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permitted. But his interrogator probed further.
    ‘What area? Only I'm in a similar line myself. My firm designed and built Elmhurst Heights, the new apartment development by the docks.’
    An unfortunate coincidence, as Elmhurst Heights was the apartment block Rafferty's cousin, Nigel lived in. With its futuristic concrete and metal design it was the sort of modern development Rafferty most loathed. He was wondering whether some sort of compliment was expected and was still trying to come up with one that sounded vaguely sincere when Dryden saved him the trouble.
    ‘It's featured in most of the top architectural journals, both in this country and abroad,’ he boasted. ‘Rory here did a rather good TV piece on it.’
    Ralph droned loudly on. Rafferty succeeded in tuning him out until Ralph remembered his earlier question and, in the roar necessary to be heard above the music and assorted drink-fuelled conversations, he reminded him, ‘but you still haven't said what exactly it is that you do.’
    ‘I'm an estate agent,’ Rafferty roared reluctantly back into a sudden lull in both music and conversation. A number of heads turned in his direction and scrutinised him. The revelation brought several seconds’ more silence. He looked round the circle of faces; boastful Ralph Dryden, Property Developer Man; Rory Gifford, the dark, thrown-together, Bohemian-looking TV producer friend of Lancelot Bliss whom he had learned produced Lance's TV programme; Adam Ardley, the website designer; Toby Rufford-Lyle, the London barrister; the lowering-browed Tony Something who worked ‘in the City’. Even Lance, the gossipy TV Doctor seemed to have run out of chat.
    To be fair, perhaps, as he had, their little group had all experienced estate agents’ more underhand tricks. Sensing the group was itching to top each other's buying and selling horror stories which his presence prevented, he said, ‘Excuse me, must do some more mingling,’ and took himself off to the other side of the room from where he was amused to see their discussion became animated. He caught several glances and knew they wouldn't forget him in a hurry.
    Simon Farnell appeared at his elbow. ‘All alone, dear?’ he asked. ‘Let me introduce you to some other people.’ Before he could drag him off to another group, Rafferty said, ‘I thought I'd get another drink first.’
    ‘Dutch courage, is it? Go on then.’ Like the mother-hen to which Caroline Durward had likened him, Simon shooed him off towards the bar, then hurried to catch him up, to whisper, ‘By the way, dear, the accent's slipping.’
    As he stood at the bar, he studied the women covertly; as he reminded himself, finding a partner was the reason he had come. Though, apart from Jenny, none of the other women appealed to him. All were discreetly made up and attractive in an understated way, but to Rafferty they all looked alike. Mostly blondes in little black numbers that contrasted so well with the perfect skin and shiny hair. Their bosoms, too, seemed to come in regulation sizes; Isobel aside, none were too voluptuous or too meagre. Even their voices sounded similar, well-modulated, nothing too strident. Caroline Durward, although a good ten years older, shared the blonde, unlined, well-groomed look. It occurred to him that he could be attending a plastic surgeons’ convention where the greatest successes were paraded. Briefly, Rafferty wondered where the failures were stored. Up in the attic, presumably, where, like Dorian Grey, they could do their time-withered bit out of sight. Rafferty preferred the more natural beauty of Jenny Warburton.
    As people and conversations moved around him, he learned that most had names that ended in the up-market ‘a’ sound. It accorded with his theory that the names of the common herd tended to end in an ‘i’ sound, such as Kylie, Shelley, Tracey, Tiffany, Kimberley, Tammy, Billie and so on, and mostly applied more to girls. Up-market names ended in an