‘As a matter of fact I’m just getting my stuff. It is mystuff, you know, I do ownit.’

‘You’ve got all your stuff.’

‘My passport. I don’t have my passport!’

‘Well I can tell you right now, it’s not in my underwear drawer.’ He is improvising of course. She knows that he has his passport, he just wanted to poke through her belongings and show her that he’s not okay. ‘Why do you need your passport? Are you going somewhere? Emigrating maybe?’

‘Oh you’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ he sneers.

‘Well I wouldn’t mind,’ she says, stepping over the mess and sitting on the bed.

He adopts a gumshoe voice. ‘Well, tough shit, sweetheart, ’cause I ain’t going nowhere.’ As a jilted lover, Ian has found a commitment and aggression that he never possessed as a stand-up comedian, and he is certainly putting on quite a show tonight. ‘Couldn’t afford to anyway.’

She feels like heckling him. ‘I take it you’re not doing a lot of stand-up comedy at the moment, then, Ian?’

‘What do youthink, sweetheart?’ he says, putting his arms out to the side, indicating the stubble, the unwashed hair, the sallow skin; his look-what-you’ve-done-to-me look. Ian is making a spectacle of his self-pity, a one-man-show of loneliness and rejection that he’s been working up for the last six months and, tonight at least, Emma has no time for it.

‘Where’s this “sweetheart” thing come from, Ian? I’m not sure if I like it.’

He returns to his search and mumbles something into the drawer, ‘fuck off, Em’ perhaps. Is he drunk, she wonders? On the dressing table, there’s an open can of strong cheap lager. Drunk — now there’sa good idea. At that moment, Emma decides to set out to get drunk as soon as possible. Why not? It seems to work for everyone else. Excited by the project, she walks to the kitchen to make a start.

He follows her through. ‘So, where were you then?’

‘I told you. At school, rehearsing.’

‘What were you rehearsing?’

‘ Bugsy Malone. It’s a lot of laughs. Why, you want tickets?’

‘No thanks.’

‘There’s splurge guns.’

‘I reckon you’ve been with someone.’

‘Oh, please — here we go again.’ She opens the fridge. There’s half a bottle of wine, but this is one of those times when only spirits will do. ‘Ian, what is this obsession with me being withsomeone? Why can’t it just be that you and me weren’t right for each other?’ With a hard yank, she cracks the seal of the frosted-up freezer compartment. Ice scatters on the floor.

‘But we areright for each other!’

‘Well fine then, if you say so, let’s get back together!’ Behind some ancient minced beef crispy pancakes, there is a bottle of vodka. ‘Yes!’ She slides the crispy pancakes to Ian. ‘Here — these are yours. I’m granting you custody.’ Slamming the fridge, she reaches for a glass. ‘And anyway, what if I waswith someone, Ian? So what? We broke up, remember?’

‘Rings a bell, rings a bell. So who is he then?’

She’s pouring the vodka, two inches. ‘Who’s who?’

‘Your new boyfriend? Go on, just tell me, I won’t mind,’ he sneers. ‘We’re still friendsafter all.’

Emma gulps from her glass then stoops for a moment, elbows on the counter top, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes as she feels the icy liquid slide down her throat. A moment passes.

‘It’s Mr Godalming. The headmaster. We’ve been having this affair on and off for the past nine months, but I think it’s mainly been about the sex. To be honest, the whole thing’s a bit degrading for both of us. Makes me a bit ashamed. Bit sad. Still, like I keep saying, at least there are no kids involved! There you go—’ She speaks into her glass. ‘Now you know.’

The room is silent. Eventually. .

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Look out the window, have a look, see for yourself. He’s waiting in the car. Navy blue Sierra. .’

He sniffs, incredulous. ‘It’s not fucking funny, Emma.’

Emma places her empty glass on the counter and exhales slowly. ‘No, I know it’s not. In no way could the situation be described as funny.’ She turns and faces him. ‘I’ve told you, Ian, I’m not seeing anyone. I’m not in love with anyone and I don’t want to be. I just want to be left alone. .’

‘I’ve got a theory!’ he says, proudly.

‘What theory?’

‘I know who it is.’

She sighs. ‘Who is it then, Sherlock?’

‘ Dexter!’ he says, triumphantly.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake—’ She drains the glass.

‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

She laughs bitterly. ‘God, I wish—’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing. Ian, as you well know, I haven’t spoken to Dexter for months—’

‘Or so you say!’

‘You’re being ridiculous, Ian. What, you think we’ve been having this secret love affair behind everyone’s back?’