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old days, Roy was greeted warmly and had passed much time, too much – sometimes four or five hours – with business acquaintances, now forgotten. Soon Roy was lost, fleeing with the energy of the frustrated and distressed, while Jimmy moved beside him with his customary cough, stumble and giggle, fuelled by the elation of unaccustomed success, and a beer glass under his coat.
    At one point Jimmy suddenly pulled Roy towards a phone box. Jimmy ran in, waited crouching down, and shot out again, pulling Roy by his jacket across the road, where they shrank down beside a hedge.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    ‘We were going to get beaten up.’ Though shuddering and looking about wildly, Jimmy didn’t stop his drink. ‘Didn’t you hear them swearing at us? Poofs, poofs, they said.’
    ‘Who, who?’
    ‘Don’t worry. But keep your head down!’ After a while he said, ‘Now come on. This way!’
    Roy couldn’t believe that anyone would, attempt such a thing on the street, but how would he know? He and Jimmy hastened through crowds of young people queuing for a concert; and along streets lined with posters advertising groups and comedians whose names he didn’t recognise.
    There was a burst of laughter behind them. Roy wheeled round, but saw no one. The noise was coming from a parked car – no, from across the road. Then it seemed to disappear down the street like the tail of a typhoon. Now his name was being called. Assuming it was a spook, he pressed on, only to see a young actor he’d given work to, and to whom he’d promised a part in the film. Roy was aware of his swampy loafers and stained jacket that stank of pubs. Jimmy stood beside him, leaning on his shoulder, and they regarded the boy insolently.
    ‘I’ll wait to hear, shall I?’ said the actor, after a time, having muttered some other things that neither of them understood.
    *
    They settled in a pub from which Roy refused to move. At last he was able to tell Jimmy what Munday had said, and explain what it meant. Jimmy listened. There was a silence.
    ‘Tell me something, man,’ Jimmy said. ‘When you prepared your shooting scripts and stuff –’
    ‘I suppose you’re a big film writer now.’
    ‘Give me a chance. That guy Munday seemed okay.’
    ‘Did he?’
    ‘He saw something good in me, didn’t he?’
    ‘Yes, yes. Perhaps he did.’
    ‘Right. It’s started, brother. I’m on the up. I need to get a room – a bedsitter with a table – to get things moving in the literary department. Lend me some money until Munday pays me.’
    ‘There you go.’
    Roy laid a £20 note on the table. It was all the cash he had now. Jimmy slid it away.
    ‘What’s that? It’s got to be a grand.’
    ‘A grand?’
    Jimmy said, ‘That’s how expensive it is – a month’s rent in advance, a deposit, phone. You’ve avoided the real world for ten years. You don’t know how harsh it is. You’ll get the money back – at least from him.’
    Roy shook his head. ‘I’ve got a family now, and I haven’t got an income.’
    ‘You’re a jealous bastard – an’ I just saved your life. It’s a mistake to begrudge me my optimism. Lend me your pen.’ Jimmy made a note on the back of a bus ticket, crossed it out and rejigged it. ‘Wait and see. Soon you’ll be coming to my office an’ asking me for work. I’m gonna have to examine your CV to ensure it ain’t too low-class. Now, do you do it every day?’
    ‘Do what?’
    ‘Work.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Every single day?’
    ‘Yes. I’ve worked every day since I left university. Many nights too.’
    ‘Really?’ Jimmy read back what he’d scrawled on the ticket, folded it up, and stuck it in his top pocket. ‘That’s what I must do.’ But he sounded unconvinced by what he’d heard, as if, out of spite, Roy had made it sound gratuitously laborious.
    Roy said, ‘I feel a failure. It’s hard to live with. Most people do it. I s’pose they have to find other sources of pride. But what – gardening?