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I’m not going to re-run that trip just to suit you, Barry.’
    â€˜Lent you an island?’ Barry is appalled and impaled, as usual, on a superstar.
    â€˜Don’t you believe me?’ I say. ‘Well, darling, you know all the old faces. Ring him up and ask him to look for your film. Maybe
he
can afford the time and trouble. I can’t.’
    There – message delivered, loud and clear. It reaches Barry and he sits staring at me with embarrassment, greed and social intimidation leaking from his forehead and upper lip. He’s wondering why, after all these years, he still can’t afford me. He should have me over a barrel: I’m an ageing broad and everyone knows they mean less than nothing. He’s offered me biscuit and a little media attention, so I should be licking his hand and wagging my tail. Age should have softened me and made me malleable.
    Instead, I walk, I stalk, I shimmy out of Café D’Arte and disappear into the night. Walker by name, walker by nature. I don’t even need a lift.
    Except that I did need a lift. My feet hurt. Pride and adrenaline don’t last long these days. I was tired. I took a cab back to the Savoy, ditched the shoes, loosened the zips and straps and lay down with Memphis Slim on my Walkman. Then I rolled a joint and went to bed, hustled out. Risks taken, pitches pitched, nothing to do but wait and see how much Barry wanted to redeem himself in his own eyes. A lot? A little? Not at all?

Part 1
Introductions
    â€˜When the music starts to play, she slides out on the floor, Dancing without a partner …’
    Keb’ Mo’

I
First Impressions
    When George first met Linnet Walker she seemed to sail through his window like an exotic bird out of a clear blue sky. In fact, it was a grey day and she walked through the door like everyone else. She didn’t perch on the edge of his desk and sing, or preen iridescent feathers – but afterwards, George could never quite lose the impression that she did.
    He was not an impressionable man. His partner, Tina Cole, was, if anything, even harder-nosed than he was.
    â€˜CV?’ Tina asked. ‘Did she leave a CV?’
    â€˜She didn’t even apply for the job,’ George said, still bemused. He blinked as if adjusting his eyes back from bright to dim light. ‘I think she just came to look us over.’
    â€˜She wants a job but she thinks we might not be suitable employers?’ Tina said. ‘Bleeding nerve!’
    â€˜She isn’t exactly a school leaver spraying applications all around the neighbourhood,’ George explained. ‘She’s a …’
    â€˜She’s a what?’
    But George didn’t answer that one. He polished his glasses and said, ‘How many have we interviewed, Tina? And how many of those can write a simple letter? Spell even halfway correctly? Read a spread sheet? Fill in a client form? Operate this labyrinth of a computer? Is there a single one of them you’d want answering the phone?’
    â€˜This isn’t a straightforward job. We might have to do some in-house training.’
    â€˜What management manual did you find that euphemism in?’George looked at his colleague with a mixture of affection and exasperation. ‘Do me a favour and explain if by “in-house training” you mean we’ll have to teach some adolescent how to spit out her gum and hide the cigarettes before telling a client to “park his arse”.’
    Tina snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, George,’ she said, ‘we have interviewed some lulus.’
    â€˜And we haven’t found one we’d even trust as a receptionist – never mind give access to confidential files. We’re in the security business, for God’s sake. We’re supposed to be secure. And confidential. And tactful. And don’t say, “It’s early days.” It’s been five weeks, and we’re still hanging on by our