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hero.
    All the men before Joe had been compared to George. He was my benchmark. That was why it took me so long to get over him when he moved to New York. George was my perfect man, and sex didn’t come into it.
    Joe was the first man I didn’t compare with George. He was the first man who bowled me over; all that mattered was Joe. And now he wasn’t even talking to me.
    *
    When I saw George standing at the bar in his hotel, I studied him for a few moments before approaching. He was tall (of course he had been tall when he left, but he looked taller somehow), his dark hair was sprinkled with grey flecks, and he wore a shirt and trousers; he looked preppy. American, I suppose. Although I could see he was George, he wasn’t quite the same George that I remembered. He wasn’t a stranger exactly, but he wasn’t as familiar as I had expected. I took a deep breath, tried to banish my thoughts of Joe and told myself to enjoy the one night I had with my old friend. It could be another five years till the next time.
    ‘Hi,’ I said, grinning broadly.
    ‘My God, Hol, you look incredible.’ His smile was the same. An obvious grin, and an honest one. But he sounded different.
    ‘So do you, and you sound so American.’
    ‘Do not.’
    ‘Do too.’ Some things change, but others don’t, although cosmetically we were different, our friendship had been set in cement. Instantly teenagers again.
    He ordered champagne, said we were celebrating. We drank a bottle before going to dinner in the hotel restaurant. It was obvious that George was doing very well. He was staying in one of London’s trendiest hotels, eating in one of the most expensive restaurants, wearing quality clothes, even his nails looked manicured. But I didn’t ask him about that. We didn’t talk about our lives as they stood, we talked only about the past.
    The past. It’s amazing how strong your grip on it can be. George and I didn’t have a present in common. We both knew we were unlikely to have a future, so we looked to the past, which is where we would always be. We were nostalgic and sentimental as we recalled stories, experiences, our entire childhood from when we were twelve. If anyone could have heard us they would have been bored rigid.
    I didn’t mention Joe, he didn’t tell me if there was anyone in his life. I didn’t find out about his job, he didn’t ask about mine. It wasn’t so much a conversation, we were reminiscing. The thing about that is that you talk and talk and talk and don’t realise how much you’ve drunk.
    George paid the bill, he insisted. I watched him take his platinum American Express card out of his expensive-looking wallet and I felt proud of him. He had always been ambitious, always certain about where he was going; he appeared to have achieved his goals. He was still the serious, sensible boy I remembered and it had certainly paid off.
    ‘Do you want to come up to my room and drink the minibar?’ he asked. It sounded like a line; or it would have done coming from anyone else.
    ‘Of course I bloody do. I haven’t seen you for five years and probably won’t for another five. Let’s go.’ I took his hand and we walked to the lift. I was so comfortable with him that I didn’t even think about taking hold of his hand before I did it.
    His suite was huge. I explored it with an enthusiasm I reserved for all hotel rooms. There is something about them that makes me feel decadent and special. I opened all the cupboards and drawers. I flicked all the channels on the television. I ransacked the bathroom, putting a number of the small bottles in my hand-bag, leaving George with just essentials. He was lining up the bottles from the minibar, getting out the ice tray and requesting a packet of cigarettes from room service all at the same time, and with an efficiency and confidence that I knew so well.
    ‘You never smoked,’ I said. It was true, he didn’t. I smoked. I smoked from the age of eighteen until I gave up.
    ‘I