The photographer calls me to check the spelling of the twins' names. 'Weird she didn't have any photos of her husband out, wasn't it? She had to go searching for one we could use.'

'Probably too painful for her to look at,' I say, and cut the conversation short.

Every job has its small perks and mine comes with the occasional burst of free stand-up comedy or, to give it its formal t.i.tle, contempt of court. Whenever an unhinged or flamboyant character takes to the stand, word goes round. And it's not just journos solicitors and court ushers join in with the whisper. 'Get in 2, quick' spreads like wildfire and suddenly the court fills up with people pretending they have a reason to be there. The favoured pose is sliding into a seat at the back, vaguely scanning the room as if you have an urgent message to deliver to someone you can't immediately locate and don't want to disturb proceedings.

Among the greatest hits have been a streetwalker who flashed a tattooed b.o.o.b at a judge and told him he 'looked like a client' (Gretton was absent for that one, off for root ca.n.a.l work I don't know which was more painful for him, the teeth or the missed t.i.t), a man with a multiple personality disorder which caused him to answer every question in a different accent, and a drum'n'ba.s.s DJ who solemnly took off his shirt in the dock to reveal a t-shirt saying 'Only G.o.d Can Judge Me'. (In front of a dry circuit judge, who lowered his spectacles and said crisply: 'Unfortunately for you, He delegated discretion in sentence to me.') So on Monday lunchtime, when a gangly lad from a weekly paper pops his head around the press room door and says breathlessly: 'Have you heard ...?' I a.s.sume that someone's happy-slapped a QC or informed a packed courtroom that they're a high-ranking Scientologist and thus privy to most of the secrets of our puny human universe.

I break off typing up my quotes from the Natalie Shale interview.

'No, what?'

Instead of issuing directions about where it's taking place and charging off again, he comes in and spreads a copy of the Evening News on the desk. He thumbs through to the cla.s.sified adverts.

'Here,' he says, jabbing at an extra large announcement in 16pt font, blocked off in a thick black border.

'Desperately seeking d.i.c.k,' it reads. 'Zoe Clarke of the Evening News is looking, without success. If you have any information about where she can find d.i.c.k, please call ' and a mobile number follows. 'She will pay extremely well for information leading to d.i.c.k.'

'Ingenious. What a way with words. Who did this?' I ask.

The gangly lad sn.i.g.g.e.rs, shrugs. 'She's got on someone's wick, obviously.'

'It's really unnecessary,' I say, and all of a sudden I know why Gretton was so unnaturally buoyant. 'How did you know about this?'

'It's all round the office at yours. Someone called with a tip-off.'

I flip through the rest of the paper and see a double page on the liposuction story, which yielded two guilty verdicts for the doctors, though the nurse got off. It uses the backgrounder and it all bears my byline, no Zoe, despite the first eight paragraphs being solely her work. I scan the ad a second time and go in search of Zoe in court, coming up empty until I spy her through the front windows.

'Please don't laugh, I've been p.i.s.s-ripped all day. I've had heavy breathing calls and I've had enough,' she says, dragging on a f.a.g with the hunger of a former expert who's fallen off the wagon with a thud.

'I'm not going to laugh, I think it's horrible. Have you complained to news desk? It shouldn't have gone in.'

'Yeah, Ken said it made us look like tools and called ad services to have a go about how they should've put their brains in gear when it was booked, but that's all. And what's the point anyway? We all know who's to blame.'

'If it was Gretton, I'm going to kick his whiskery a.r.s.e into Stockport for you.'

'It's got to be him.'

I nearly say 'Unless you've annoyed anyone else?' and think better of it.

'Very likely.'

'It's nice to speak to someone who doesn't think it's funny.'

'It's not. Gretton's a vindictive sod. And thanks for putting my byline on the lipo case. You should've made it a joint byline, you did loads.'

Zoe looks surprised, mind still elsewhere.

'Sure. The backgrounder was really thorough. You can tell you've done this a while.'

'You're not wrong. Drink with an old lady, later in the week?'

'Yes, please. I'll email you my new number, when I get it.'

'New number?'

'I can't keep this one, every freak in Manchester's calling me.'

I grasp at something to cheer her up. 'Will you come to my flat-warming party next weekend? Only a small do.'

Zoe perks up. 'Yeah.'

Leaving Zoe sparking up again outside, I go looking for Gretton inside. It must be the first time I've been pursuing him around court.

'Can I have a word, please?' I say, tugging on his jacket sleeve as I catch up with him, rounding a corner.

'Woodford?'

'What you did to Zoe was completely over the top and nasty.'

