have been like, I wondered, to grow up on custard made with eggs and vanilla and nutmeg, instead of Bird's powder and oven chips? Would I have been a different kind of person, more articulate and witty? Would I have had a high-powered career, or a string of best-selling novels? Would my husband not have left me? The trouble is, I was bonded to Rip; cyanoacrylate; a permanent bond. He was the only man I'd really loved, and however much I raged against him I knew I would never love anyone in that way again. I felt tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g into my eyes. Nathan slipped his arm around me and gave me a friendly squeeze.

"Glue can be messy stuff."

I rested my head on his shoulder, which was at just the right height if I bent my knees a bit, and let the tears roll down the sides of my nose, big and warm. Nathan didn't say anything. He just stood there and let me cry. After a while I pulled a crumpled ball of tissue out of my pocket and dabbed my eyes.

"Nathan, there's something I'd like to ask you."

"Fire ahead."

"Would you mind, on the way home, driving more slowly?"

35.

Uses ofsuperglue I woke up next day feeling full of life. It was late-almost nine o'clock, and intermittent bursts of sunshine were pushing in beneath the elastic of the black knickers. The crying yesterday had refreshed me, like the rain in the night, and so much exposure to the possibilities of glue had fired me up with new enthusiasm for my work. Sitting up in bed I switched my laptop on. The article I was working on was about medical uses of adhesives. Cyanoacrylate (superglue) had been used effectively in emergency battlefield situations in Vietnam to hold wounds together until they could be sutured properly. Now a number of companies were trying to develop specialist adhesives to be used in place of suture. Human bonding. There were two technical problems, it seemed, to be overcome. One, how to get the sides to hold together for long enough for bonding to take place. Two, how to achieve separation without tearing the flesh. woke up next day feeling full of life. It was late-almost nine o'clock, and intermittent bursts of sunshine were pushing in beneath the elastic of the black knickers. The crying yesterday had refreshed me, like the rain in the night, and so much exposure to the possibilities of glue had fired me up with new enthusiasm for my work. Sitting up in bed I switched my laptop on. The article I was working on was about medical uses of adhesives. Cyanoacrylate (superglue) had been used effectively in emergency battlefield situations in Vietnam to hold wounds together until they could be sutured properly. Now a number of companies were trying to develop specialist adhesives to be used in place of suture. Human bonding. There were two technical problems, it seemed, to be overcome. One, how to get the sides to hold together for long enough for bonding to take place. Two, how to achieve separation without tearing the flesh.

Then I remembered. Cyanoacrylate AXP-36C. I fumbled in the bedside drawer for a sc.r.a.p of paper to write it down on before I forgot. I tried to picture Rip's face when he realised he was stuck. I tried to picture his bottom, the agony of tearing flesh as he tried to free himself. Who would rescue him? Who would call the ambulance? Ottoline Walker? Or would it be me? Would I laugh? Would I minister gently to his adhered behind? So many possibilities!

I put aside medical uses of adhesives, just for a moment, and opened my exercise book.

The Splattered Heart Chapter 7 Chapter 7 One evening, as the Sinster family wore was wore was were sitting down to their sumptuous were sitting down to their sumptuous tea dinner tea dinner evening meal in the vast candle-lit dining hall surrounded by deer's' antlers and other dead things evening meal in the vast candle-lit dining hall surrounded by deer's' antlers and other dead things they heard they heard the the plangent pungent poignant plangent pungent poignant melodious tw.a.n.ging tinkling twinkling (oh, sod this) sound of a mandolin a.s.sayttailled their eager ears and a moment later a tall dark handsome figure clad eftfy (clad only-what was I thinking of!) in a swirling velvet cloak strode into the hall. After he had finished his performance Mrs Sinster threw him a few coins from her silk purse and said, "Oh, Mr Mandolin Player, please come again. I am fascinated by yourlafe mandolin-charming folk culture melodious tw.a.n.ging tinkling twinkling (oh, sod this) sound of a mandolin a.s.sayttailled their eager ears and a moment later a tall dark handsome figure clad eftfy (clad only-what was I thinking of!) in a swirling velvet cloak strode into the hall. After he had finished his performance Mrs Sinster threw him a few coins from her silk purse and said, "Oh, Mr Mandolin Player, please come again. I am fascinated by yourlafe mandolin-charming folk culture."

