Dexter handed her a five-pound note folded lengthwise. ‘Keep the change,’ he smiled. Was there ever a more empowering phrase than ‘Keep the change’? He used to feel self-conscious saying it, but not anymore. She gave an extraordinary aphrodisiac smile, and for one callous moment Dexter wished it were the Cigarette Girl, not Emma, who would be joining him for dinner.

Look at him, the little dear, thought Emma, noticing this little flicker of self-satisfaction. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the boys all wanted to be Che Guevara. Now they all wanted to be Hugh Hefner. With a games console. As the Cigarette Girl wiggled into the crowd, Dexter really looked as if he might try and pat her bottom.

‘You’ve got drool on your moleskin.’

‘Pardon?’

‘What was that all about?’

‘Cigarette Girl,’ he shrugged, sliding the unopened packet into his pocket. ‘This place is famous for it. It’s glamour, a bit of theatre.’

‘So why’s she dressed as a prostitute?’

‘I don’t know, Em, maybe her woolly black tights are in the wash.’ He took his martini and drained it. ‘Post-feminism, isn’t it?’

Emma looked sceptical. ‘Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?’

Dexter nodded towards the Cigarette Girl’s bottom. ‘You could look like that if you wanted to.’

‘No-one misses a point quite like you, Dex.’

‘What I mean is, it’s about choice. It’s empowering.’

‘Mind like a laser—’

‘If she chooses to wear the outfit, she can wear the outfit!’

‘But if she refused she would be sacked.’

‘And so would the waiters! And anyway, maybe she likes wearing it, maybe it’s fun, maybe she feels sexy in it. That is feminism, isn’t it?’

‘Well, it’s not the dictionarydefinition. .’

‘Don’t make me out to be some kind of chauvinist, I’m a feminist too!’ Emma tutted and rolled her eyes and he was reminded just how annoying and preachy she could be. ‘I am! I am a feminist!’

‘. . and I will fight to the death, to the death, mind, for the right of a woman to display her breasts for tips.’

And now it was his turn to roll his eyes, and give a patronising laugh. ‘It’s not 1988, Em.’

‘What does that mean? You keep saying it and I still don’t know what it means.’

‘It means don’t keep fighting battles that are already lost. The feminist movement should be about equal pay and equal opportunities and civil rights, not deciding what a woman can or can’t wear of her own free will on a Saturday night!’

Her mouth fell open in indignation. ‘That’s not what I—’

‘And anyway, I’m buying you dinner! Don’t give me a hard time!’

And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago. They stood on the edge of a long pointless argument that she felt she would win, but which would leave the evening in tatters. Instead, she hid her face in her drink, her teeth biting the glass, and counted slowly before saying: ‘Let’s change the subject.’

But he wasn’t listening, gazing over her shoulder instead as the ma^itre d’ beckoned them over. ‘Come on — I’ve managed to get us a banquette.’

They settled into the purple velvet booth and scrutinised the menus in silence. Emma had been expecting something fancy and French, but this was basically expensive canteen food: fishcakes, shepherd’s pie, burgers, and she recognised Poseidon as the kind of restaurant where the ketchup comes on a silver salver. ‘It’s Modern British,’ explained Dexter patiently, as if paying all that money for sausage and mash was very Modern, very British.

‘I’m going to have oysters,’ said Dexter. ‘The natives, I think.’

‘Are they friendly?’ said Emma weakly.

‘ What?’

‘The natives — are they friendly?’ she persevered and thought My God, I’m turning into Ian.

Uncomprehending, Dexter frowned and returned to the menu. ‘No, they’re just sweeter, pearly and sweet and finer than rock oysters, more delicate. I’ll get twelve.’

‘You’re very knowledgeable all of a sudden.’

‘I love food. I’ve always loved food and wine.’

‘I remember that tuna stir-fry you cooked me that time. I can still taste it in the back of my throat. Ammonia—’

‘Not cooking, restaurants. I eat out most days now. As a matter of fact I’ve been asked if I want to review for one of the Sundays.’

‘Restaurants?’

‘Cocktail bars. Weekly column called “Barfly”, sort of man-about-town thing.’

‘And you’d write it yourself?’

‘Of course I’d write it myself!’ he said, though he had been assured that the column would be heavily ghosted.