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did’). I wanted to press him for further details (after all, I had finally told him about Richard), but he quickly sidestepped the matter. I let it drop, figuring that he would eventually get around to telling me the entire story. Or maybe that was me also trying not to push him too hard – because, after two months with Tony Hobbs, I did understand very well that he was somebody who hated being cornered, or asked to explain himself.
    Neither of us made a point of letting our fellow journos in Cairo know that we had become an item. Not because we feared gossip – but rather because we simply didn’t think it was anybody’s damn business. So, in public, we still came across as nothing more than professional associates.
    Or, at least, that’s what I thought. Until Wilson – the fleshy guy from the Daily Telegraph – let it be known otherwise. He’d called me up at my office to suggest lunch, saying it was about time that we sat down and had an extended chat. He said this in that slightly pompous style of his – which made it sound like a royal invitation, or that he was doing me a favour by taking me out to the coffee shop in the Semiramaris Hotel. As it turned out, he used the lunch to pump me for information about assorted Egyptian government ministers, and to obtain as many of my local contacts as possible. But when he suddenly brought up Tony, I was slightly taken aback … because of the care we had taken to keep things out of the public eye. This was the height of naϊveté, given that journalists in a place like Cairo always know what their colleagues ate for breakfast. But I still wasn’t prepared to hear him ask, ‘And how is Mr Hobbs these days?’
    I tried to seem unflustered by this question.
    ‘I presume he’s fine.’
    Wilson, sensing my reticence, smiled.
    ‘You presume …?’
    ‘I can’t answer for his well-being.’
    Another of his oleaginous smiles.
    ‘I see.’
    ‘But if you are that interested in his welfare,’ I said, ‘you could call his office.’
    He ignored that comment, and instead said, ‘Interesting chap, Hobbs.’
    ‘In what way?’
    ‘Oh, the fact that he is noted for his legendary recklessness, and his inability to keep his bosses happy.’
    ‘I didn’t know that.’
    ‘It’s common enough knowledge back in London that Hobbs is something of a political disaster when it comes to the game of office politics. A real loose cannon – but a highly talented reporter, which is why he’s been tolerated for so long.’
    He looked at me, waiting for a response. I said nothing. He smiled again – deciding that my silence was further evidence of my discomfort (he was right). Then he added, ‘And I’m sure you’re aware that, when it comes to emotional entanglements, he’s always been something of a … well, how can I put this discreetly?… something of a raging bull, I suppose. Runs through women the way …’
    ‘Is there some point to this commentary?’ I asked lightly.
    Now it was his turn to look startled – though he did so in a quasi-theatrical manner.
    ‘I was just making conversation,’ he said, in mock shock. ‘And, of course, I was trading gossip. And perhaps the biggest piece of gossip about Mr Anthony Hobbs is the way that a woman finally broke the chap’s heart. Mind you, it’s old gossip, but …’
    He broke off, deliberately letting the story dangle. Like a fool I asked, ‘Who was the woman?’
    That’s when Wilson told me about Elaine Plunkett. I listened with uneasy interest – and with growing distaste. Wilson spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone, even though his surface tone was light, frivolous. This was something I began to notice about a certain type of Brit, especially when faced with an American (or, worst yet, an American woman). They considered us so earnest, so ploddingly literal in all our endeavours, that they attempted to upend our serious-mindedness with light-as-a-feather irony, in which nothing they said seemed weighted with