She looks at her wine. “I can’t believe I left you for him,” she says. “Mad.”

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want her rejecting the rejection; I want her to explain it so that I can absolve her. I shrug. “Probably seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Probably. I can’t remember why, though.”

I could end up having sex here, and the prospect doesn’t appall me. What better way to exorcise rejection demons than to screw the person who rejected you? But you wouldn’t just be sleeping with a person: you’d be sleeping with a whole sad single-person culture. If we went to her place there’d be a cat, and the cat would jump on the bed at a crucial point, and we’d have to break off while she shooed it out and shut it in the kitchen. And we’d probably have to listen to her Eurythmics records, and there’d be nothing to drink. And there’d be none of those Marie LaSalle hey-women-can-get-horny-too shrugs; there’d be phone calls and embarrassment and regret. So I’m not going to sleep with Sarah unless at some point during the evening I see quite clearly that it’s her or nothing for the rest of my life, and I can’t see that sort of vision descending on me tonight: that’s how we ended up going out in the first place. That’s why she left me for Tom. She made a calculation, worked out the odds, made a solid each-way bet and went. That she wants another go says more about me, and about her, than cash ever can: she’s thirty-five, and she’s telling herself that life isn’t going to offer her any more than what she has here this evening, a pizza and an old boyfriend she didn’t like that much in the first place. That’s a pretty grim conclusion, but it’s not difficult to see how she got there.

Oh, we know, both of us, that it shouldn’t matter, that there’s more to life than pairing off, that the media is to blame, blah blah blah. But it’s hard to see that, sometimes, on a Sunday morning, when you’re maybe ten hours from going down to the pub for a drink and the first conversation of the day.

I haven’t got the heart for the rejection conversation. There are no hard feelings here, and I’m glad that she ditched me, and not the other way around. I already feel guilty enough as it is. We talk about films, a bit—she loved Dances with Wolves, but she didn’t like the sound of Reservoir Dogs—and work, and a bit more about Tom, and a bit about Laura, although I just tell her that we’re going through a rough patch. And she asks me back, but I don’t go, and we agree that we’ve had a nice time, and that we’ll do it again soon. There’s only Charlie left now.

“How’s the experimenting going? Are you still stretching your pop sensibilities?”

Barry glowers at me. He hates talking about the band.

“Yeah. Are they really into the same sort of stuff as you, Barry?” asks Dick innocently.

“We’re not ‘into stuff,’ Dick. We play songs. Our songs.”

“Right,” says Dick. “Sorry.”

“Oh, bollocks, Barry,” I say. “What do your songs sound like? The Beatles? Nirvana? Papa Abraham and the Smurfs?”

“You probably wouldn’t be familiar with our immediate influences,” Barry says.

“Try me.”

“They’re mostly German.”

“What, Kraftwerk and that?”

He looks at me pityingly. “Er, hardly.”

“Who, then?”

“You wouldn’t have heard of them, Rob, so just shut up.”

“Just name one.”

“No.”

“Give us the initial letters, then.”

“No.”

“You haven’t got a fucking clue, have you?”

He stomps out of the shop.

I know this is everybody’s answer to everything and I’m sorry, but if ever a chap needed to get laid, it’s Barry.

She’s still living in London. I get her phone number and address from Directory Enquiries—she lives in Ladbroke Grove, of course. I call, but I hold the receiver about an inch away from the phone, so that I can hang up quick if anyone answers. Someone answers. I hang up. I try again, about five minutes later, although this time I hold the receiver a little nearer to my ear, and I can hear that a machine, not a person, is answering. I still hang up, though. I’m not ready to hear her voice yet. The third time, I listen to her message; the fourth time, I leave one of my own. It’s incredible, really, to think that at any time over the last decade I could have done this: she has come to assume such an importance I feel she should be living on Mars, so that attempts to communicate with her would cost millions of pounds and take light-years to reach her. She’s an extraterrestrial, a ghost, a myth, not a person with an answering machine and a rusting wok and a two-zone travel pass.

She sounds older, I guess, and a little bit posher—London has sucked the life out of her Bristol burr—but it’s obviously her. She doesn’t say whether she’s living with anyone, not that I was expecting a message giving details of her current romantic situation, but she doesn’t say, you know, “Neither Charlie nor Marco can come to the phone right now,” or anything like that. Just, “There’s no one here, please leave a message after the bleep.” I leave my name, including surname, and my phone number, and stuff about long time no see, etc.

I don’t hear anything back from her. A couple of days later I try again, and I say the same stuff. Still nothing. Now this is more like it, if you’re talking about rejection: someone who won’t even return your phone messages a decade after she rejected you.

Marie comes into the shop.

“Hi, guys.”

Dick and Barry disappear, conspicuously and embarrassingly.

“Bye, guys,” she says after they’re gone, and shrugs.

She peers at me. “You avoiding me, boy?” she asks, mock-angry.

“No.”

She frowns and cocks her head to one side.

“Honest. How could I, when I don’t know where you’ve been the last few days?”

“Well, are you embarrassed, then?”

“Oh, God yes.”

She laughs. “No need.”

This, it seems, is what you get for sleeping with an American, all this up-front goodwill. You wouldn’t catch a decent British woman marching in here after a one-night stand. We understand that these things are, on the whole, best forgotten. But I suppose Marie wants to talk about it, explore what went wrong; there’s probably some group-counseling workshop she wants us to go to, with lots of other couples who spent a misguided one-off Saturday night together. We’ll probably have to take our clothes off and reenact what happened, and I’ll get my sweater stuck round my head.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come see T-Bone play tonight.”

Of course I don’t. We can’t speak anymore, don’t you understand, woman? We had sex, and that was the end of it. That’s the law in this country. If you don’t like it, go back to where you came from.

“Yeah. Great.”

“Do you know a place called Stoke Newington? He’s playing there. The Weavers Arms?”

“I know it.” I could just not turn up, I suppose, but I know I’ll be there.

And we have a nice time. She’s right to be American about it: just because we’ve been to bed together doesn’t mean we have to hate each other. We enjoy T-Bone’s set, and Marie sings with him for his encore (and when she goes up onstage, people look at the place where she was standing, and then they look at the person next to the place where she was standing, and I quite like that). And then the three of us go back to hers for a drink, and we talk about London and Austin and records, but not about sex in general or the other night in particular, as if it were just something we did, like going to the curry house, which also requires no examination or elaboration. And then I go home, and Marie gives me a nice kiss, and on the way back I feel as though there’s one relationship, just one, that is OK really, a little smooth spot I can feel proud of.