' 'Cause you're wasting them, aren't you?'

'Watch it another time, then.'

'Oh, yeah. I've got so much money I can give two pounds to the bloke in the video shop every night.'

'I'm not asking you to do it every night. I'm . . . Look, I'll give you the two quid, all right?'

'I dunno. Are you sure?'

I'm sure, and there we have it. Dan Maskell and Steve Butler. They don't know each other, they won't like each other, and they have nothing in common apart from a slight overlap in their record collections (Dan's not very interested in black music, Steve's not very interested in white music, they both have a few jazz alb.u.ms). And Dan's expecting to see Marie, but Marie's not expecting to see Dan, nor does she even know of his existence. Should be a cracking night out.

Marie's got a phone now, and Barry has her number, and she's happy that I called, and more than happy to come out for a drink, and if she knew it was my birthday she'd probably explode with joy, but for some reason I decide not to tell her. I don't have to sell the evening to her, which is just as well, because I don't think I'd be able to give it away. She's got to do something else first, however, so there's an agonizing hour or so alone with Steve and Dan. I talk to Dan about rock music, while Steve stares at somebody getting lucky on the fruit machine, and I talk to Steve about soul music, while Dan does that trick with a beer mat which only the truly irritating person knows. And then we all talk about jazz, and then there's some pretty desultory what-do-you-do kind of stuff, and then we run out of petrol altogether, and we all watch the guy who's getting lucky on the fruit machine.

Marie and T-Bone and a very blond, very glamorous, and very young woman, also American, finally turn up around quarter to ten, so there's only forty-five minutes of drinking time left. I ask them what they want to drink, but Marie doesn't know, and comes up to the bar with me to have a look at what they've got.

'I see what you mean about T-Bone's s.e.x life,' I say as we're waiting.

She raises her eyes to the ceiling. 'Isn't she something else? And you know what? That's the ugliest woman he's ever dated.'

'I'm glad you could come.'

'The pleasure is ours. Who are those guys?'

'Dan and Steve. I've known them for years. They're a bit dull, I'm afraid, but I have to see them sometimes.'

'Duck noires, right?'

'Sorry?'

'I call 'em duck noires. Sort of a mixture of lame duck and bete noire. bete noire. People you don't want to see but kinda feel you should.' People you don't want to see but kinda feel you should.'

Duck noires. Bang on. And I had to f.u.c.king beg mine, pay pay mine, to come out for a drink on my birthday. mine, to come out for a drink on my birthday.

I never think these things through, ever. 'Happy birthday, Rob,' says Steve when I put his drink down in front of him. Marie attempts to give me a look, of surprise, I would guess, but also of deepest sympathy and bottomless understanding, but I won't return it.

It's a pretty bad evening. When I was a kid, my granny used to spend Boxing Day afternoon with a friend's granny; my mum and dad would drink with Adrian's mum and dad, and I'd play with Adrian, and the two old codgers would sit in front of the TV exchanging pleasantries. The catch was that they were both deaf, but it didn't really matter: they were happy enough with their version of a conversation, which had the same gaps and nods and smiles as everyone else's conversation, but none of the connections. I haven't thought about that for years, but I remember it tonight.

Steve annoys me throughout: he has this trick of waiting until the conversation is in full flow, and then muttering something in my ear when I'm attempting either to talk or to listen to somebody else. So I can either ignore him and appear rude, or answer him, involve everyone else in what I'm saying, and change their direction entirely. And once he's got everyone talking about soul, or Star Trek Star Trek (he goes to conventions and things), or great bitters of the north of England (he goes to conventions and things), subjects n.o.body else knows anything about, we go through the whole process all over again. Dan yawns a lot, Marie is patient, T-Bone is tetchy, and his date, Suzie, is positively appalled. What is she doing in a grotty pub with these guys? She has no idea. Neither have I. Maybe Suzie and I should disappear off somewhere more intimate, and leave these losers to get on with it. I could take you through the whole evening, but you wouldn't enjoy it much, so I'll let you off with a dull but entirely representative sample: (he goes to conventions and things), or great bitters of the north of England (he goes to conventions and things), subjects n.o.body else knows anything about, we go through the whole process all over again. Dan yawns a lot, Marie is patient, T-Bone is tetchy, and his date, Suzie, is positively appalled. What is she doing in a grotty pub with these guys? She has no idea. Neither have I. Maybe Suzie and I should disappear off somewhere more intimate, and leave these losers to get on with it. I could take you through the whole evening, but you wouldn't enjoy it much, so I'll let you off with a dull but entirely representative sample:

