A/N: I know up until now my chapters have felt rather short. I promise the next one shall not be. Review please, it'd be nice to know if people actually like what it is I'm writing (or not). Hope you like it!
Marcus placed the receiver back in its cradle and stared at it for several minutes. As time passed a dim voice in his brain told him that he should probably take some course of action. He did, and went out to buy his first pack of cigarettes in 5 years. Returning home, he lit one from the gas stove. "Just like riding a bike" he mused to himself, the warmth of the smoke permeating his lungs. He took another drag. No, he hadn't forgotten how to do it, nor had the almost instantaneous and incomparable calming effect that only nicotine could have on him diminished. He returned to the living room and sat down, sliding lower and lower into the upholstery of the sofa as he relaxed. Maybe he should talk to this woman, he thought, snatching up a nearby orange peel and forming it into a makeshift ashtray. Maybe it'd be fine, and besides, hadn't Tony said to do things more often? He made the decision, and reached for the phone again.
"Call me on 0775..."
Marcus jotted down the number the journalist had said and stubbed out his cigarette. He stared at his scrawled handwriting and wondered. What exactly would this woman want him to talk about? How persistent would she be? Where would she want to meet, and how often? The niggling doubts persisted and try as he might, Marcus couldn't bring himself to call. Several times he picked up the phone, only to hesitate, the line bleeping unnaturally loudly as if goading him for his cowardice. He gave up and replaced it, picking up his mobile again. It had a text.
"Aaaaaand remember. Youre a long time dead."
Tony's words seemed to be fated encouragement. Marcus closed the text and dialled ferociously.
"Hi, it's Heidi. I'm obviously busy at the moment, so please leave a message!"
"...Hi... it's Marcus... Marcus Burns that is... umm... yeah about talking to you. Umm... yeah sure."
He hung up and grimaced. He'd sounded like an awkward teenager asking someone out on a date, not a grown man agreeing to be interviewed for a national newspaper. Also, why had she given him her personal mobile number, weren't journalists supposed to have a work phone, and loads of different e-mail addresses and assistants and things? He opened his laptop and googled her name. Her online journalistic profile described her as a "General comment and current events contributor".
Right, so she was a 'contributor', rather than say, a 'correspondent'. Great, a freelance ambitious story-chaser who was struggling so badly she'd interview a man who went out of the news three years ago. He skimmed through her other details. "Born 28th March 1992". Yup. Too old to still be promising, too young to have been completely shunted from the job market. He silently laughed. He always enjoyed exercising his cynicism. Besides, at least there was a work email address. Hell, he might be able to avoid the hideously awkward telephone demeanour he'd just reminded himself he possessed. He drafted a more coherent and formal acceptance of her offer and sent it.
Sitting back, he smiled to himself. The journey towards wherever he was going had started. Now all he had to do was wait.