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of.’
    â€˜
Sort of
! What’s “sort of”? How can you
sort of
ring a person? Either you have or you have not. She was either there or she was not. She either said: “Yes, I’d love to”, or she said “No” and thanked you for calling. Enough “sort of”. Did you?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜And? And?’
    â€˜No reply.’
    â€˜Try again?’
    â€˜No reply.’
    â€˜
Will
you try again?’
    â€˜What do you know about her?’
    â€˜Ri-
chard
! She’s a friend of a friend of Catherine’s. I met her once before. I am sure – in fact, there can be no question about it – she’ll be sitting in all evening willing the phone to ring with your dulcet tones offering dinner
chez Ricardo
. So, stop skirting the issue. You left together and then what?’
    â€˜I took her home. Fancy a drink? My shout.’
    Bob watched his friend as he dressed and preened.
    Good Lord, he’s gone! A goner! Not that he knows it yet. Goodbye, Old Mister Pump-and-Dump, Sir Love ’Em and Leave ’Em. Or Rather Lord Leave ’Em Before You Fallinlovewith ’Em. I don’t believe it!
    Bob felt a wave of fondness and happiness for his pal so he slapped his back and squeezed his delts.
    â€˜Your shout. Just a swift half, mind. Promised Catherine that we’d go to the flicks.’
    Their swift half turned into a leisurely two-pinter. Bob decided not to pry further. This one needed nurturing. Instead, they indulged in a trip down Memory Lane, recalling wild times shared at college, remembering, try for try, every rugby game that they’d played together, remarking on how far they had both come since moving to London to make their respective marks on the world of Law and Architecture. Bob talked about Catherine, their next holiday to Northern Portugal, the extension to the house, the current discord over the baby issue – her desire, his reluctance. (‘But me, a dad? I mean, I’m not old enough! I’ve got a dad of my own still! Catherine’s broody though, very. I’ve even checked her Pill packets recently to make sure she’s not forgetting accidentally-on-purpose.’)
    Richard was simultaneously envious of Bob’s security, his constant and loving relationship, and yet also thankful that he had no one but himself to think of. Poor old Bob, soon to be dragged off to a schmaltzy American weepy that he’d never go to see out of choice. But there again, didn’t he seem to beam with affection when, on the way to the pub, he’d made a detour to buy tissues and wine gums?
    â€˜Hey, look at the time! I’ve got fifteen minutes to get to Leicester Square! Great to see you, Richie.’ (
Don’t call me that.
) ‘Still on for squash on Sunday morning? Great. You going to call her? You
are
going to call her! Must dash. Later!’
    â€˜Later! Love to Catherine. Don’t sob too hard!’
    Bob left the pub backwards, making a telephone gesture as he did so. Richard raised his pint and smiled. A minute or two later he left it, half-full, and caught a cab home to Notting Hill.
    0181 348 6523.
    â€˜Hullo?’
    â€˜Sally! Richard here.’
    â€˜Hu-
low
!’
    â€˜How are you?’
    â€˜Well! Yes! You?’
    â€˜Mmm!’
    A pause verging on embarrassing silence.
    â€˜Sally, would you like to have dinner with me? Friday night? At mine?’
    â€˜That would be nice. Why, yes. Thank you. Address? Time? Lovely!’
    â€˜Friday, then.’
And wear those lovely little knickers.
    â€˜Friday.’
And make sure the sheets are fresh.

SIX
    W ith the mock-Georgian folly taking good form on the drawing-board, Richard felt justified, for the first time in his working career, in packing up at lunch-time and taking the afternoon off.
    Goodbye Sandra, goodbye Mary. Goodbye, Mr Stonehill. Goodbye navy suit and calf muscles. Sandra