MARIE: . . . just unbelievable, I mean, real animals. animals. I was singing 'Love Hurts' and this guy shouted out, 'Not the way I do it, baby,' and then he was sick all the way down his T-shirt, and he I was singing 'Love Hurts' and this guy shouted out, 'Not the way I do it, baby,' and then he was sick all the way down his T-shirt, and he didn't move a muscle. didn't move a muscle. Just stood there shouting at the stage and laughing with his buddies. [ Just stood there shouting at the stage and laughing with his buddies. [Laughs.] You were there, weren't you, T-Bone? You were there, weren't you, T-Bone?

T-BONE: I guess.

MARIE: T-Bone dreams dreams of fans as suave as that, don't you? The places he plays, you have to . . . [ of fans as suave as that, don't you? The places he plays, you have to . . . [Inaudible due to interruption from . . . ] ]

STEVE: [Whispering in my ear] They've brought They've brought The Baron The Baron out on video now, you know. Six episodes. D'you remember the theme music? out on video now, you know. Six episodes. D'you remember the theme music?

ME: No. I don't. [Laughter from Marie, T-Bone, Dan] Sorry, Marie, I missed that. You have to do what? Sorry, Marie, I missed that. You have to do what?

MARIE: I was saying, this place that T-Bone and me . . .

STEVE: It was brilliant. Der-der-DER! Der-der-der DER!

DAN: I recognize that. Man in a suitcase? Man in a suitcase?

STEVE: No. The Baron. The Baron. 'S' out on video. 'S' out on video.

MARIE: The Baron? The Baron? Who was in that? Who was in that?

DAN: Steve Forrest.

MARIE: I think we used to get that. Was that the one where the guy [Inaudible due to interruption from . . . ] ]

STEVE: [Whispering in my ear] D'you ever read D'you ever read Voices from the Shadows? Voices from the Shadows? Soul magazine? Brilliant. Steve Davis owns it, you know. The snooker player. Soul magazine? Brilliant. Steve Davis owns it, you know. The snooker player.

[Suzie makes a face at T-Bone. T-Bone looks at his watch. ] ]

Etc.

Never again will this combination of people be seated around a table; it just couldn't possibly happen, and it shows. I thought the numbers would provide a feeling of security and comfort, but they haven't. I don't really know any of these people, not even the one I've slept with, and for the first time since I split up with Laura, I really feel like slumping onto the floor and bawling my eyes out. I'm homesick.

It's supposed to be women who allow themselves to become isolated by relationships: they end up seeing more of the guy's friends, and doing more of the guy's things (poor Anna, trying to remember who Richard Thompson is, and being shown the error of her Simple Minded ways), and when they're ditched, or when they ditch, they find they've floated too far away from friends they last saw properly three or four years before. And before Laura, that was what life was like for me and my partners too, most of them.

But Laura . . . I don't know what happened. I liked her crowd, Liz and the others who used to come down to the Groucho. And for some reason - comparative career success, I guess, and the corresponding postponements that brings - her crowd were more single and more flexible than mine. So for the first time ever I played the woman's role, and threw my lot in with the person I was seeing. It wasn't that she didn't like my friends (not friends like d.i.c.k and Barry and Steve and Dan, but proper proper friends, the sort of people I have allowed myself to lose). It was just that she liked hers more, and wanted me to like them, and I did. I liked them more than I liked my own and, before I knew it (I never knew it, really, until it was too late), my relationship was what gave me my sense of location. And if you lose your sense of location, you get homesick. Stands to reason. friends, the sort of people I have allowed myself to lose). It was just that she liked hers more, and wanted me to like them, and I did. I liked them more than I liked my own and, before I knew it (I never knew it, really, until it was too late), my relationship was what gave me my sense of location. And if you lose your sense of location, you get homesick. Stands to reason.

So now what? It feels as though I've come to the end of the line. I don't mean that in the American rock'n'roll suicide sense; I mean it in the English Thomas the Tank Engine sense. I've run out of puff, and come to a gentle halt in the middle of nowhere.

'These people are your friends?' Marie asks me the next day when she takes me for a post-birthday crispy bacon and avocado sandwich.

'It's not that bad. There were only two of them.'

She looks at me to see if I'm joking. When she laughs, it's clear that I am.

