‘For a whole term you ate nothing but tinned mince.’
‘What can I say – people change! So what do you think?’
‘Alright then. You can buy me lunch. But I warn you, I know nothing about business.’
‘That’s alright. It’ll be nice to catch up anyway.’ Half admonishingly, he tapped Dexter’s elbow. ‘You went very quiet on me for a while.’
‘Did I? I was busy.’
‘Not that busy.’
‘Hey, you could have called me too!’
‘I did, often. You never returned my calls.’
‘Didn’t I? Sorry. I had things on my mind.’
‘I heard about your mum.’ He looked into his glass. ‘Sorry about that. Lovely lady, your mum.’
‘S’alright. Long time ago now.’
There was a moment’s silence, comfortable and affectionate, as they looked around the lawn at old friends talking and laughing in the late afternoon sun. Nearby, Callum’s latest girlfriend, a tiny, striking Spanish girl, a dancer in hip-hop videos, was speaking to Sylvie who stooped down to hear her.
‘It’ll be nice to talk to Luiza again,’ said Dexter.
‘I shouldn’t get too attached.’ Callum shrugged. ‘I think Luiza’s on the way out.’
‘Some things don’t change then.’ A pretty waitress, self-conscious in a mobcap, arrived to top up their glasses. They both grinned at her, caught each other grinning, and tapped their glasses together.
‘Eleven years since we left.’ Dexter shook his head, incredulous. ‘Eleven years. How the fuck did that happen?’
‘I see Emma Morley’s here,’ said Callum, out of nowhere.
‘I know.’ They glanced over and saw that she was talking to Miffy Buchanan, an old arch-enemy. Even at a distance, they could tell Emma’s teeth were gritted.
‘I’d heard you and Em fell out.’
‘We did.’
‘But you’re alright now?’
‘Not sure. We’ll see.’
‘Great girl, Emma.’
‘She is.’
‘Quite a beauty these days.’
‘She is, she is.’
‘Did you ever . . . ?’
‘No. Nearly. Once or twice.’
‘Nearly?’ sniffs Callum. ‘What does that mean?’
Dexter changed the subject. ‘But you’re alright, yeah?’
Callum took a sip of champagne. ‘Dex, I’m thirty-four. I’ve got a beautiful girlfriend, my own house, my own business, I work hard at something I enjoy, I make enough money.’ He placed his hand on Dexter’s shoulder. ‘And you, you’ve got a show on late-night TV! Life’s been good for all of us.’
And partly from wounded pride, partly from a revived sense of competition, Dexter decided to tell him.
‘So – do you want to hear something funny?’
Emma heard Callum O’Neill whoop from the other side of the Great Lawn and glanced across in time to see him holding Dexter in a head-lock, rubbing his knuckles on Dexter’s scalp. She smiled then turned her full attention back to hating Miffy Buchanan.
‘So I heard you were unemployed,’ she was saying.
‘Well I prefer to think of myself as self-employed.’
‘As a writer?’
‘Just for a year or two, a Sabbatical.’
‘But you haven’t actually had anything published?’
‘Not as yet. Though I have actually been paid a small advance to—’
‘Hm,’ said Miffy, sceptically. ‘Harriet Bowen has had three novels published now.’
‘Yes, I’ve been made aware of that. Several times.’
‘And she’s got three kids.’
‘Well. There you go.’
‘Have you seen my two?’ Nearby two immense toddlers in three-piece suits were rubbing canapés into each other’s faces. ‘IVAN. NO BITING.’
‘They’re lovely boys.’
‘Aren’t they? So have you had any kids yet?’ said Miffy, as if it was an either/or situation, novels or kids.
‘Nope—’
‘Seeing anyone?’
‘Nope—’
‘No-one?’
‘Nope—’
‘Anyone on the horizon?’
‘Nope—’