‘Barrister.’

‘I never know the difference.’

‘I talk more in court.’

‘What did you do today?’

‘Defended a wife-basher.’

‘Goodness, how exciting. Did you get him off?’

‘Naturally.’

‘How?’

‘By proving his wife was utterly impossible.’

‘Was she?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. That isn’t the point,’ he said. ‘My job was to get him off.’

‘Defending the wicked for the sake of worldly gain,’ I said. I examined his cold, fleshless face with its beautiful bone-structure, and strange, grey, unblinking, deep-set eyes. He must look stunning in a wig — Robespierre, the charcoal grey incorruptible.

‘I bet you’re absolutely lethal in court,’ I said.

He gave a thin smile, and told me about a drugs case in which he’d been prosecuting the week before. I found it riveting. I was also fascinated how detached he was.

Then a diversion was caused by one of Marcia’s young men who had mistakenly thought it was fancy dress and had turned up as a goat in a furry coat and pink udders. I had had enough to drink by then to think it terribly funny and started crying with laughter. Looking up suddenly, I saw Pendle absolutely devouring me with his eyes.

‘Are you taking me for A levels?’ I said, groping for a tissue. ‘Didn’t your mother ever teach you it was rude to stare?’

‘I’m sorry. You’re extraordinarily like someone I used to know.’

‘My boss doesn’t like solicitors,’ I said. ‘He says but for them he’d have had a perfectly amicable divorce.’

‘They all say that. What do you do?’

‘I’m a copywriter. I sit in an office all day thinking what to put. Then when I finally put it down Rodney, my boss, comes along, changes it all, and pretends it was his idea in the first place. He’s been away all week shooting.’

‘Grouse?’ asked Pendle.

‘No. Butter commercials in Devon.’