Now she saw him for what he was, flotsam from a lost ship of hope. Still a pill-freak, still a theoretical bisexual, still devoted to early Polanski movies and symbolic pacifism. What kind of dope did he have between his ears anyhow? The same as she'd had, she chided herself, thinking there was something sexy about the bum.

She waited for a few seconds, watching the door. When he failed to re-emerge she went back into the foyer for a moment, to see how the girl was going on. She was smoking a cigarette like an amateur actress who's failed to get the knack of it, leaning against the rail, her skirt hitched up as she scratched her leg.

'Tights,' she explained.

The Manager's gone to find Dean.'

'Thanks,' she scratched on. 'They bring me out in a rash, I'm allergic to them.'

There were blotches on the girl's pretty legs, which rather spoiled the effect.

'It's because I'm hot and bothered,' she ventured. 'Whenever I get hot and bothered, I get allergic.'

'Oh.'

'Dean's probably run off, you know, when I had my back turned. He'd do that. He doesn't give a f- . He doesn't care.'

Birdy could see she was on her way to tears, which was a drag. She was bad with tears. Shouting matches, even fights, OK. Tears, no go.

'It'll be OK' was all she could find to say to keep the tears from coming.

'No it's not,' said the girl. 'It won't be OK, because he's a bastard. He treats everyone like dirt.' She ground out the half-smoked cigarette with the pointed toe of her cerise shoes, taking particular care to extinguish every glowing fragment of tobacco.

'Men don't care, do they?' she said looking up at Birdy with heart-melting directness. Under the expert make-up, she was perhaps seventeen, certainly not much more. Her mascara was a little smeared, and there were arcs of tiredness under her eyes.