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absolutely knew, that it was Cy. White wine to her lips, she allowed the answering machine, a serene robot insensitive to both slight and triumph, to take the call.
    'This is Jemima Shore,' cooed the recorded voice back into the face of the real Jemima. 'I'm afraid I'm not here...' The perfect twentieth-century double talk.
    She then expected Cy to do one of two things: fling down the receiver with a strangled groan (he quite often did that; after all it was the dreaded technology, something he did not trust as far as he could see it) or simply leave one deeply reproachful word on the machine: 'Jem.' The implication of this one word was quite clear. 'Where are you? I need you.'
    But it did not happen like that. When the message began, with Jemima's serene recording finished, there was a burst of music, which sounded like reggae, then some giggles. Light not very pleasant giggles. Then the impression of a hand somehow stifling the giggles. After that, silence - the steady silence of the track. Jemima waited, curiously disquieted, for the click-off indicating the end of this non-existent message.
    She analysed her disquiet. Her home number was supposed to be a closely guarded secret, at any rate from members of the public who might be expected to express various unwelcome degrees of rage, admiration or even lust, following her programmes. So that such a call was on the face of it slightly surprising. On the other hand the unknown gigglers might have hit upon her number by complete coincidence.
    Then Jemima felt her skin prickle. The track was no longer silent. A light androgynous voice had begun to sing softly into the machine: 'Golden lads and girls all must,' it lilted, 'Like chimneysweepers come to dust.' There was a pause. A giggle. 'You too Jemima Shore,' added the voice. 'You too.' The message was over.
    In the interval Jemima's Mozart tape had, unnoticed, come to a stop. So she found herself at last sitting in silence. And the wine in her glass had become warmed by her fingers. Nothing was quite so pleasant as it had been before the telephone rang. It was possible of course to play the tape again and listen to that sinister, silly little message once more, concentrate on the voice, see if she recognized it. But that would be to give the matter too much importance.
    Instead, Jemima wrenched her thoughts away from the tape and back to her work. 'Golden lads and girls' indeed. As a more relevant piece of masochism, she did re-read the evening paper including that chilling declaration from Lord Saffron: 'Nothing wrong with money so long as you don't earn it.'
    It was then that Jemima took a sudden resolve, spurred on as it were by her mingled indignation towards Lord Saffron and her dislike of the unknown telephonic intruders. Two could play at that game.
    She dialled Cy's private number. He answered with alacrity, which in Jemima's experience meant not so much that he was free but that he was engaged talking on at least two of his other lines, and was picking up the private one purely in order to still its clangour. She had analysed the situation correctly.
    'Jem - one moment - Venetia—' (into some other demanding mouthpiece). 'Is that you? One moment, Jem, one moment - darling, one moment - No, New York, I hear you, ne coupez pas, ne coupez pas. Miss Lewis, where are you?' he suddenly bellowed. 'Please take this call from New York.'
    Miss Lewis' calm voice speaking to Jemima Shore was quite a relief, and once Jemima had made it clear she was neither the switchboard of the Carlyle Hotel in New York, nor that of the Hotel Meurice in Paris, both of which Cy was apparently trying to engage in word play, they were able to have a pleasantly sardonic exchange on the subject of Cy's telephone habits until interrupted by his next bellow:
    'Miss Lewis, Miss Lewis, what is the Meurice doing in New York?'
    'Mr Fredericks—'
    'Speaking perfect French too,' Cy proceeded. 'Not a trace of an accent.'
    All in all, it was sometime before