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the hell he is. When he realizes it’s a hospital, he relaxes. He remembers burning in
Brixton and assumes he’s been brought here to recover. Digging out my notebook (it goes everywhere with me), I jot down ideas.
    Calmly he tries turning — can’t — looks down at his body — there’s nothing there!!! Tries to scream — can’t — no lungs! — fades away
again.
    I like it. Later he re-forms, and this time he has a body and knows something is seriously wrong, although he doesn’t yet accept that he’s dead.
    While I’m working on plot lines, a woman comes up the stairs and steps to the rail, close to where I’m standing. She perches her wine glass on the rail, fingers lightly cupping the
stem, and stares off into space. I study her out of the corner of my eye. Older than most of the guests, mid to late twenties. Light auburn hair, straight cut, pageboy fashion, long at the back.
Slender build, tightly clad in a stunning black dress which reveals plenty of leg but little cleavage. Her fingernails have been painted silver and she wears soft silver tights. There’s some
sort of silver glitter around her eyes too, so the lids sparkle every time she blinks.
    I’m paying attention to her because she’s the first unaccompanied female I’ve seen up here. The rest have been with boyfriends. Although I’ve been concentrating on work,
I now remember why Joe pressed me to come to the party – to unwind and have fun – and turn my thoughts to chat-up lines. I was never good at this kind of thing. I’m not a natural
charmer. Women are sometimes attracted to me because of the curt, moody front I present to the world, but I usually struggle if I’m the one who has to do the chasing.
    While I’m pondering my approach, destiny lends a hand. The woman sighs and rolls her head from side to side. Her hand twitches while she’s not looking and she inadvertently knocks
her wine glass overboard. She gasps, dives after it, misses. As it sails over the side, I lean across, fingers outstretched. I almost grab it – if I was the hero in one of my books, I’d
catch it – but it eludes me, plummets downwards and vanishes into the dark water of the Thames.
    ‘Oh dear,’ the woman says as I pull myself back from the rail.
    ‘Sorry,’ I smile.
    ‘Not your fault,’ she assures me, and glances around semi-guiltily. ‘Do you think the crew saw?’
    ‘I doubt it.’
    ‘Maybe I should offer to pay for it just the same.’
    I laugh lightly. ‘I’m sure it happens all the time. A hazard of river life. Yours won’t be the only glass lost to the tide tonight.’
    She relaxes and leans against the rail. ‘I suppose you’re right. I always panic when I break something. It’s the way I was brought up.’ She speaks in soft, measured
tones. ‘Are you American?’ she asks.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Which part?’
    ‘I’ve travelled around a lot, but I live in Montana now.’
    ‘I’ve never been to Montana. It’s somewhere I always meant to visit.’
    ‘You should. It’s spectacular.’ We’re standing, elbows to the rail, facing one another. She gives me a speculative once-over. I hold my gaze steady.
    ‘Are you a friend of Shar’s?’ she asks.
    ‘Shar?’ I echo blankly. Then I remember the birthday girl. ‘No. I’m a FOAF.’
    ‘A foaf?’ She blinks, and her eyelids glitter silver confusion.
    ‘FOAF — friend of a friend.’
    ‘Oh.’ She giggles. ‘I thought you meant you were in the forces.’
    There’s a moment of nice silence.
    ‘I’m a friend of Joe’s,’ I explain, not wanting to let the silence develop. ‘Joe Rickard?’
    She shakes her head. ‘I know hardly anyone here. I’m a client of Shar’s. She works in a beauty salon.’ She drums her fingernails on the rail, then holds them up in the
air and waves. ‘Ta-da!’
    ‘Did Shar paint those?’ I ask.
    ‘No. But she gave me the manicure.’ She studies her nails and frowns. ‘You don’t think I went a bit heavy on the silver, do you?