There was silence on the other end of the line, and he felt the weight of the telephone in his hand, ugly and beige, its receiver angular and plastic, pressed against his ear and resembling something like a cooking implement, the buttons firm but rubbery.
“I am, of course, always more than delighted to hear from you, Gilles, you know that,” came the eventual reply.
His lips twitched with displeasure.
“Please don’t call me that. I’ve told you, in this life, my name is Alfonse.”
When the voice of the woman on the other end returned, he could sense her amusement, even if he had heard no mirth from her lips.
“Ah, my mistake, M. Saint Libatique, you must forgive me.”
Never, he thought coldly.
“Of course,” he replied.
“I’m pleased to hear he’s doing so well. You must be too. It’s been a