Poor Mrs Sinclair-was I being a bit unfair? When I'd first met the Sinclairs, their world had seemed so alien and intimidating-governed by unspoken rules and veiled a.s.sumptions-but she had really tried to make me feel at home, had inducted me kindly into the arcane mysteries of napkin rings and the Daily Telegraph Daily Telegraph crossword, and I suppose I must have seemed a sullen and ungracious daughter-in-law. At the time, it had irked me that they appeared to have no idea how privileged their lives were. It had irked me the way Mr Sinclair asked, in a hushed voice, whether I'd really met Arthur Scargill; I'm no great fan of the comb-over king, but the way the Sinclairs went on, you'd think he was the Antichrist himself. crossword, and I suppose I must have seemed a sullen and ungracious daughter-in-law. At the time, it had irked me that they appeared to have no idea how privileged their lives were. It had irked me the way Mr Sinclair asked, in a hushed voice, whether I'd really met Arthur Scargill; I'm no great fan of the comb-over king, but the way the Sinclairs went on, you'd think he was the Antichrist himself.

It had taken me a long time to realise that the Sinclairs were probably as scared of me as I was of them. Okay, it can't have helped that on my third visit to Holtham I'd worn a large yellow badge with 'The enemy within in bold letters. They must have seen me as an outrider of a sinister army bent on destroying order, decency, in bold letters. They must have seen me as an outrider of a sinister army bent on destroying order, decency, Horse & Hound Horse & Hound, and everything else they held dear. It wasn't long after the end of the miners' strike, and I thought they needed shaking up a bit-well, that's my excuse. Rip had tried to persuade me to take it off, but when I insisted, had stuck up for me valiantly and tried to explain to his bewildered parents what it was about.

"But if it's supposed to be a secret secret enemy, I can't understand why she's wearing a badge," I overheard Mrs Sinclair whispering to Rip. enemy, I can't understand why she's wearing a badge," I overheard Mrs Sinclair whispering to Rip.

Yes, perhaps I was being a bit hard on Rip, too. But all's fair in love and fiction. I pressed on.

Surprised in a compromising position with the mandolin player, Gina is expelled from Holty Towers. She protests that it was only a response to Rick's philandering, and determines to seek revenge by glueing his bottom to a toilet seat. The secret is to match the right adhesive to the adherends. Hurray! That would mean another visit to B&Q (strictly for research, of course.) The trouble is, I couldn't help feeling a touch of sympathy for Rick. After all, he was just a weak and deluded male-easily led by the cunning spotty Spanish maid-he couldn't really help it. And Gina should have known better than to get involved with that dubious mandolin player. Something else was bothering me. I tried to focus on the image of Rip's bottom in the toilet seat, but the other photo from the glue exhibition kept intruding, the little girl, her screwed-up eyes as she tried to pull her hands apart; her scream.

Hauling myself out of bed, I stood at the window and looked down over the garden, stretching my arms above my head and waggling my shoulders, which were still stiff from the cold and tension of yesterday's car journey. The ground was wet, and the leaves on the laurel bush were dazzling dazzling with captive raindrops, but the sun kept coming in and out behind the rain clouds, casting fleeting rainbows across the sky. At the far end of the garden, a haze of mauve crocuses had spread, almost overnight. Birds were hard at work, hopping about in pairs with bunches of gra.s.s in their beaks. with captive raindrops, but the sun kept coming in and out behind the rain clouds, casting fleeting rainbows across the sky. At the far end of the garden, a haze of mauve crocuses had spread, almost overnight. Birds were hard at work, hopping about in pairs with bunches of gra.s.s in their beaks.

Then I spotted Wonder Boy slinking along the edge of the fence, making his stealthy way towards the blackbird couples. I banged on the window and they flew away. Wonder Boy looked up and gave me a long reproachful stare. I felt a pang of guilt. Okay, a visit to Mrs Shapiro was long overdue, I wanted to say to him, but it wasn't exactly easy, was it? The HELP ME HELP ME letter Mrs Shapiro had sent was on my bedside table-I'd just scribbled the glue code on it. As I looked at the envelope with its scrawled-out name and address, I had a brainwave. letter Mrs Shapiro had sent was on my bedside table-I'd just scribbled the glue code on it. As I looked at the envelope with its scrawled-out name and address, I had a brainwave.

36.

The adhesion consultant After lunch, I dressed myself up in a red jacket that had belonged to Stella-1 had to leave the b.u.t.tons undone-and a glittery Oxfam scarf, and pulled a woolly hat down low over my hair. I put on bright red lipstick and an old pair of sungla.s.ses by way of disguise-and made my way to the bus stop on the b.a.l.l.s Pond Road. Though in fact when I arrived at Northmere House I saw that my disguise was redundant, for there was a different guard-dog lady at the reception desk.