'Thank you. I bought it last week. It's not too short?'

'It's definitely not too short.'

She gives me a gla.s.s of brandy and sits on the settee.

'So,' she says, 'how's your new job?'

'It's first-rate,' I say. 'I've already got some praise from one of our best customers.'

'You must be doing a great job.'

'I don't know about that, but I like it when people comment on my work.'

'Yes,' she says. 'That's always nice.'

She looks at the door.

'Ian said he'd be back from St Anne's by eight.'

'What about you?' I say. 'Do you like your job?'

'Very much,' she says.

'Is there anything else you want to do?'

'What do you mean?'

'I don't know. A different job?'

'I've always liked taking photographs,' she says. 'I did a course a few years ago and I've thought about converting the box-room on the third floor into a dark room.'

'If you did,' I say, 'I could help you out. With the set-up and all that.'

'That'd be nice.'

She smiles at me, but has no more to say.

I do as she does and look at the door.

'What do you take photos of?' I say.

'Oh, the sea usually, and boats. Sometimes the sky. That kind of thing.'

'What about portraits?'

'I'm not sure,' she says. 'I don't think I've got the confidence for that.'

She gets up and pours us each another gla.s.s of brandy.

'I'll light the fire,' she says.

I hope Welkin doesn't come.

'Do you think it's silly to light a fire when it isn't cold out?' she says.

'No,' I say. 'I think it's a good idea.'

I watch her pile up old newspapers and sticks and briquettes. 'Do you want me to help?'

'No need.'

She has it done, sits again.

The front door opens and closes and there are slow footsteps going up to the first floor, the sound of somebody moving back and forth across the landing, from bedroom to bathroom, opening and closing doors. We both know it's Welkin, but we don't say it.

'Do you play the piano?' she asks.

'No,' I say, 'but I'm thinking of learning the guitar.'

'Ian plays the piano,' she says. 'Maybe he'll play something for us tonight.'

Welkin's not in the room but he might as well be. We're in the company of his absence.

'I think you should take portraits,' I say.

'I'm not sure.'

'I think you'd be good at it. You make people feel comfortable.'

The booze is warm in my throat and chest and the pains have gone.

'That's a very kind thing to say.'

'I mean it,' I say. 'Not only that, you've got grace. A lot more grace than most people.'

'Grace? What a lovely word. Hardly anybody ever uses it.'

'It's what you make me think. You make me think of it.'

She moves forward and sits on the edge of the settee so she can reach over and put her hand on my knee.

'That's just about the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me, Patrick.'

She keeps her hand on my knee.

'You just proved it,' I say. 'You're full of grace.'

She laughs and I laugh.

I don't want him to come. We're better off without him. If he must come, let it be now while we're laughing.

As soon as she's taken her hand off my knee, and we're silent again, Welkin arrives.

'Ah,' he says. 'Here we all are. And a fire, too.'

He doesn't apologise for being late and sits in the armchair nearer the settee, near to Bridget.

I should've sat there.

'I don't care how mild it is outside,' he says, 'an open fire with a stiff drink is perfection.'

He takes a box of Cuban cigars out of his jacket pocket and puts it on the coffee table.

Bridget reaches over and puts her hand on his knee, just like she did to me.

'But where are my manners?' she says. 'Let me get you a drink.'

She moves quickly and gives the impression that a party's begun, that the room's suddenly crowded with interesting people. She hums a tune as she fetches Welkin's brandy and when she hands it to him she says, 'Cheers!'

He says, 'Yes, cheers,' and reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out my alarm clock.

'Here!' He throws it at me and I catch it.

'Why'd you take it?' I say.

He sprawls back in the armchair, his long legs pointed at Bridget. He looks at her and not at me.

'Just one of those unconscious things,' he says. 'I was only half-awake.'

'Right,' I say.

'You took a degree in psychology, Patrick,' he says. 'You know how it is.'

'I didn't know you had a degree in psychology,' says Bridget.

'I didn't finish,' I say.

'That's a pity,' she says. 'Maybe you'll go back one day.'

'Anyway,' says Welkin, 'the point is, I shouldn't have taken Patrick's clock and I'm sorry.'

Welkin stands and pours himself another drink but he offers none to us.

He looks at me. 'What do you want to talk about?'

'I'm not fussy,' I say.

'How's the love life?'

'Healthy enough,' I say.

'Oh, yes?' says Bridget.

'Tell us more,' says Welkin.

I'll not tell them about Georgia. I'll only be giving Welkin ideas.

'She's a history teacher.'

'Where does she teach?' says Bridget.

My ears redden.

'I don't know.'

Silence.

'Let's have a cigar,' says Bridget. 'I've been looking forward to this. I haven't had a cigar since my uncle's sixtieth birthday.'

We light our cigars and Welkin stands.

'I'd love a gla.s.s of whisky,' he says.

Bridget looks at me. 'Patrick? Would you like a whisky?'

'If you're having one,' I say.

'All right,' she says. 'I'll open one of the bottles I got last Christmas. It's in the kitchen.'

Bridget leaves to get the whisky.

I start coughing up the smoke.

'You know,' says Welkin, 'you're not supposed to inhale cigar smoke. Have you not had one before?'

'No.'

'You should've spoken up sooner instead of sucking away like a baby on a cold t.i.t.'

'Yeah.'

'Never mind,' he says. 'It's a bit tricky the first time.'

'Right.'

He stands and comes to me.

'Do you mind if I give you a bit of advice?'