‘Not much, no.’

‘I heard a good one the other day-’arris for bum. Know it?’

‘No.’

‘It goes-’arris is short for Aristotle, rhymes with bottle; bottles and glass equals arse. See?’

‘Yes, good. What’re you, a writer?’

‘No.’ She waved the hand that held a cigarette; a wisp of the smoke went into my face; I coughed and moved back.

‘Don’t!’ she said sharply. ‘Look, it’s a Gitane; I only smoke one a day. Don’t spoil it for me.’

‘All right.’ I sniffed at the cigarette. ‘Wish I could smoke one a day.’

‘Why can’t you?’

‘I was a tobacco fiend for twenty years. Gave it up. Scared just the one would probably set me off again.’

‘Mm, might. Better not try. I’m Helen Broadway; I asked Roberta to introduce us but she didn’t seem to understand what I meant.’

‘Cliff Hardy, hello. I think the champers has got to her. She’s Brahms.’

‘And Liszt.’

I laughed. ‘Right.’

We moved away from other people, as if by mutual agreement. I looked around a bit, staying in touch, but most of my attention was concentrated on her.

‘Apart from the fact that you’re sober, like me’, I said, ‘and that you’re not wearing any jewellery, like me, I’m trying to work out what’s different about you-I mean, compared with all these people.’ Mentally, I put Paul Guthrie in the ‘different’ basket too.

She leaned towards a table and stubbed out the Gitane. She had a dusting of dark hair on her long, brown forearms.

‘You won’t guess’, she said. ‘I’m not foreign, I haven’t got cancer, I’m not a lesbian. I’m from the country.’

‘You’re not! That’s original-where?’

‘Up near Kempsey, ever been there?’

I had, chasing people and being chased, some years back. Shots had been fired and a truck with people in it had gone up in flames. Not my favourite memories. But I was prepared to give the place another chance. I liked Helen Broadway.