It was gone eight in the evening when Flockhart came out of his office. I'd been hanging around in the corridor since five and was getting fed up.

He shut the door, locking it, his back to me. He hadn't seen me yet, so I started walking towards him, casual pace, and we met near the stairs.

'Were you coming to see me?'

His face was square, bland, expressionless. 'Not actually,' I said. 'I thought Loman might be with you.' Loman had left here an hour ago.

'I haven't seen him.' Flockhart studied me with faint interest. ,No luck yet?'

'No.' He knew I was looking for a job; everyone did.

He wasn't moving on, was still watching me. 'Have you eaten yet?'

'No.'

'Come and have some macaroni.' He turned towards the stairs, and I followed.

It was a ten-minute walk through fine drizzle to a pasta place called the Cellar Steps, a basement room with red checked tablecloths and a mural of the Colosseum in Rome and one or two ceiling fans stirring the smell of garlic around. Flockhart chose a comer table under a signed framed photograph of Sophia Loren with an arm round the proprietor, Luigi Francesco.

There weren't many people here: the theatres had gone in ten minutes ago and half London had gone home.

We chose linguini.

'So how long has it been since you came back?'

'Six weeks,' I said.

'Care for some wine?' I shook my head. 'Six weeks is a long time, for someone like you.' He sat watching me, his face a mask, his eyes attentive.

'Someone like me?'