Outside the Museum Tavern; and I know she’s inside, fresh from the East, waiting. I don’t want to go in. If the whole of the city was one great pub, I could just stand here outside, and stand her up, and leave. Nothing would change.

‘You said you’d be there at half past – I waited for an hour.’

‘I was… I was in the bar all night long. I can’t believe you didn’t see me.’

Being nearby is never enough. You need to be actually present. The door opened. Someone was coming out. A snatch of conversation; ‘Of course, the return on investment up there’s growing all the time.’

Good to know that there were some worthwhile investments left. I pushed past them, and went inside.

‘So, how was Egypt ?’

‘Oh, just lovely, it’s the perfect time of year. I saw Hasem in Cairo , we were shooting at Saqqara again. He was talking about a job out there, he always does.’

I wanted to ask her about the plane journey; she hates flying. I wanted to find out if she’d been back to the Fishawi Café. We’d ended up smoking shisha there on the last night of our holiday. The tables huddled in a busy alleyway, buried deep in the Khan El-Khalili souk. Waiters scuttled between between passers-by, tin trays hurtling up and down as they flew over and around heads and shoulders.

Sophie would talk to them in Arabic; she’d been learning it in night school for years. We always got excellent service. We cradled our shisha, protecting the hot coals. Heavy shopping bags bustled by, knocking against us, our rickety table. Mint tea spilled and pooled across it. We didn’t really notice until it began to drip over the edge.

Most of all, I remembered the light. White charcoal smoke, winding up from a dozen shishas, condensed it from the air. Improvised streetlamps blazed; inside the café, every surface was dense with melted wax and decaying mirrors. Thick outside walls rose close around us, some hard cream, some a sticky yellow. She leaned in close to me. Her hair, her skin, her smile, were a brilliant luminous gold.

A long time ago.

‘How was the flight?’

‘Oh – ok…’

I’d held her hand for most of the outward flight, and for most of the return trip. She didn’t like showing fear. Her grip tightened as we took off, and then again as we came in to land.

‘I listened to music. There was a film.’

‘You enjoyed it?’

‘I didn’t really get into it.’

I hated the thought of her flying alone.

She’d had to rush off; she had some party or other to go to. She’d promised a friend and she couldn’t blow her out. She was always very particular about letting down friends. I didn’t join her. I wanted to spend a bit of time just taking things in. Good things happen in the Museum Tavern; it’s a lucky place. In 1941, a bomb had crashed through the roof and punched a hole in the floor by the till. It didn’t detonate. Nobody had been able to work out why.

I ordered another pint, to celebrate. It was still early, and I had the day’s paper to finish reading. I’d kill some time, then head for home. I was part way through the G2 section when someone sat down beside me. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to encourage conversation.

‘Arne Hudsen’

A pause.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing you guys just now.’

A rich, deep, American voice – slow and measured. I kept on reading.

‘I think it’s great that you guys are giving it another go – you didn’t see her waiting for you. Every time the door went… she’d look up, away, didn’t know what to do with herself. She feels for you, son. You’ve done the right thing.’

I looked up from my paper, ready to shut down the conversation.

He held two tumblers, each full of whisky, catching the light like treacle.

‘Son, I hate drinking on my own, too much like my old man. Scotch?’

We talked for a while. I told him a little about Sophie and me; how we’d met, how good it had been for a while, how the arguments had begun, how we’d split up. I glossed over the whole april.com thing. I didn’t like talking about it much. I told him about Chris and Carticulate.

‘A PR and marketing agency? Well, it’s a living. I never look down on a man who makes a living for himself.’

‘How about you, then? A lumberjack?’

It was late; I’d had a few; Arne was built like a lumberjack. A red checked shirt stretched over his concrete-firm shoulders, hung against his squat, muscular physique. Neck like a bull’s. He was an old man, maybe early 60s, but he still gave an unforced impression of power and confidence. He must have been formidable in his prime.

‘A lumberjack? First time anyone said that… No, that’s not me.’

‘So what do you do, then?’

‘Well, I’ve retired now, thank the Lord, consult to keep ticking over, get back up there when I can, but until eight years ago I had the privilege of living upside full time and working Tranquility moonbase as a senior mine -- [End of Preview.]