"So tell me about you," she went on. "I've read the odd article about you, but they weren't very informative. What have you been doing since you and I split up, apart from becoming a film star, that is?"

"I'm not a star," I corrected her. "I've taken to acting and I've been lucky to have made a couple of movies, but I'll never be top billing.

Apart from that, I've just been living a life. I've been married, widowed, and married again. Now I'm in the process of getting divorced, and I've just had a child by a woman I don't live with.

That's it."

Her face fell a little; I wondered if she had pumped herself up somehow for our meeting. "I knew the last part," she said. "That was in all the Sundays last weekend. But I didn't know you'd been widowed. I'm sorry, Oz."

"It's not something I discuss with journalists."

"What happened?"

"I don't like to discuss it with anyone. Now tell me about you, for you very definitely have changed."

"For the better?" she asked.

"I don't know yet. I don't know anything. I don't even know why I'm here."

"I'll come to that. Okay, about me. I've you to thank for it, in a way."

"Why?"

"For chucking me. You were as nice as you could be when you did it, of course, but you still left me feeling that I'd bored you to tears. So I took a look at myself, and when I did, I realised that I bored even me. I looked like a bloody Sunday School teacher, I was hiding a pretty good body in drab, awful clothes, and I didn't even have the confidence to smile properly." She paused as the barman arrived with our drinks and my change ... even less than I'd expected.

"Plus," she said quietly as she picked up her vodka, "I wasn't any better when the lights were out.. . Not that you were any great shakes yourself, mind you. All cock, no technique, that was you."

"Thank you very much, ma'am," I muttered into my lager.

"Don't take it to heart; we didn't really interest each other so we didn't try very hard. That's the truth of it."

I thought about it; she was probably right.

"Anyway," she went on, "I gave myself a makeover. I started with my teeth, then my hair, and then my wardrobe. I chucked my job, too.

Remember I worked in the Scottish Office Information Department?"

"Yes."

"Well I left, and got myself a job as an accounts manager with a public relations company. I did very well there and was promoted after a couple of years. I also got myself a fiance. He worked for a rival firm, so we didn't announce our engagement, in case our respective bosses didn't like the idea, but we couldn't keep it secret forever.

Neither of us was fired when it became public knowledge, but our client lists were scrutinised to make sure there was no conflict. I was taken off one account as a result, and I wasn't allowed on new business pitches in case I wound up competing with David.

"It wasn't an ideal situation for either of us, so we did the obvious thing. We both quit and set up on our own."

As she told me her tale, I sensed something else that was new about her; she seemed to be brittle inside, in a way she never had been before. The old Alison might have been quiet, serious and ultimately boring, but she had never been nervous, or anything approaching highly strung; yet that was coming across the table in waves.

"So how did it go?" I asked, as she paused for refreshments.

"Very well," she replied. "We called ourselves Goodchild Capperauld ..

." She picked up on my frown at once. "His cousin," she said, forestalling my question.

"Does the name help in business?"

"It does until the prospects see the letterhead and realise it isn't him."

"Still.. ."

"No, it doesn't work that way. He and Ewan don't get on; David's younger by about ten years, so they weren't close as children. Then something happened between them, when David was at university, and they haven't spoken since."

"Let me guess, it involved a girl."

"Naturally. She was a student too; David was going out with her and he took her to Ewan's younger sister's wedding. Big mistake!"

"It's worked out okay for you, though." I glanced at her left hand, as she picked up her glass again. There were no rings; curious. "Are you Mrs. Capperauld now?"

"I was going to be," she answered. "We were going to get married last year, but we had so much business that we postponed it. We took on three new clients and set up a lobbying division, to help people put their cases to the Scottish Executive."

"First things first, eh."

"It's not like that," she said, defensively. "We love each other."

"Lucky you. And you get your priorities right too."

"We think so."

"I'm not disagreeing with you. Now, before you eat the rest of that vodka, and the glass as well, do you want to tell me what this is about? You're in love, I've got a new baby, we could have said all this over the phone, but you wanted to meet me. Why?"

For a moment the old Alison seemed to creep out from behind the teeth, the hair and the make-up. "I want to ask for a favour," she murmured.

I shrugged my shoulders. She gathered her confidence around her, sat up in her chair, and went on.

"I have a client who runs an office equipment business. His name is James Torrent." I recognised it from vans I had seen around town, in Edinburgh and Glasgow. "He supplies everything other than stationery; furniture, fittings, computers, photocopiers, the lot.

"It's a really big company; Mr. Torrent plans to go public in a year, but first he's moving into new corporate headquarters on the outskirts of Edinburgh, near the airport. He's a very important client for us, our biggest, in fact, but the thing is, he's very difficult to deal with. What he wants he gets, and if you can't give it to him, you're out; fired, no appeal, that's it.

"My problem is that when we got the business, part of my pitch said that we would arrange a big opening ceremony for the new headquarters, and that we would have a national celebrity to cut the tape. That's where I was hoping .. ."

I gasped; I couldn't help it. "You want me to open this guy's office?"

She flushed, and let out a nervous sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a cough. "Well, not exactly... I mean it would be great if you could come on the day as well, but.. .

"The thing is, Mr. Torrent wants Ewan to perform the ceremony; in fact he's told me that if I can't get him to do it, he'll give his business to another company. He means it too. It would be a disaster for us, Oz, if we lost that account so quickly. He's our biggest client and word would get around the marketplace like wildfire. On top of that, he owes us quite a bit of money. He's a very slow payer, and I reckon that if he fires us we'll never see any of it. We've bought in things for him, printed material, high quality photography, and we've paid our suppliers already. We could go belly-up if he defaults on us."

I had a sudden vision of Alison, belly-up. I also guessed what she was leading up to, but I played it out.

"I see your problem. So how do you want me to help? I can think of one way. Remember that guy Liam at GWA, who gave you my number? He could pay your man Torrent a visit, with a couple of the boys. You might not keep the business, but you'd get your money, even if it did have blood and snot all over it."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she said gloomily. "I'm not so sure they could frighten this man, though."

"You've never met big Jerry." I laughed to myself at the thought of my enormous friend. "But if that's not a runner, do you want me to introduce you to a good lawyer? My guy Greg would sue him for you, I'm sure."

"That would take too long. The bank's getting twitchy about our overdraft as it is. No, Oz, what I'm hoping is that you'll agree to approach Ewan on our behalf."