‘How do you know about Nigel?’ she said.

‘An educated guess. If the Poms want an accent, why can’t they find a nice girl from Liverpool? Why do they want an Aussie on London radio?’

‘They like us. We don’t quite get the class system. We don’t instinctively defer to upper-class and upper-middle-class twits. We understand irony and understatement. Also we can do attack dog.’

Linda was good at being an attack dog. A calm attack dog, though, taking politicians’ calves firmly in the mouth without breaking skin, not letting go, giving little shakes from time to time.

A space appeared in the right-hand lane and, for no good reason, I pulled out to overtake a representative of Bottom-dollar Carpets, then eclipsed a four-wheel-drive and an old Mitsubishi.

‘When we get there,’ I said, ‘any chance of a final romp?’

She put a hand on my thigh. ‘I think not. I want to leave you wanting more.’

‘Which has always been the case. Why isn’t it enough to be the best in this town?’

How stupid a question. I had turned it over in my mind, which made asking it even more stupid.

Linda was looking out of the side window. ‘Naked ambition,’ she said. ‘Also I feel like a fake, someone who’s lucked it.’

‘Of course. Anyone can luck it. All you need is a chainsaw brain and a voice like Lauren Bacall. That’s after you get a start in the business, which requires great legs, willing hands and passable knockers.’

‘Passable? Hold on, mate, these knockers took work. I started knocker exercises at thirteen.’

‘Race-fit knockers, I’m sure. You might have given me a bit more notice of this.’

I heard the petulant tone of my voice.

The long fingers squeezed my thigh. ‘Wasn’t any more to give,’ she said. ‘They rang, they offered the money, they wanted me soonest.’