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everything clearly. Clothes. House. Greg. It could only mean one thing: ‘There was a woman inside whose husband had arrived home and she claims never to have clapped eyes on Greg, I mean Mr Walterson, before in her life.’
    ‘This has happened before?’ the policewoman asked.
    I sighed and shook my head. ‘No, I just always expected it to. Not the breaking and entering. Greg couldn’t break into anything.’
    ‘Well, that’s for the court to decide,’ the policeman stated.
    He’s done it again , I thought. He’s dragged me into another of his sordid exploits. Except now, it’s court. They’re talking about court .
    ‘Greg, I mean Mr Walterson, he’s a prat, but not a criminal.’ I launched myself into a plea. I couldn’t face court. Walking into a police station had been bad enough. Going into an interrogation room was hideous. Court would finish me off. ‘Please don’t charge him. Please . He won’t do it again, I promise. And, well, he wants to work in America and any kind of criminal record would put paid to that. I can swear on my life that he’s of good character. Please . It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll make sure of it. And even though he’s a journalist, he’s always going on about what a good job the police do, especially in the current climate.’ That was pushing it a bit. OK, it was an outright lie, but court! ‘ Please don’t let his stupidity ruin the rest of his life. Please .’
    An hour later I was stood on the pavement outside the police station. Greg was beside me, wearing the clothes – a WYIFF sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms – I’d brought with me. ‘How long did the cab say it’d be?’ I asked him. He’d had to borrow my phone to call a cab because his mobile, wallet, keys, oh, and clothes were in the house of the woman who’d never seen him before in her life.
    ‘Not long . . . Oh, Amber, you look so tired,’ he said. ‘Did you fly back from Cannes this morning?’
    ‘Yup. Flew back, walked in the door, got call from a desperate wannabe criminal needing someone to vouch for him.’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Hmm,’ I replied. Course he was sorry. He was always sorry. But not sorry enough to not do it again.
    ‘Thanks for coming, Amber,’ Greg said. ‘You didn’t have to . . . That policewoman told me how you pleaded my case. She said you were a good mate, not that I didn’t already know that. I only told you about wanting to work in America once and you remembered. That’s so special. Thank you.’
    ‘What are friends for,’ I replied.
    ‘Hey, at least one good thing came out of all of this,’ he commented.
    ‘What’s that, then?’ I asked, waiting to hear how he’d put a new philosophical spin on ‘a friend in need’.
    Instead of offering me cod philosophy he wafted a piece of paper under my nose. ‘That policewoman gave me her mobile number. We’re going to go out.’
    ‘You what?’ I said, turning to him.
    ‘She was dead sexy, don’t you think? So, we’re going to get to know each other a little better. A lot better, in fact.’
    ‘You’re actually going to see her?’ I asked, knowing the answer. Knowing that no matter how apologetic he was three minutes ago, he was going to do this.
    Greg nodded, smiling at the scrap of paper in his hand as though it was his passport to Shangri-La. ‘Too right.’
    I too looked at the small white rectangle in his hand. Then I looked at Greg. Back to the paper. On the back of the paper the future was being shown in glorious Technicolor. There was me, back in that interrogation room, this time in handcuffs with said policewoman threatening to throw away the key because Greg had ill-treated her and it was my fault they’d let him loose on society again. I watched the image play out a few times, then snatched the paper from his hand before he could react, screwed it up between my palms, tossed it into the gutter. The paper glanced off the edge of the grate, then toppled in. Out of sight,