She headed for the door. He tried to think of something to say to halt her.

"I can always cancel," he said.

"Let Chris Porphyry down? Don't be stupid, Joe."

But she was obviously touched by the thought that he'd do this for her and when he moved forward to kiss her, she didn't back off even though she was right about the shorts. But her mind was still dwelling on the YFG.

"You must be on the up, Joe, getting clients like that. Where are you meeting him?"

"Some club I never heard of called the Who. You any idea where it is?"

She thought a moment then began to laugh.

"That's not a club like you think of a club, Joe. That will be the Hoo, aitch oh oh, the Royal Hoo Golf Club. That is seriously posh."

"Yeah? A posh golf club?" He considered the idea dubiously. "Any idea how I get there?"

"You could try bank robbery and a skin graft. Sorry. Head out on the Upleck road till you hit the bypass, then get off at the big roundabout; it's along one of those little roads no one ever uses, don't recollect which one, but you'll know you're getting close by the watch towers and the big signs saying No Hawkers, Vendors or Racial Minorities. They're particular what people wear too, I dare say."

She glanced significantly at his shorts, which were resuming normal service.

"He said there was a dispensation in the hot weather," protested Joe.

"For those you don't need a dispensation, more like a disposal unit," said Beryl. "You ever play golf, Joe?"

"May have done," said Joe, reluctant to admit that what he knew about the game could have been written on the point of a tee peg. Football was the only sport he had any real interest in, and nowadays his active participation there consisted of shouting advice at his beloved Luton City FC and singing Songs from the Shows on Supporters' Club social nights.