"That, I suspect, is Hunter," Slater said unconcernedly, waving one hand. "His idea of a party trick is to tickle his wife until she wets her knickers. Sorry, Sara, I interrupted you..."

"Nothing," she said, "I was just going to say it's dull and horrible. I hate the winter there,"

"So you're here," Slater said. The woman nodded.

"I'm... staying in Veronica's place for now, while she's in the States," He heard something strange in her voice.

"Oh God, that awful place in Islington," Slater looked sympathetic. "You poor thing,"

"It's better than where I was," she said quietly. She was mostly turned away from him; he could just see the curve of her cheek, the line of her nose, and as he watched she put her head down very slightly, and her voice altered again. Slater tut-tutted to himself, looking into his glass.

"Finally left him, then?" Slater said, and Graham felt his eyes widening, that pulling back of the skin towards the ears he thought he had seen frozen on her face. Left? Separated? He stared at her anxiously, then at Slater, and tried hard not to look as interested as he felt. She was looking down, into her glass. She hadn't drunk very much.

"Finally," she said, bringing her head up, shaking her head not in negation but a sort of defiance, so that the tangled black hair bobbed once.

"And the other one?" Slater said. His voice was cold now, expression deliberately blank. Something about his eyes was hooded, making his eyes, briefly, resemble hers. Graham felt himself leaning forward, wanting to catch her reply. Had she started talking? Both their voices were low; they didn't really mean to include him in the conversation, and it was noisy in the room; people laughed and shouted, the music next door had been turned up.