“I love my life.”

Selected a faded pair of Levi cords. One more wash and they were history. A sweatshirt with the logo “Filthy McNasty’s”. Courtesy of Shane McGowan’s local in Islington. It had been white, but I washed it alongside a navy shirt. Finally a pair of shoes. Shook free a Marlboro, lit up. Me and Bette Davis, still smoking. Headed down to the bar, grabbed a mouthful of coffee. Perfect, bitter as a rumour. Jeff said,

“Must be some powerful eye drops.”

“What?”

“Your eyes…they’re glowing.”

Cathy appeared, said,

“Phew, I am like, never, ever going to drink Spritzers again.”

Jeff told her about Paula Yates. She said,

“Poor bitch.”

A little later, leaning close to me, she asked,

“What’s that scent? You smell like my Jeff.”

Her effortless embrace of his name tore at my heart.

I moved to my chair, let out a deep breath. I was well on the way to recovery. The door opened and a heavyset man entered. He had a full black beard, an expression of quiet energy. He approached, asked,

“Might I have a word?”

“Sure.”

“A quiet word.”

I looked round the pub, not a haven of privacy. I got my smile in gear, said,

“Let’s step outside.”

A tiny pull at the corner of his mouth, the only indication he appreciated the joke. One glance at his hands, you knew he’d travelled the route. The fresh air hit me like a hurley. I staggered, felt a steadying hand. He said,

“Fresh air can be a whore.”

I pulled out my smokes, shook one free, cranked the lighter. Nothing doing. I said,

“Fuck.”

He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, knotted tie. He reached inside his jacket, produced a Zippo, handed it over. It was solid silver. I fired up, offered it back. He said,

“Hang on to it; I quit.”

“It’s solid silver.”

“Let’s call it a loan.”

“OK.”