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thought.
    ‘Why don’t you pour us both a drink,’ said Stella, intent on stirring something on the hob.
    This time Bannerman did as he was bid. Stella joined him a few moments later, undoing her apron and throwing it casually away as she walked towards him. Bannerman smiled at the gesture. Stella did everything with grace and panache. He was reminded of a story he had once heard about Fred Astaire. It was said that he could walk across stage smoking a cigarette, throw it away, stub it out with his foot and all without breaking stride.
    Stella smoothed her brown hair back from the sides of her head and straightened her dress before sitting down. Both gestures were unnecessary. Stella always liked to maintain that she was disorganized and ‘in a tizzy’ but it was seldom, if ever, true. If she had messed up the potatoes it must have been because God had decreed that they should be messed up.
    Stella sat down beside him and smiled. ‘How was your day?’ she asked. She had a slightly round face which tempered perfectly her slim elegant figure, whereas sharper features would have made her appear forbidding. A pleasantly wide mouth broke into a smile and bestowed on her what Bannerman always thought of as an air of amused detachment. An enemy might have seen it as patronizing.
    ‘Fair to middling,’ he said. ‘How about you?’
    ‘No problems,’ said Stella. ‘Routine removal of ovarian cysts. What happened about John Thorn’s patient?’
    ‘I’m afraid the section was malignant. What was the problem there, anyway?’
    ‘The patient had multiple breast lumps and John suspected from the X-rays that there was a deeper tumour which they couldn’t reach by needle biopsy beforehand. He wanted you on hand to examine it if they came across it during the op. Everyone trusts your opinion.’
    Bannerman rubbed his forehead in a nervous ges ture, then realized he was doing it and stopped.
    ‘Is something wrong?’ asked Stella. She put her hand on his.
    ‘No, nothing,’ smiled Bannerman. ‘I’m just a bit tired that’s all.’
    ‘Poor Ian,’ said Stella.
    The comment was affectionate but it made Bannerman feel guilty. He felt sure that Stella had more reason to feel tired than he.
    ‘I’ll just check the sauce,’ said Stella, getting up and disappearing into the kitchen. ‘You could open the wine.’
    Bannerman opened the wine and removed the cork slowly from the end of the corkscrew. ‘Stella?’ he said.
    ‘What?’ came the reply from the kitchen.
    ‘Why do you think we’ve remained such good friends?’
    ‘ I don’t know,’ said Stella, coming into the room holding a hot dish with two hands and protect ing her fingers with a dish cloth. ‘Is it impor tant?’
    ‘Maybe,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘Why,’ asked Stella, depositing the dish on the table and turning to face Bannerman. ‘What’s brought this on?’
    ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘About what?’
    ‘Life.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Bannerman.
    ‘Well, what can I say?’ said Stella with a grin.
    ‘Why haven’t you got married? Why haven’t I? Do you think it’s some defect in our characters?’
    ‘Personally speaking I’m quite happy as I am,’ said Stella. ‘Perhaps we don’t need the hassle. We both have demanding careers and busy lives. Maybe that’s enough?’
    ‘Yes but …’
    ‘But what? Who has been getting at you? Or have you been stricken by a sudden bout of middle- age?’
    Bannerman reacted to the word ‘middle-age’ with a slight wince and Stella noticed. Stella noticed everything. ‘So that is what this is all about,’ she said knowingly.
    ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Bannerman hastily.
    ‘You’re having a mid-life crisis! That’s what I mean,’ exclaimed Stella. ‘You’re indulging in an orgy of self-analysis! Do you want to lie along the couch and tell me all your innermost fears?’
    ‘Certainly not,’ insisted Bannerman, feeling vulnerable and wishing he