'But it was your birthday.' birthday.'

'Well. You know.'

'Your birthday. birthday. And that's the best you can do?' And that's the best you can do?'

'Say it was your birthday today, and you wanted to go out for a drink tonight. Who would you invite? d.i.c.k and Barry? T-Bone? Me? We're not your bestest friends in the whole world, are we?'

'Come on, Rob. I'm not even in my own country. country. I'm thousands of miles from home.' I'm thousands of miles from home.'

My point exactly.

I watch the couples that come into the shop, and the couples I see in pubs, and on buses, and through windows. Some of them, the ones that talk and touch and laugh and inquire a lot, are obviously new, and they don't count: like most people, I'm OK at being half of a new couple. It's the more established, quieter couples, the ones who have started to go through life back-to-back or side-to-side, rather than face-to-face, that interest me.

There's not much you can decipher in their faces, really. There's not much that sets them apart from single people; try dividing people you walk past into one of life's four categories - happily coupled, unhappily coupled, single, and desperate - and you'll find you won't be able to do it. Or rather, you could do it, but you would have no confidence in your choices. This seems incredible to me. The most important thing in life, and you can't tell whether people have it or not. Surely this is wrong? Surely people who are happy should look look happy, at all times, no matter how much money they have or how uncomfortable their shoes are or how little their child is sleeping; and people who are doing OK but have still not found their soul mate should look, I don't know, well but anxious, like Billy Crystal in happy, at all times, no matter how much money they have or how uncomfortable their shoes are or how little their child is sleeping; and people who are doing OK but have still not found their soul mate should look, I don't know, well but anxious, like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally; When Harry Met Sally; and people who are desperate should wear something, a yellow ribbon maybe, which would allow them to be identified by similarly desperate people. When I am no longer desperate, when I have got all this sorted out, I promise you here and now that I will never ever complain again about how the shop is doing, or about the soullessness of modern pop music, or the stingy fillings you get in the sandwich bar up the road (1.60 for egg mayonnaise and crispy bacon, and none of us have ever had more than four pieces of crispy bacon in a whole round yet) or anything at all. I will beam beatifically at all times, just from sheer and people who are desperate should wear something, a yellow ribbon maybe, which would allow them to be identified by similarly desperate people. When I am no longer desperate, when I have got all this sorted out, I promise you here and now that I will never ever complain again about how the shop is doing, or about the soullessness of modern pop music, or the stingy fillings you get in the sandwich bar up the road (1.60 for egg mayonnaise and crispy bacon, and none of us have ever had more than four pieces of crispy bacon in a whole round yet) or anything at all. I will beam beatifically at all times, just from sheer relief. relief.

Nothing much, by which I mean even less than usual, happens for a couple of weeks. I find a copy of 'All Kinds of Everything' in a junk shop near the flat, and buy it for fifteen pence, and give it to Johnny next time I see him, on the proviso that he f.u.c.k off and leave us alone forever. He comes in the next day complaining that it's scratched and demanding his money back. Barrytown make a triumphant debut at the Harry Lauder, and rock the place off its foundations, and the buzz is incredible, and there are loads of people there who look like A&R men, and they go absolutely mental, and honestly Rob, you should have been there (Marie just laughs, when I ask her about it, and says that everyone has to start somewhere). d.i.c.k tries to get me to make up a foursome with him, Anna, and a friend of Anna's who's twenty-one, but I don't go; we see Marie play at a folk club in Farringdon, and I think about Laura a lot more than I think about Marie during the sad songs, even though Marie dedicates a song to 'the guys at Championship Vinyl'; I go for a drink with Liz and she b.i.t.c.hes about Ray the whole evening, which is great; and then Laura's dad dies, and everything changes.

Twenty-five

I hear about it on the same morning she does. I ring her number from the shop, intending just to leave a message on her machine; it's easier that way, and I only wanted to tell her about some ex-colleague who left a message for her on our machine. My machine. Her machine, actually, if we're talking legal ownership. Anyway. I wasn't expecting Laura to pick up the phone, but she does, and she sounds as though she's speaking from the bottom of the sea. Her voice is m.u.f.fled, and low, and flat, and coated from first syllable to last in snot.

'Cor dear oh dear, that's a cold and a half. I hope you're in bed with a hot book and a good water bottle. It's Rob, by the way.'

She doesn't say anything.

'Laura? It's Rob.'

Still nothing.

