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‘So manly.’

‘What do I normally look like?’ he said, watching her leave the room.

‘I’m not quite ready,’ Nicole called back. ‘Put a record on.’

She tried on various outfits but was happy with none of them (Luke liked them all). Eventually she tried on a sleeveless dress, pale yellow, short.

‘What do you think?’

‘You could make a dead man come,’ said Luke.

‘Always charming,’ said Nicole, and disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out she had made up her eyes and put on lipstick.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Why are you looking like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you’ve lost a pound and found a flyover or whatever that stupid English expression is.’

‘Lost a fiver and found a pound,’ said Luke, grinning.

‘Something must be wrong if you correct my English. What is it?’

‘It’s just that I’ve never seen you wear make-up before.’

‘So?’

‘I think you look nicer without it.’

‘What if I want to wear it?’

‘Fine.’

‘So, are we ready?’ She picked up her bag, her keys, a tube of mints.

‘Sure.’

‘Why don’t you want me to wear make-up?’

‘Because you look so much nicer without it.’

‘You just don’t want other men to fancy me.’

‘Actually, like most men, I like it when other men fancy the woman I am with. As it happens, nobody could fancy you with all that shit on your face.’

‘What did you say?’

‘You look like a doll. I hardly recognize you.’

‘I don’t tell you how to dress, or how to look.’

‘If you did I wouldn’t mind.’

I mind you telling me.’

‘I just hate make-up. Lipstick makes me want to throw up. I’ve never seen you wearing make-up before so I was shocked. The only people who need to wear make-up are people with something wrong with them.’

‘You should wear it then, you bloody fucker!’

Luke laughed: Nicole rarely swore and never sounded convincing when she did. She threw her bag at his face. He ducked. The bag hit the wall behind him. Nicole strode into the bathroom. Luke picked up the bag and its scattered contents, waited. A few minutes later she came out of the bathroom with no trace of make-up to be seen.

‘You look beautiful,’ said Luke. He put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her.

‘I hate lipstick too,’ she said. ‘I knew you wouldn’t like it.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I don’t know. I just did.’

‘Does that count as our first quarrel?’

‘I suppose. Even though we were quarrelling about something we agreed on.’

‘So, you’re a temper-loser rather than a sulker.’

‘What is sulking?’

‘You know, after you’ve quarrelled you refuse to speak for ages.’

‘Oh yes, I hate sulking. Life is too long for that.’

‘Do you mean too short?’

‘No, too long.’

‘You’re right,’ said Luke, hugging her. ‘But we should get a move on. We’re meant to meet Alex and Sahra in ten minutes.’

The four of them arrived at the party at the perfect time: just late enough to make them wish they had arrived earlier. Sahra had been invited by the husband whose wife was using her birthday as a chance to exhibit her paintings: large, skin-coloured nudes of her husband. In the flesh, the husband was clothed in a white shirt, patterned waistcoat and dark trousers. He helped Sahra off with her coat. She was wearing black jeans and a white, sleeveless blouse. It was the first time Alex had seen her arms. The wife, the artist, was wearing a shimmery top and an ankle-length greenish skirt with a long slit up one leg. It was an outfit that declared a mature understanding of parties, of the need to lend the evening a slight erotic frisson which, at around midnight, would give way to a franker, tipsy flirtatiousness. It was the perfect outfit for a hostess. Alex and Luke handed over shopping bags full of wine and beer. In return the husband poured glasses of champagne. It was amazing champagne. Luke helped himself to a beer. The bell went again and the husband left them to toast his wife who made the four of them feel as welcome as if they had all been invited. She introduced Sahra and Alex to a painter who was also a writer and then went off to accept gifts from the latest arrivals. They moved into the main room, stood near a piano, listening to the painter who was also a writer talk about painting and writing. There were about forty people in the room and except for the walls which were lined with paintings of the naked husband, it did not appear crowded. The bell to the apartment was ringing frequently. Everyone was drinking champagne except Luke who preferred canned drinks, beer essentially. In the kitchen a table was loaded with food, red serviettes and plates. Having finished his first glass of champagne, Alex, as hungry as he was thirsty, loaded tabbouleh and other salads on to a plate. Aware of a desire to hang, puppy-like, around Sahra, he made a special effort to do the opposite, introducing himself to strangers, levering these introductions into conversations that gradually took him away from her. Every time he looked back she was talking to someone else. Nicole came and stood by him, complimented him on his suit, asked how it was going.

‘The party?’

‘No. Sahra.’

‘Who knows. What do you think?’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you missed an important chance when we arrived.’

‘Really? What chance?’

‘You could have helped her off with her coat.’

‘That kind of thing always seems a bit too attentive, too gallant.’

‘No. You don’t understand. Helping a woman with her coat is a perfect, formal way of establishing some kind of physical intimacy.’

‘Jesus, that’s right! I’ve never thought of that before. I’ll help her on with it at the end.’

‘That might be even better. Helping her on with her coat is a little more formal. Helping her take off her coat might be a bit too — a bit too like undressing her.’

‘Shit, I wish I had helped her off with it!’ laughed Alex. ‘Now I can’t wait for the party to end so that I can help her on with her coat.’ When in pursuit of a woman, Alex thought, your friend’s girlfriend will always be your best co-conspirator. Nicole took a sip of wine and immediately began coughing, spluttering.

‘It went down the wrong throat,’ she said, her eyes suddenly wet with tears.

In another corner of the room a grinning German passed Luke a joint.

‘Does it have tobacco in it?’ he asked. The guy thought it did. Luke said he would pass. He also declined the offer of champagne when a bottle was angled towards him. He saw Nicole leave Alex’s side and make her way to him across the room. A few moments later he saw Sahra touch Alex on the shoulder.

‘Are you ignoring me?’ she said.

‘Hi. No. How are you? I was. .’

‘Looking at that woman’s stomach.’

‘Yes, I was. There’s no denying it.’ When Nicole had moved away he’d found himself doing exactly that: contemplating the bare stomach of a woman standing a few feet away from him.

‘Do you like that? The ring through her navel?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I have one like that.’

‘Do you?’

‘But not in the same place.’ Embarrassingly, Alex was sure he was blushing. He felt hot. ‘You’re supposed to ask where,’ said Sahra. Alex took a gulp of champagne but there was nothing left in his glass.

‘Where?’ he said, sure that the next word he was going to hear would be ‘nipple’ or ‘clitoris’.

Sahra shook her head: ‘Joking. And you’re blushing.’

A woman with long Spanish hair sang a couple of songs, accompanied by two men who played guitars. The guitarists were grey-haired, neatly dressed in sports jackets and ties. Luke loved this tradition — and anything he loved automatically became part of some ‘tradition’ or other — of the soberly dressed guitarist in polished shoes revealing a slight gap of pale flesh between turn-up and sock. In the instrumental break the guitarists sparred with each other before the singer returned for the last verse of the song. It wasn’t exactly flamenco but it appealed to the spirit of flamenco. Sahra translated for Alex who listened intently. The first song was about separation, parting and blood. The second was about betrayal, faithlessness and blood. The third was a mixture of the preceding two. There were no songs about reconciliations, meetings and returns. When the last song had finished the two guitarists shook hands and the singer kissed them both and everyone applauded. Later a woman in a white blouse read out some poetry that turned out to have been by Verlaine. More joints were smoked. Luke was stoned. The music on the stereo was jazz.