Gretton gives me a vampiric grin. 'She sowed, she reaped.'

'She's good at her job, and younger than you, and female, and that triple whammy is more than your ego can cope with.'

'How come we've never fallen out then?'

'Because I put up with you. Zoe put up a fight instead and you've gone too far with this retaliation.'

'Let me tell you something, you may have been walking around in a daze since your love life went kaput ...'

I fold my arms, purse my lips. Impertinent git. I haven't been in a daze. Have I?

'... She's done more than put up a fight, she's on the attack, and people like her need slapping down. You should've seen her at the end of the blobby bird trial, elbowing me out the way to get to the family afterward. Them all giving me daggers ... She'd definitely said something.'

'Y'see, right there, Pete. The "blobby bird" trial. Do you ever stop to think how offensive that could be to Zoe?'

'Why? Clarke's not fat. Face like a hobnail boot, but not fat.'

'You don't know anything about her background or history or ... Look, this is one of the reasons why civilised people don't go round using phrases like "blobby bird".'

'Belt up, love. Go and work for the council if you want to be PC.'

'This stupid advert is the end of it, OK? No more games. Stay away from Zoe. Promise?'

'If she starts with the-'

'I'll keep her in check in return. Promise me!'

Gretton wrinkles his nose. 'For you, then. I've got no issue with you.'

'Thank you.'

'Your news editor thought it was funny, though.'

'Eh?'

'I rang Baggaley anonymously to tell him it was there and he was roaring, I can tell you.'

Ladies and gentlemen the line manager in charge of my pastoral care.

'D'ya fancy a quick pint?' Gretton adds, unusually friendly.

I shake my head.

'Got to see a man about a dog, I'm afraid.'

35.

I thread my way through the well-shod early afternoon shoppers and office workers, catching sight of Rhys outside Holland & Barrett, looking like a man who could do with some de-stressing St John's Wort. He's wearing a navy anorak and a concentrated scowl. I remember pulling on the drawstring at the hood to tighten it at the neck when I kissed him goodbye. Only likely to happen now in an attempt to cut off blood supply.

I expect to feel a nasty pang I've been churning on this meeting for twenty-four hours yet now we're face-to-face, I don't feel any tumult of emotion, only a resigned sort of grief. We're just two people who were once very fond of each other and now don't get along any more.

'Hi,' I say.

'I'd nearly given up. We said one.'

'It's only five past ...' I check my watch. 'Ten past. Sorry. Case overran.' Er. The case of the tardy woman and the glossy magazine.

Rhys thrusts a canvas holdall at me. 'Here you go.'

'Thanks,' I unzip it and peer inside. Books, a necklace, a teapot I'd forgotten belongs to me. How did I miss all this?

'Why did you leave so much stuff? What am I meant to do with it?' Rhys asks.

'I thought the idea was I left things.'

'Yeah, furniture. I didn't say leave ninety per cent of your c.r.a.p strewn about the place. Were you making the point that you wanted to get out of there so fast you left tyre marks?'

'No.' I see the ghost of genuine hurt behind Rhys's mask of perpetual annoyance. 'I didn't want to fillet it, that's all. If you want me to take more, I can come back for it.'

Rhys shrugs.

I wonder whether to suggest getting some lunch.

'Why're you off work?'

'Booked a day to go car shopping.'

'You're not keeping the old one?'

'Fancied a change. You know how that feels.'

A pause.

'Your place is in town, then?' Rhys says.

'Yes. Northern Quarter. Come round sometime if you like.'

Rhys makes a face. 'No, ta. What for, Dorito Dippers and X Factor?'

'Just, you know. To be civilised.'

'Huh. What's it like?'

'The flat?'

'No, X Factor. Yes the flat.'

'It's ...' I have absolutely no idea why I think saying it's incredible feels so personally wounding, but it does, and I mumble: 'Alright. Bit cramped.'

'Cramped for one person with no possessions. Must be tiny.'

I need to change the subject. 'Have you eaten?'

'Yeah,' Rhys says, thrusting his chin out.

'OK.'

'No offence, but I'm not going to go for lunch with you like nothing's happened.'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

'I'm sure it would make you feel better.'

'Rhys, come on ...'

I glance up at the faces streaming past and the sight of Ben emerging from among them is like being socked in the stomach. We spot each other simultaneously, there's no time to turn my back. He swerves off course to come and say h.e.l.lo, his smile freezing on to his face as he sees who I'm with.

'Afternoon!' I say, trying for casual. Rhys glances over. 'Rhys, you remember Ben from uni? He's moved up to Manchester.'

I think I'm holding it together. Ben, however, looks mortified.