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between Ian and Diccon, or the hint of mockery in their tones as they spoke to him. It was not just at home that Hugo had problems.
    As the drink got through, he became increasingly like a salesman in a dirty joke. At one point he leaned nudgingly across to Diccon. ‘What do you say to that bit over there? Chick by the wine rack, eh? Lovely pair of tits.’
    â€˜Not bad.’ Diccon gave a superior smile. He knew Hugo was making a fool of himself and was enjoying every minute of it.
    â€˜That’s what women should be like,’ Hugo went on in drunken man-of-the-world style. ‘Nice firm’ little tits. Don’t let ’em have children. Never have children. Not worth the effort. Little buggers don’t give a damn about you and look what they do to their mothers – make ’em bloody sag, ruin their figures, stop ’em being sexy. That’s what women should be about – they’re meant just to give you a bloody good time in bed, that’s all.’
    They had reached the coffee stage. Charles looked round desperately for a waiter to come and bring a bill. He couldn’t bear to see Hugo destroying himself much longer.
    Diccon Hudson leaned across the table and said to Hugo in a very sincere voice, ‘So 1 take it you and Charlotte won’t be starting a family?’
    â€˜No chance. I’ve been through all that and it doesn’t work.’
    So you’ve managed to persuade her to go on the Pill. Funny, she always used to be against the idea.’
    Diccon’s ambiguous indiscretion had been quite deliberate, but Hugo didn’t rise to it. ‘Huh,’ he snorted, ‘there are other ways, you know. We didn’t have any Pills in our young days, but we managed, didn’t we Charles? Eh, we managed.’
    Charles had had enough of this barrack-room talk. He rose, ‘I’ve got to be going now actually, Hugo.’
    â€˜No, don’t go.’ The appeal was naked, almost terrified. Charles sat down.
    They left the Trattoria an interminable half-hour later, just after three. Diccon Hudson (who had drunk Perrier water through the meal) said he had to go off to his next recording session.
    â€˜They keep you busy,’ Charles observed and was rewarded by a complacent smile.
    â€˜Got an evening session tonight, have you, Diccon?’ asked Ian in his usual insolent style.
    Diccon coloured. ‘No,’ he said and left without another word.
    After Ian Compton had also gone, Charles turned to his friend. ‘Well, Hugo, thanks for the lunch. Look, I’ll no doubt see you tomorrow down in Breckton for this Critics’ –’
    â€˜Don’t go, Charles. Let’s have another drink. ‘S a little club in Dean Street where I’m a member. C’mon, little quick one.’
    The club was a strip joint with gold chairs and a lot of hanging red velvet. A party of Japanese executives and a few morose single men watched a couple of girls playing with each other.
    Hugo didn’t seem to notice them. He ordered a bottle of Scotch. The boisterous, vulgar stage of drunkenness was now behind him; he settled down to silent, cold-blooded consumption.
    Charles drank sparingly. He had the feeling that Hugo was going to need help before the day was out.
    He tried asking what was the matter; he offered help.
    â€˜I don’t want help, Charles, I don’t want talk. I just want you to sit and bloody drink with me, that’s all.’
    So they sat and bloody drank. Clients came and went. The girls were replaced by others who went through the same motions.
    Eventually, Hugo seemed to relax. His eyelids flickered and his head started to nod. Charles looked at his watch and put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Come on, it’s nearly six. Let’s go.’
    Hugo was surprisingly docile. He paid the bill (an amount which took Charles’s breath away) without noticing. Out in the street he looked around