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gratified in a way. Whatever the hidden motive, there must surely be in there some expression of approval which she needed in her present insecure frame of mind. But before she could think, she was stuttering the negative, raising the polythene bags in a helpless gesture which made her feel older still. Apples, oranges and potatoes, God help me.
    â€˜Rose, I’d love to, but I can’t. Got to get home, food shopping, you know …’ Rose did not know. Too late, Helen found herself making excuses for a refusal which could have been both warm and gracious but sounded merely lame. The moment in which she could have established some intimacy died in the speaking. Rose turned back to her desk, fiddled with the phone, showing no sign of disappointment, shrugging.
    â€˜No problem. Forget I asked.’
    â€˜Another time …’
    â€˜No, forget it. Only an idea. But listen, while you’re here, can I ask you something?’
    Perhaps the chance of mutuality had not fled after all, but Rose was businesslike. ‘You know how I keep track of all the case papers in a notebook? And then who’s-your-face puts them in the computer every day with all the dates for the remand hearings, so we know where everything is, and which dates someone’s got to turn up to court the next time?’ Helen was ashamed to say she did not really know, deliberately ignorant of the way the office worked. ‘Well,’ Rose continued, ‘someone keeps nicking the notebook. You’ve got the untidiest room. My sodding notebooks haven’t wandered in there lately, have they?’
    It was spoken like an accusation, so unnecessarily aggressive that Helen had the fleeting suspicion Rose somehow sensed that she had been discussed in critical terms and was defending herself in advance. Or maybe it was her response to the mildest of rejections.
    â€˜I don’t think so. Why should I have them? Does it matter, as long as it’s all gone on the computer? That’s the only record we need, isn’t it.’
    â€˜Oh, you are stupid,’ said Rose. The other five girls were clattering back, yawning, reaching for hats and coats, grinning at Helen. They were all so much nicer than Rose and so much less complicated, she thought with the rise of a familiar irritation. Rose’s back view and her overbright hallos to her mates had the same effect as a dismissal and Helen took the hint. Rose had a shining charisma and energy in her which defied the brash rudeness; she would find someone else to go to the pub. ‘Night!’ she yelled, rudely, and then with a last, pitying look at the unglamorous bags, added, ‘Have a good evening.’ Suddenly her pretty face split into a grin. ‘Listen, you can always wow a man with potatoes …’
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    I wish I was like that, Helen thought later, still wondering what strange and guilty fit of domestic conscientiousness had led her to purchase the vegetables. There were some days in which a weary stupidity seemed to take over and she was easily mesmerised by a shop or a stall. I wish I was nineteen and careless, energetic and about to fall in love, adopt a new career, go out giggling and screwing men every night, although not perhaps the rookie policemen from the section house with their fresh and pimply faces. Geoffrey Bailey had once been one of those, and the thought stopped her in her tracks as she struggled from the bus and into the supermarket. The thought of Bailey did not bring joy: it brought instead a dull weight of anxious dread and a feeling of guilt.
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    G eoffrey Bailey was not by any manner of means a vain man, but his own embarrassment at the public vision of his beaten-up face made him feel uncomfortable. He should have been too old to care, and as Ryan had said, ‘You were scarcely an oil painting to begin with, were you, sir? Who do you think will notice?’ Ryan did not quite do him justice. Bailey’s appearance was