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she was going to withdraw part of her own services from her unsatisfactory partner, because the last night they had spent together had been a perusal of
The Home Doctor
to try and identify the nature of his wife’s illness. I said I thought his wife’s illness might be deeply rooted in drink, and Alice said I could be right but it wasn’t the kind of thing you said to someone’s husband. Talking about drink reminded us to have another and then we grudgingly agreed it was time to go.
    There were four cars in what Melissa had described as a bit of waste land, an elegantly paved semicircular courtyard in front of the twelve steps up to the door. Alice commented that they were all this year’s models, and none of them cost a penny under three thousand. She parked her battered 1969 Volkswagen in the middle, where it looked like a small child among a group of elegant adults.
    Malcolm opened the door, glass in hand. He was so pleased to see us that I wondered how he had lived six months without the experience. Oh come on, I told myself, that’s being unfair, if he wasn’t nice and welcoming I would have more complaints. The whole place looked like the film set for a trendy frothy movie on gracious modern living. Melissa rushed out in a tapestry skirt, and I nearly cried with relief that I hadn’t worn mine. Melissa is shaped like a pencil rather than a sofa; the contrast would have been mind-blowing.
    We were wafted into a sitting room, and wafted is the word. Nobody said “come this way” or “let me introduce you” but somehow there we were with drinks in our hands, sitting between other people, whose names had been said clearly, a Melissa would never mutter. The drinks were good and strong, a Malcolm would never be mean. Low in the background a record player had some nostalgic songs from the sixties, the time when we had all been young and impressionable, none of your classical music, nor your songs of the moment. Malcolm and Melissa couldn’t be obvious if they tried.
    And it was like being back in Andrea’s Taverna again. Everyone felt more witty and relaxed because Malcolm and Melissa were there, sort of in charge of things without appearing to be. They sat and chatted, they didn’t fuss, they never tried to drag anyone into the conversation or to force some grounds of common interest. Just because we were all there together under their roof…that was enough.
    And it seemed to be enough for everyone. A great glow came over the group in the sunset, and the glow deepened when a huge plate of spaghetti was served. It was spaghetti, damn her. But not the kind that you and I would ever make. Melissa seemed to be out of the room only three minutes, and I know it takes at least eight to cook the pasta. But there it was, excellent, mountainous, with garlic bread, fresh and garlicky, not the kind that breaks your teeth on the outside and then is soggy within. The salad was like an exotic still-life, it had everything in it except lettuce. People moved as if in a dance to the table. There were no cries of praise and screams of disclaimer from the hostess. Why then should I have been so resentful of it all?
    Alice seemed to be loving every minute of her evening, she had already fought with Malcolm about the kind of women’s literature he sold, but it was a happy fight where she listened to the points he was making and answered them. If she didn’t like someone she wouldn’t bother to do this. She had been talking to Melissa about some famous woman whom they both knew through work, and they were giggling about the famous woman’s shortcomings. Alice was forgetting her role, she was breaking the rules. She had come to understand more about the Melissa and Malcolm people so that we could laugh at them. Instead, she looked in grave danger of getting on with them.
    I barely heard what someone called Keith was saying to me about my theatre. I realized with a great shock that I was jealous. Jealous that Alice was having such