"Christ, man, it's hardly going to take me long. I've only got about ten lines, then I go down in this big gunfight. I'm not exactly playing Hamlet."

"No, but you get your leg over, and that's more than he does."

"True; it has its compensations. Actually, I'm a bit worried about that."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when she gets her kit off, what if I sort of... You know what I mean, man."

"Become aroused, you mean?"

"That's the polite term, yes."

"Try to think of something else, like Jerry Gradi throwing your arse across the ring."

"Mmm. It might take more than that, depending on the lady's appearance."

"Look, man," I told him, 'it's not a problem. They put something in your tea; that's what happened in Toronto."

He bought it. "Christ, man, are you fucking serious! How long does it take to wear off?"

"Not long. After a couple of weeks, you should see the first signs of life."

I heard him gasp. "A couple of weeks ..." He stopped. "Fuck it, I think I'll just wear baggy pyjamas."

When I stopped laughing, I asked him why he had called. "To wish you all the best," he began, 'to ask after your new child, who is all over the funny papers .. . you never do anything conventional, pal, do you .. . and to pass on a message."

"What's that?"

"The office took a call today, while we were all on the way back from a show in Cardiff. It was a girl, and she was looking for you. She said her name was Alison Goodchild; and that she was an old friend of yours.

She said she needs to get in touch with you, and that it's urgent."

Liam paused. "You haven't got another one up the duff, have you?"

"We took great pains not to do that," I told him. "But that was a few years back now. Did they take a number?"

"Yes." He read it out, after I had grabbed a pen; it was a mobile, not a landline. "She asked if you could send her a text message; she said she doesn't like speaking on the thing."

Funny, I thought, then I remembered that Alison had always been a touch weird.

"If it makes her happy. I'll do that. Have you been told about the cast meeting yet?"

"No. When's that?"

I gave him the date and time, and told him how to find the apartment.

"See you Thursday."

"Sure. Hey, were you serious about the stuff in your tea?"

"Nah. Did you mean it, about the baggy pyjamas?"

"What do you think?"

"A pair of boxers is probably all you'll need."

I hung up, and thought of Alison; our thing had been doomed from the start. I could never take her as seriously as she had taken herself. I used to call her "Tomorrow'; she thought it was after the song "Tomorrow Belongs to Me', but actually, it was because she never came.

Eventually I found someone who did, and that was that. Okay, I was a rat in those days; I admit it.

I looked at the number Liam had given me; then I switched on my mobile and keyed in a text message giving her my landline number and inviting her to call me.

I switched on the telly and was getting into David Attenborough telling me how important field mice are to the ecosystem, when my cellphone bleeped twice to tell me that I had an incoming text message.

I accessed it and read. "Can't phone. Can we meet?"

Strange, I thought, but I sent back, "OK. Where? When?"

Two minutes later, I bleeped again. '9:30 tonight? Cafe Royal?" I read. I frowned; I was getting into those field mice and there was a rerun of the afternoon's premiership match on Sky afterwards. Also, I didn't fancy the Cafe Royal; it's always busy and I'm at the stage of being recognised and accosted by punters I don't know. I don't mind, but they can be hard to shake loose. So I thought about it, then sent another message. "Time okay, but not CR. George Hotel bar." I waited, only partly focused on the mice. It took her less than a minute this time. "OK. C U'.

There is no doubt about it; text messaging is changing the face of the English language, as it is rote.

thirteen.

The great thing about my new temporary home was that it was less than ten minutes' walk from anywhere in central Edinburgh. As I had hoped, the George Hotel bar was quiet; there were a couple of Japanese tourists and a table of loud American golfers, but otherwise only the barman and me.

He had just finished pouring what looked like a perfect pint of lager when Alison Goodchild appeared in the doorway... at least I guessed it was Alison. When we had been together, she had been a thin, pale, understated wee thing, with poorly cut mid-brown hair, little or no make-up, and a bad habit of catalogue shopping for clothes. In fact when I'd been watching Attenborough's mice, she had come to mind.

This woman had changed, and how. Her hair was shoulder-length, shiny, and honey-coloured, high-heeled blue patent shoes made her look a few inches taller, and her clothes were closer to Gianni Versace than Great Universal. Other things were different too; she wore eye make-up, and either she had switched to Wonderbra, or she'd been enlarged.

Still, it had been a while. I'd changed too, I guessed. I waved to her, then glanced at my reflection in the bar mirror. I was bigger in the shoulders than a couple of years before, and there were grey flecks in my side-burns and lines around my eyes that would be new to her. My clothes were much the same though, even if I was wearing Lacoste jeans rather than the Wranglers of old, and my jacket was antelope rather than cowhide.

"Vodka and tonic?" I asked her as she approached. My memory was spot on, because she smiled and nodded. The smile was new, as well. Where before it had been hesitant and a little pinched, to hide her slightly undersized teeth, now it was wide and open. I realised that she'd had them all expertly crowned. (You can tell these things when your old man's a dentist.)

"Thanks," she said, 'but slimline, please, and just a spot of lime juice rather than lemon."

The barman nodded and told us that if we'd like to go to a table he'd bring the drinks over. I dropped a tenner on the counter; I was pretty sure than a fiver wouldn't have been enough. I looked around for a spot as far away from the Japanese, and especially the Yanks, as we could get. As I did, a chunk of their discussion floated over.

"Hey," one of them called out, intending that the whole bar should hear. "Hey, did you guys hear that the Republican Party is changing its symbol from an elephant to a condom? It's perfect, see. A condom stands up to inflation, halts production, destroys the next generation, protects a bunch of pricks, and gives one a sense of security while screwing others."

I threw the guy a 'sad bastard' look and steered Alison towards a table under the window.

She eyed me up and down as I settled into an armchair. "You look just the same," she said.

"Check your contacts, honey," I told her. "I don't."

She shook her head. "Oh you're older, sure, and there's a harder edge to you, more serious, but essentially you're just the same. I don't know, maybe I thought there would be sparks shooting off you now you're famous, but there aren't."

"I still pee standing up," I said.

"I hope you hit the bowl more often," she murmured. Now that definitely was not the old Alison.