"Well, you may want a job one day," said Catherine. "And then he's bound to remember. He's got a memory like an ostrich."

"Perhaps… I'm not quite sure what he actually does."

She looked at him as if he must be joking. "He's got this bank, darling…"

"Yes, I know-"

"It's a big building chock-a-block full of money." She waved her cigarette arm around hilariously. "And he goes in and turns it into even more money."

Nick let this simple sarcasm pass over him. "I see, you don't know what he actually does either."

She stared at him and then gave another neighing laugh. "Haven't a clue, darling!"

There was a shaking in the trimmed beech hedge away to the right, and then a tall man came hopping out of it sideways, holding up a camera that was strung round his neck. They watched him as he strolled towards them, Catherine leaning back on one hand with a nervously triumphant expression. "Yeah, hold that," he said, and took a couple of exposures very quickly, as he was still moving. "Lovely," he said.

So Russell was one of her older boyfriends, thirty perhaps, dark, balding, with the casual but combative look of the urban photographer, black T-shirt and baseball boots, twenty-pocketed waistcoat and bandolier of film. He passed in front of them, clicking away, cheerily exploiting this little episode of his arrival, Nick's awkwardness and Catherine's hunger for the spontaneous, the outrageous. She lolled backwards, and touched her upper lip with her tongue. Was it good when her men were older, or not? He could be Protector or Abuser-it was a great deep uncertainty, like the ones in her graphology book. He pulled her up and gave her a hug and then Catherine said, almost reluctantly,

"Oh, this is Nick, by the way."

"Hello, Nick," said Russell.

"Hello!"

"Did you meet anyone?" asked Catherine, showing a hint of anxiety.