Watson’s frown deepened. “Did Julia…?” He turned to face the hall, where several people were standing, drinks in hand.

“You are expecting me, aren’t you?” Bruce asked. “Julia said that there was a party.”

Watson now smiled. “Yes, there is. Of course. Come in… Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Bruce.”

“Oh. Right. Well, come in. No, just leave the bell, I can get it fixed. The party’s just started. Julia’s through in the kitchen, I think.” He gestured towards the back of the hall and then, as Bruce entered, closed the door behind him.

“Nice place…” Bruce began, but Watson had walked away and begun to talk to a group near the door to what looked like a sitting room. Nice welcome, thought Bruce, mentally rehearsing what he would say to Julia. Your friend, Watson, made me feel seriously bienvenu, n’est ce pas… He moved in the direction indicated by his host and looked through the kitchen door. Julia was there, alone, arranging savoury crackers on a plate. She looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are, Brucie.” She flicked a strand of hair from her forehead. “Great party, isn’t it?”

Bruce moved over to stand beside her. He looked down at the crackers. Was this the best that Watson Cooke could do when it came to snacks? “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve just arrived.”

“Well it is,” said Julia, returning to her task. “It’s really great. Watson has some very interesting friends.”

Bruce’s lips twisted down at the edges. “Yes, sure. And the dinner?”

“A really nice restaurant. Watson knew the chap who owned it.”

“Oh, did he?” Bruce sneered.

“Yes. He did.”

“And who was there?” Bruce asked.

Julia hesitated, only for the briefest moment, but Bruce noticed. “A friend of Watson’s. And me. That’s all.”

Bruce knew immediately that she was lying. He reached for a can of beer that was on the table and opened it. He looked out of the window behind her. It was still light, and he could see the roofs of the street behind; a man standing at a window, the sky above, the last of the evening sun on the clouds. She was lying to him, and he knew at that moment that there was something between her and Watson Cooke. It had never occurred to him that she would even contemplate looking at another man when she had him, but she had. And she had looked at Watson Cooke.

He turned away. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Then he left the kitchen and went back into the hall. He did not see how Julia reacted; he did not want to look at her.

Watson Cooke was not in the hall, and so Bruce went through to the sitting room. There were about twenty people in the room, some sitting, some standing. The room was a large one and so there was no sense of its being overcrowded. One or two people looked at Bruce as he entered and one young woman, standing near the door, smiled at him. Bruce ignored her.

“Watson?”

Watson Cooke looked round. “Oh. Yes. Hi.” He turned to the man he had been talking to and introduced Bruce. “Sorry, what was your name again?”

Bruce grinned. “Bruce. I told you.”

Watson laughed. “Yes, sorry about that.” He gestured to his head. “One game of rugby too many. Memory gets a bit mixed up in the rucks.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Rugby? Do you play these days?”

The man to whom Watson Cooke had been talking now smiled. “Watson has a Scottish cap.”

Bruce swallowed. “Oh…”

“Only the Scottish schoolboy squad,” said Watson modestly. “I played against Ireland at Lansdowne Park. We won, actually.”

“But you almost got into the Scottish squad a couple of years later,” said the other man. “Come on, Wattie. No false modesty.” He turned to Bruce. “He captained Watson’s when he was at school. Then he played for Watsonians.”

Bruce took a sip from his can of beer. “You were a Watsonian, Watson?”

Watson had not been listening. “What?”

“You played for Watsonians?”

“Yes. Watson’s. Then Watsonians.”

There followed a silence. Then Watson asked, “Do you play, Bruce?”

Bruce felt the moist cold of the beer can against his hand. “Used to,” he said. “But these days, you know how it is.”

“Injured?” asked Watson.

“Engaged,” said Bruce.

Nobody said anything. Bruce had been avoiding Watson’s eyes; now he looked up and saw that his host was staring at him. “Is she here?” Watson asked.

Bruce felt his heart beating wildly within him. Watson Cooke was taller than he was. “In the kitchen, actually. Julia. You know her, don’t you? You had dinner with her tonight.” He held Watson Cooke’s gaze. I’m in the right here, thought Bruce. He’s the one who should be feeling it.

The other man present, sensing the undercurrent of feeling, shifted awkwardly on his feet. “I must get myself another drink,” he said, and turned away.

Watson continued to stare at Bruce. “What position did you play?” he asked.

“I said that I was engaged. Engaged to Julia.”

Watson laughed. “Yes, sure. I heard you. But you said that you played rugby. Who did you play for?”

“Morrison’s,” muttered Bruce.

“We beat them,” said Watson Cooke. “Watson’s beat Morrison’s. Always.”

Olive had come to play house. From her point of view, the presence of Tofu did not enhance the afternoon, as she enjoyed a very uncomfortable relationship with Bertie’s friend. In fact, as she told her friends in the class, she hated Tofu like poison itself, to use her carefully chosen expression, and let pass no opportunity to undermine him. Sometimes her goading seemed to pass over him unnoticed; on other occasions, a carefully prepared dart might just hit home, as on the occasion that Olive, having just read a manual on palmistry, offered to read everyone’s palms.

There was no shortage of takers, and Olive had started with Merlin, a boy whom she found less offensive than Tofu but considerably less attractive than Bertie (whom she had decided she would eventually marry in fifteen years’ time, when they both reached the age of twenty-one). Merlin’s hand was stretched out and Olive took it, peering carefully at the lines on his palm.

“You will be very rich and you will live in New York,” said Olive, pointing to several converging lines. “That’s a really good palm, Merlin. You’re lucky.”

Hiawatha was, somewhat reluctantly, given a reading. “You will eventually stop smelling,” said Olive. “You will be given a big present of soap. That’s what your palm says.”

Hiawatha seemed reasonably pleased with this and went off smiling. Now it was Bertie’s turn.

“You’ve got some very good lines here, Bertie,” said Olive. “You have a very good life ahead of you. You will meet a nice girl – you have probably already met her. That’s what this line says. And then you will marry her and have lots of children. That will be when you’re twenty-one. And this line here says that her name will probably begin with an O. That’s all it says, so we can’t be sure.”

Bertie said nothing, but withdrew his hand. Now it was Tofu who came up.

“If you’re so clever, read my palm,” he said, stretching out his hand.

“I will,” said Olive. “Hold it still, Tofu.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Olive.

“What do you see?” asked Tofu. “Am I going to be rich too? Like Merlin?”

Olive looked at him with pity. “I don’t know if I should tell you this,” she said. “Maybe I shouldn’t. It’s best not to know some things, you know. I’m really sorry, Tofu. I’m sorry that I’ve been so unkind to you. This is not a time for being nasty to one another.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Tofu. “Is there something wrong with my palm?”

The others, clustered around in a small knot, were silent. “Everything,” said Olive. “It’s the saddest palm I’ve ever seen in all my experience.”