‘So would a pushbike.’

Before I could sulk she asked, ‘What’s a gal gotta do to get a drink?’

‘We’re near my place, want to go there?’

‘Gets my vote.’

I live in Meadow Road. About an umpire from the Oval Cricket Ground. On the outside, it looks ordinary, one up, one down.

Like that.

The money was spent inside. It’s a little flash but hey, I liked to think I had some moves. I turned the engine off, got out and went round to hold her door. She went Southern belle, drawled, ‘My, my, my… y’all a gentleman Ashley.’

‘Whatever.’

Inside, I led her down the hall and stood back. Let the house do its number. Remote control panels to do near all save shout hello. Cost me a fortune and half that again. She stood in the living room, said, ‘Holy shit, who lives here.’

I hit the remote and the bar glided up.

‘A drink?’

‘Got any Bourbon?’

‘I got Scotch.’

‘Scotch’s good, on the rocks, beer chaser.’

I did that, handed them to her, took a large hit of my own. Yeah, that was it, said, ‘Sit down.’

She did, unlaced her Reeboks, kicked ’em off, curled her feet under her. How do women do that or, more’s the point, why. It looks uncomfortable but she seemed happy with it, asked, ‘So who’d you kill for this?’

I thought I’d let that slide for a bit, see how it shaped, so I asked her, ‘What’s a Yank doing shoplifting in South-East London? I mean, wouldn’t Harrods or Selfridges be more appropriate.’

‘I’m hoping to take my Ph.D. in Metaphysics.’

‘What shop does them?’

She gave a toss of her head.

‘Don’t be a horse’s ass. Ontology is the primary element in metaphysics, you know that I guess.’

‘On… wot?’

‘It’s the ontological dilemma. What really exists as opposed to that which appears to exist but does not.’

‘I appear to have lost you.’

‘Gimme another shot of that Scotch.’