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pause. ‘I suppose it might have been symbolic.’
    Alice giggled, and Jane could tell the moment had only been a hiccup. Encouraged, she put on her sitcom voice. ‘Got to laugh after a bit, haven’t you?’
    ‘I suppose so,’ replied Alice. ‘It’s either that or get religion.’
    Jane might have let the moment pass. But Alice’s reference to Buddhism had given her courage, and besides, what are friends for? Even so, she looked out of the window to confess. ‘Actually, I’ve got it, if you want to know. A little, anyway.’
    ‘Really? Since when? Or rather, why?’
    ‘A year or two. It sort of makes sense of things. Makes it all feel less … hopeless.’ Jane stroked her handbag, as if it too needed consolation.
    Alice was surprised. In her world view, everything was hopeless, but you just had to get on with it. And there wasn’t much point changing what you believed at this late stage of the game. She considered whether to answer seriously or lightly, and decided on the latter.
    ‘As long as your god allows drinking and smoking and fornication.’
    ‘Oh, he’s very keen on all of those.’
    ‘How about blasphemy? I always think that’s the key test when it comes to a god.’
    ‘He’s indifferent. He sort of rises above it.’
    ‘Then I approve.’
    ‘That’s what he does. Approves.’
    ‘Makes a change. For a god, I mean. Mostly they disapprove.’
    ‘I don’t think I’d want a god who disapproved. Get enough of that in life anyway. Mercy and forgiveness and understanding, that’s what we need. Plus the notion of some overall plan.’
    ‘Did he find you or you find him, if that makes sense as a question?’
    ‘Perfect sense,’ replied Jane. ‘I suppose you could say it was mutual.’
    ‘That sounds … comfy.’
    ‘Yes, most people don’t think a god ought to be comfy.’
    ‘What’s that line? Something like: “God will forgive me, it’s his job”?’
    ‘Quite right too. I think we’ve overcomplicated God down the ages.’
    The sandwich trolley came past, and Jane ordered tea. From her handbag she took a slice of lemon in a plastic box, and a miniature of cognac from the hotel minibar. She liked to play a little unacknowledged game with her publishers: the better her room, the less she pillaged. Last night she had slept well, so contented herself with only the cognac and whisky. But once, in Cheltenham, after a poor audience and a lumpy mattress, she was in such a rage that she’d taken everything: the alcohol, the peanuts, the chocolate, the bottle opener, even the ice tray.
    The trolley clattered away. Alice found herself regretting the days of proper restaurant cars with silver service and white-jacketed waiters skilled at delivering vegetables with clasped fork and spoon while outside the landscape lurched. Life, she thought, was mostly about the gradual loss of pleasure. She and Jane had given up sex at about the same time. She was no longer interested in drink; Jane had stopped caring about food – or at least, its quality. Alice gardened; Jane did crosswords, occasionally saving time by filling in answers which couldn’t possibly be right.
    Jane was glad Alice never rebuked her for taking a drink earlier than some. She felt a rush of affection for this poised, unmessy friend who always made sure that they caught their train.
    ‘That was a nice young man who interviewed us,’ said Alice. ‘Properly respectful.’
    ‘He was to you. But he did that thing to me.’
    ‘What thing?’
    ‘Didn’t you notice?’ Jane gave a sigh of self-pity. ‘When he mentioned all those books that my latest reminded him of. And you can’t very well say you haven’t read some of them or you’ll look like an ignoramus. So you go along with it and then everyone assumes that’s where you got your ideas from.’
    Alice thought this unduly paranoid. ‘They weren’t thinking that, Jane. More likely they were writing him down as a show-off. And they loved it when he mentioned Moby-Dick and