THEY HAD arranged to meet for the first of their formal interviews in three days' time. But here he was, standing before Vince in the reference room of Camden Library, the honourable Sebastian Wells himself. He had been seated across the room, making notes from a stack of what appeared to be gaming manuals. He was paler and thinner than Vince remembered, dressed in a superbly cut black suit and club tie, far too immaculate for grungy old North London.

'Well, we meet again!'

'Jesus! Sorry,' said Vince, jumping. 'You always seem to catch me unawares. What are you doing here?'

'I must admit it's not my territory, but I needed to look up the rules of a rather obscure Polynesian blocking game, and Highgate Library recommended a book held here. Saves spending hours at the British Library. What about you?'

'The usual, research.'

Sebastian pulled out a chair and sat opposite. 'I've been doing some thinking.'

He's changed his mind, thought Vince, he doesn't want to be interviewed.

'The day before yesterday I agreed to answer your questions, didn't I, but you know, perhaps you can help me just as much.'

'I can? How?'

'In our brief chat you made me realise just how little I know about working-class London. Forgive me, but you did admit to being working class.' He smiled pleasantly, anxious not to cause offence.

'Absolutely.'

'So you can teach me something as well.'

'What would you want to know?'

'Facts, Mr.Reynolds, facts. The more one is in possession of them, the better one's overall frame of reference. How long are you going to be here today?'

'Another hour, I imagine.'

'I'll tell you what. I've got all I need for now. I'll come back for you in an hour, unless you have another appointment? We could go for a drink.'

'I think I'll be free then,' said Vince. Like I have another appointment to go to, he thought as he watched the elegant subject of his interview stroll from the room, leaving the gaming manuals scattered across the table for someone else to put away. There was a charming air of vagueness about Sebastian, as if each thought he had was freshly plucked from the ether. He trusted everything to fall into place in its natural order. People like that never had to worry about landlords or night buses. The mundane clutter that separated most people from their dreams did not exist for him.

An hour and a quarter later they were sitting outside the Dingwall public house in Camden, watching bargees operating the canal lock below them and discussing Vince's determination to be a successful writer. Sebastian had once attempted to write a technique manual on contract bridge, but had lacked the necessary drive to finish it.

Vince was unnerved by his new friend. Considering his argument for the equality of the classes, it was absurd to be in awe of someone like Sebastian, but he could not help himself. Perhaps this built-in respect for social order was a genetic thing. Looking at their surroundings, he felt embarrassed at the dirt and shabbiness, at the tattooed tribes folded up against walls, nursing their cans of lager.

'I wonder if you have any idea how unique this is,' said Sebastian, sipping his pint with a delicacy that suggested the experience was new to him. 'Nobody I know would ever do anything like it.'

'Then why are you?'

'You asked the same question when last we met, remember? Surely you've acted out of sheer curiosity before.'

'I do it all the time.'

'There you are, then. The "class divide information exchange" starts here. I'll ask you something, then you can ask me something, how about that.'

Vince dug around in his bag for a notebook and pencil. 'All right,' he agreed. 'You start.'

'Vincent. May I call you that? Were you named after Van Gogh?'

'Nah. My dad liked Don McLean.'

Sebastian searched the air. 'I'm not familiar…'

'The title of a song. My turn. Why are you willing to do this? Why talk to me? Be honest.'

'You're not going to let it go, are you?' Sebastian sighed. 'For the same reason as you, to learn. Besides, you asked me if I would do it. Nobody's ever done that before. You're clearly a man of some insight and intelligence. I would have refused if I'd found you not to be so. My view of the world is every bit as limited as yours, I can assure you. We all need to expand our horizons, don't you think?'

'Fair enough.' Vince made a note on his pad. 'First of all, let's find out what you don't know.'

'Fine. Ask me anything.'

'Here's an easy question to start with. Pulp, Oasis and Blur are all – what?'

This was not what Sebastian had been expecting. He pursed his lips and thought for a moment. 'Nouns?' he asked desperately.

'Wow.' Vince was amazed. 'They're bands.'

'Ah. Popular, I suppose?'

'Very popular.'

'I rarely listen to the wireless.'

'Remind me to send you a tape. Now it's your turn.'

'Okay. Our family motto is Ad Astra Per Aspera. Do you have one, and if so, what is it?'

It was Vince's turn to think. 'Don't Get Caught,' he said finally. 'And If You Do, Don't Lag On Your Mates. When Manchester United plays Liverpool, who usually wins?'

'I don't know anything about football.'

'I suppose you play rugby.'

'No, polo.'

'All right. If Robocop fought the Terminator, who would win?'

'Ah, now I know this,' said Sebastian confidently. 'The Terminator. He's a boxer, isn't he?'

'He's more of a liquid metal cyber-android,' Vince replied. 'Remind me to send you another tape.'

'Which after-school societies did you belong to?'

Vince laughed. 'You don't mean gangs, do you?'

'No, I don't.'

'We didn't have any. It was as much as the teachers could do to keep from getting stabbed during the day, without extending the risk into the twilight hours. What did you belong to?'

'Oh, the usual,' Sebastian said airily. 'Operatic, Scientific, Debating, Badminton, Christian Union, Stampfiends, Quo Vadis -'

'What was the last one?'

'Oh, you know, "Whither Goest Thou", meetings about one's future. Gilbert and Sullivan -'

'They had their own society?'

'Of course. Tennis, Numismatics, Bridge, Chess – and I was a moderately empassioned Lysander in A Midsummer Night's Dream.'

'I'm surprised you had any time left over for smoking and shagging behind the bike sheds.' Vince drained his glass. 'Although I suppose you went to a boys-only school.'

'It made no difference on that front, I can assure you. The pupils of public schools are every bit as rebellious as their counterparts. Whose turn is it?'

'Yours.'

'Okay. Why do so many working-class people look for handouts all the time? Why can't you organise yourselves properly?'

'Because if we did, you'd all be murdered in the streets. The French got rid of their toffs, and look at them now; a national railway that works, great grub, unspoilt countryside, gorgeous women.' Vince nodded at his empty glass. 'Your round.'

Over the next hour they argued the merits of popular foodstuffs, authors, football versus polo, films, architecture, art and music, although in the last category Sebastian proved to be woefully unaware of any post-Offenbach developments. Vince carefully steered the conversation clear of politics and religion; he was wary of damaging their relationship at such an early stage.

Sebastian seemed to especially enjoy telling Vince about his games, and launched into a series of complex abstractions about rule-making that were almost impossible to follow. Vince usually found it difficult making conversation with strangers. He lacked confidence, and yet a stubborn streak made him stick to his guns in arguments, even when he knew he was utterly, incontrovertibly wrong. This annoying character trait was an inheritance from his father, but with Sebastian it found no need to surface, because he made Vince feel that he was contributing something valuable to the conversation. Sebastian listened. Not even all of his own friends did that.