LITMIR.BIZ

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then, seeing them breathless and giddy with the excitement of new-found romance, that it would occur to Simon that, actually, it should be him that they should be getting so breathless and giddy about. There then followed excruciating confrontations, bewildered accusations, sheepish (but hopeful) admissions, scornful rejections, and (if he was lucky) cautious reconciliations coupled with stern warnings that nothing like this must ever happen again, ever. It was all rather humiliating.

      The few fully functioning romantic relationships that Simon had managed also followed a predictable pattern. Simon was hopelessly, cripplingly, romantic. At the beginning of every relationship he would bombard his new paramour with letters, poems and flowers. He would spend hours composing his wedding speech in his head, and would moon about, unable to concentrate on anything. This clumsy, romantic streak, this desire to fall in love the way they say you should, was beguiling to the girl in question, usually for about a week. After that, the constant attention would begin to unnerve her somewhat, and before long Simon would be treated to the usual, hand-holding chat about slowing down, taking things easy, and giving each other a bit more space, which Simon now recognized as the inevitable precursor to the girl disappearing off the face of the planet. There would then follow a period of intense and histrionic mourning, after which came the hyper-critical self-analysis phase. This would leave him none the wiser, and primed to make all the same mistakes again next time around.

      After contemplating this situation for some time and trying not to think about Delphine, Simon sighed, and closed his eyes. He tried to sleep, without success. Sometime later he heard a nearby cough. Simon opened his eyes. Standing at the end of the bed, clutching a brown paper bag, was Joe.

      Simon struggled to sit up. ‘Hello,’ he said.

      Joe proffered the bag. ‘Grapes,’ he explained.

      ‘Oh. Thanks very much.’

      There was a pause as the two men looked at each other uncertainly.

      ‘I wanted to see how you were,’ said Joe.

      Simon shrugged, slightly nonplussed. ‘Well, that’s thoughtful of you. Thanks.’

      ‘How’s your hand?’

      ‘Don’t know, to be honest,’ said Simon. ‘It’s all bandaged up so tightly that I can’t feel much.’

      Joe pulled a face. ‘You haven’t broken it?’

      Simon shook his head. ‘Just a sprain, apparently. I suppose that’s good news, but it still hurts like buggery. And something else obviously happened last night. My foot is agony.’

      Joe sat down on the end of the bed and frowned. ‘Your foot? There was nothing wrong with your foot at the party.’

      ‘Exactly. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with it. I’m due to have an X-ray later today.’ He paused. ‘Actually, Joe, there is something I’d like to ask you.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Well, this is slightly embarrassing, but can you remind me how I got to the hospital? It’s a bit of a blur.’

      ‘We called you a taxi. Don’t you remember?’

      ‘Oh yes. I remember now.’ Simon felt his cheeks go hot.

      ‘And you didn’t want to go.’

      ‘I didn’t?’

      ‘Well. First things first. You fell on your hand during that game of Twister, and fainted. When you came round you insisted on staying at the party. You wanted to talk to Delphine.’

      Simon groaned. ‘Go on.’

      ‘Anyway, your wrist was swelling, and so Fergus called a cab and packed you in it, gave the driver a tenner and told him to get you to the nearest hospital. And here you are.’

      Joe opened the bag of grapes and stuck one in his mouth, looking around the ward as he did so.

      ‘So,’ said Simon eventually. ‘How is Delphine?’

      ‘Delphine? She’s fine, I think.’

      ‘Oh good.’

      Simon reached across and took a grape himself. ‘Nice girl,’ he said as he inspected the skin of the grape closely.

      ‘Very nice,’ agreed Joe. ‘Pretty. Funny too. Apparently, she goes like a –’

      ‘– shit house door in a hurricane, yes, I know,’ said Simon miserably.

      The bag of grapes was now shuttling up and down the bed between the two men. Well, this is an unusual situation, thought Simon. Here am I, trying to make small talk with this man, when the only two times we have interacted socially were firstly when he humiliated me completely in front of a room full of strangers and secondly when he farted so badly that I ended up in hospital. What does one say?

      ‘I thought Delphine was very nice,’ said Simon.

      ‘Mmm.’ Joe’s mouth was full.

      Did she, Simon wanted to ask, mention me after I’d gone? Ask for my telephone number, that sort of thing?

      He tried a different tack. ‘It’s hard to meet people properly at those sorts of parties, isn’t it?’ he said.

      ‘I suppose so,’ said Joe.

      The grape bag scooted up the bed again.

      ‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘I never pull at parties.’

      ‘Pull? As in pull women?’

      Joe nodded. ‘Never do it.’

      Simon thought about this. ‘Neither do I, I suppose. It’s terribly difficult, isn’t it? It’s such an artificial situation. Go up to a girl at a party and start talking to her and you may as well be wearing a sign around your neck saying “Sad Bastard”. And women treat you accordingly, which is generally with enormous contempt.’

      ‘Actually, that’s not what I meant at all,’ said Joe. ‘It’s amazingly easy to pull at parties.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Simon.

      ‘You’re right, of course,’ continued Joe, ‘you may as well be wearing a sign around your neck, but that’s the beauty of it.’

      Simon looked blank. ‘It is?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ said Joe. ‘Look. You’re at a party. You see this woman you want to talk to. And, because you’re at a party, you can. You can just wander up to her and start chatting about any fucking thing in the world, and it doesn’t matter – because you’re at a party. Normal rules don’t apply. If a woman goes to a party, she’s more or less signed up for the social chit-chat bit. She’ll be expecting it. It’s all part of the experience. She’s not going to tell you to bog off the moment you start speaking to her.’

      Simon said nothing.

      ‘Now, if this woman gets bored with you a bit later on, then she can quite legitimately turn around and ask to be left alone. And that’s OK, too. That’s all part of the deal. At that point, you’ve had your chance, and you’ve blown it. But at least you got your chance. The party is a great social leveller. It’s a very democratic institution. Everyone has the chance for a go. It’s yours for the taking.’

      Simon considered this. ‘If it’s so easy to pull at parties, then why don’t you?’

      ‘Because the problem with parties,’ replied Joe patiently, ‘is that, by definition, in order to be invited, you need to know someone else there. Or know someone who knows someone. Ultimately, unless either you or the woman is a gatecrasher, there will be some sort of connection, however indirect, between the two of you. Mutual friends, that sort of thing.’

      Simon frowned. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’

      ‘Well,’ explained Joe. ‘Exactly that. If this woman is part of your circle, or part of your circle’s circle,

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