'Are you all right?''

And then a terrible moment.

'Pigsty,' she says, although the first syllable's just a noise, really, so 'pig' is an educated guess.

'Don't worry about that,' I say. 'Just get into bed and forget about it. Worry about it when you're better.'

'Pig's died,' she says.

'Who the f.u.c.k's Pig?'

This time I can hear her. 'My dad's died,' she sobs. 'My dad, my dad.'

And then she hangs up.

I think about people dying all the time, but they're always people connected with me. I've thought about how I would feel if Laura died, and how Laura would feel if I died, and how I'd feel if my mum or dad died, but I never thought about Laura's mum or dad dying. I wouldn't, would I? And even though he was ill for the entire duration of my relationship with Laura, it never really bothered me: it was more like, my dad's got a beard, Laura's dad's got angina. I never thought it would actually lead lead to anything. Now he's gone, of course, I wish . . . what? What do I wish? That I'd been nicer to him? I was perfectly nice to him, the few times we met. That we'd been closer? He was my common-law father-in-law, and we were very different, and he was sick, and . . . we were as close as we needed to be. You're supposed to wish things when people die, to fill yourself full of regrets, to give yourself a hard time for all your mistakes and omissions, and I'm doing all that as best I can. It's just that I can't find any mistakes and omissions. He was my ex-girlfriend's dad, you know? What am I supposed to feel? to anything. Now he's gone, of course, I wish . . . what? What do I wish? That I'd been nicer to him? I was perfectly nice to him, the few times we met. That we'd been closer? He was my common-law father-in-law, and we were very different, and he was sick, and . . . we were as close as we needed to be. You're supposed to wish things when people die, to fill yourself full of regrets, to give yourself a hard time for all your mistakes and omissions, and I'm doing all that as best I can. It's just that I can't find any mistakes and omissions. He was my ex-girlfriend's dad, you know? What am I supposed to feel?

'You all right?' says Barry, when he sees me staring into s.p.a.ce. 'Who were you talking to?'

'Laura. Her dad's died.'

'Oh, right. Bad one.' And then he wanders off to the post office with a pile of mail orders under his arm. See? From Laura, to me, to Barry: from grief, to confusion, to a fleeting, mild interest. If you want to find a way to extract death's sting, then Barry's your man. For a moment it feels strange that these two people, one who is so maddened by pain that she can hardly speak, the other who can hardly find the curiosity to shrug, should know each other; strange that I'm the link between them, strange that they live in the same place at the same time, even. But Ken was Barry's boss's ex-girlfriend's dad. What is he supposed to feel?

Laura calls back an hour or so later. I wasn't expecting her to.

'I'm sorry,' she says. It's still hard to make out what she's saying, what with the snot and the tears and the tone and the volume.

'No, no.'

Then she cries for a while. I don't say anything until she's a bit quieter.

'When are you going home?'

'In a minute. When I get it together.'

'Can I do anything?'

'No.' And then, after a sob, 'No' again, as if she's realized properly that there's nothing anybody can do for her, and maybe this is the first time she's ever found herself in that situation. I know I never have. Everything that's ever gone wrong for me could have been rescued by the wave of a bank manager's wand, or by a girlfriend's sudden change of mind, or by some quality - determination, self-awareness, resilience - that I might have found within myself, if I'd looked hard enough. I don't want to have to cope with the sort of unhappiness Laura's feeling, not ever. If people have to die, I don't want them dying near me. My mum and dad won't die near me, I've made b.l.o.o.d.y sure of that. When they go, I'll hardly feel a thing.

The next day she calls again.

'Mum wants you to come to the funeral.'

'Me?'

'My dad liked you. Apparently. And Mum never told him we'd split, because he wasn't up to it and . . . oh, I don't know. I don't really understand it, and I can't be bothered to argue. I think she thinks he'll be able to see what's going on. It's like . . . ' She makes a strange noise which I realize is a manic giggle. 'Her att.i.tude is that he's been through so much, what with dying and everything, that she doesn't want to upset him any more than she has to.'

I knew that Ken liked me, but I could never really work out why, apart from once he was looking for the original London cast recording of My Fair Lady, My Fair Lady, and I saw a copy at a record fair, and sent it to him. See where random acts of kindness get you? To f.u.c.king funerals, that's where. and I saw a copy at a record fair, and sent it to him. See where random acts of kindness get you? To f.u.c.king funerals, that's where.