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his way over to his seat.

      ‘Hello there.’

      Sydney looked up. ‘Oh, hi. How are you?’

      ‘Not too bad. Not too bad at all.’

      He sat down, adjusted his position, pulled at his little bow tie which constricted him, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled from its depths a Cadbury’s Chocolate Orange. He unwrapped the foil and offered the orange to Sydney.

      ‘Dark chocolate,’ he said.

      Sydney tried to pull off a slice but it wouldn’t come loose. Heinz intervened, knocked at the chocolate orange with the centre of his palm and then offered it her again.

      ‘Thanks,’ Sydney said, smiling, showing him what fine, straight teeth she had and just how sweet and obliging she could be.

      Jack had brought flowers. Lilies. Her favourites.

      ‘Look, Carrie, I met up with Sydney the other day.’

      Carrie was putting the flowers in water, but preparing each stem first by slicing an inch off the bottom at a sharp angle. That way, she knew, the flower could drink so much more.

      ‘Sydney?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘She didn’t mention it.’

      ‘No?’

      Jack was actually relieved. He’d been worried in case Sydney might have blotted his copybook with Carrie by suggesting things about him, by exaggerating or maligning. Sydney could bitch with the best when she felt the urge. She was dangerous.

      ‘Let me tell you something,’ Jack said, leaning his back up against one of the kitchen cupboards.

      ‘What?’ Carrie was wide-eyed and restless. What had Sydney said? Had she been indiscreet? Had she mentioned Heinz?

      ‘I know what’s been going on,’ Jack said, ‘and I’m here to tell you that I don’t care. I’ve given it some thought . . .’

      ‘What do you know?’

      ‘About you and Sydney.’

      ‘What about us?’

      He put out both his hands. ‘Just tell me,’ he said, ‘that it’s over. Because my suitcase,’ he couldn’t hide his smile, ‘my suitcase, darling, is lying packed in the boot of my car.’

      ‘I’ll tell you something else,’ Sydney said, lounging on Heinz’s sofa and drinking her fourth martini.

      ‘What?’

      Heinz was sitting on his comfy chair sipping a cup of tea.

      ‘I went and saw Jack the other day, right? A private tête à tête, and he came into the café where we’d arranged to meet with the buttons on his coat done up all . . .’ Sydney made a higgledy-piggledy movement with her hands, ‘like so . . .’

      ‘He’s missing her?’ Heinz interjected, almost sympathetic.

      ‘No. Not at all. That’s my point. It’s the three button trick.’

      ‘The what?’

      ‘Men do it. Some men. To make them look . . .’ she burped, ‘vul-ner-a-ble. And this is the best bit . . .’ She put her hand over her mouth. ‘Pardon me.’

      ‘The best bit?’

      ‘Yeah. Turns out, he only pulled that trick the very first time he ever spoke to Carrie. 1972. Outside the National Portrait Gallery. Took her in completely. Beguiled her, absolutely. And there he was, large as life, trying it on with me!’

      ‘Did you tell her?’

      Sydney knocked back the rest of her drink. ‘Who?’

      ‘Carrie.’

      ‘Nope. Seemed a shame.’

      Heinz nodded.

      ‘Nice flat,’ Sydney said, looking around her.

      ‘It suits me well enough.’

      ‘Come and sit over here.’ Sydney patted the sofa to her left. ‘Come on.’

      Heinz smiled. ‘I am perfectly comfortable where I am, thank you.’

      Sydney stared at him, balefully. ‘What’s wrong?’

      Outside the sound of a faint car horn was just audible.

      ‘Nothing is wrong,’ Heinz said, pushing his great bulk up from his comfy chair and walking over to the window. While his back was turned, Sydney unbuttoned the grey silk shirt she was wearing and took it off. Heinz turned and said, ‘I think that’s your cab.’

      ‘Huh?’

      ‘Outside.’

      ‘What cab?’

      ‘I called for one a little while back.’

      ‘A cab? Can’t I stay here?’

      ‘What for?’

      Sydney started grinning but only half her mouth worked properly. ‘Sex, stupid.’

      Heinz picked up Sydney’s pale silk shirt from the arm of the sofa and handed it to her. ‘I’m eighty-three years old,’ he said gently, ‘and entirely impotent.’

      ‘What’s wrong?’ Carrie asked, for the umpteenth time. ‘I can tell something’s bothering you. I only wish you’d tell me.’

      Sydney had still not yet quite recovered. It was Thursday night at the gym.

      ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

      She hadn’t been sleeping. Her elbows were hurting. She couldn’t stop thinking . . .

      ‘I only got out of the house tonight because Jack’s at a conference. I swore not to come here any more. He seems to have got the idea into his head that you’re some kind of . . .’ Carrie couldn’t think of the appropriate word.

      Sydney was staring at Carrie with an odd expression. Either Carrie lied, she was thinking, or Heinz lied.

      ‘So Jack doesn’t know about Heinz yet?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well, let’s just hope he doesn’t get to find out, either.’

      Carrie shook her head. ‘I spoke to Heinz on the phone. I explained that I didn’t want Jack knowing. He was so good about it.’

      ‘Knowing what?’

      ‘Knowing anything.’

      Sydney smiled at this, and Carrie, for some reason, had cause, she sensed, to feel a sudden dart of disquiet. In her stomach. In her gut.

      ‘I told you not to ring me!’ Carrie exclaimed, terrified at the possibility of discovery.

      ‘Is it safe to talk?’

      ‘Jack’s in the bath. He’s listening to the cricket on the radio.’

      ‘You know I miss you terribly. You know that, don’t you?’

      ‘Heinz, there’s no point . . .’

      ‘But this isn’t about that. It is about your friend, Sydney.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘She keeps calling around and she also keeps writing to me. She phones me . . .’

      ‘Sydney?’

      ‘I just want you to talk to her. I simply want her to leave me in peace.’

      ‘My God. How odd.’

      ‘I miss you so much.’

      Carrie’s cheeks glowed an unnaturally bright colour as she said goodbye and then gently placed down the receiver.

      She

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