“Chelsea versus Spurs—their first clash of the season,” Nick replied, folding the paper across the back page and handing it over to Dan. “Thought you’d like to come to support your old team.”

Dan glanced quickly at the prematch report before pushing the paper back across the table. “I don’t know. I can’t really make any plans until I know what Jackie is doing.”

“Come on!” Nick cajoled. “It would be just like old times.”

“Old times!” Dan laughed. “Nick, whenever we’ve been to a match together, we’ve ended up sitting at opposite ends of the pitch, yelling tribal abuse at one another.”

“Okay, then, bring an extra Tottenham scarf with you. I don’t mind being a Spurs fan for a day.”

Dan raised his eyebrows in surprise. “My word, I think you mean it.”

“Of course I do. Anything for an old mate.”

“Well, that certainly would be the supreme sacrifice.” He paused. “How many tickets could you lay your hands on?”

“How many extra are you looking for?”

“Just the one. For Josh.”

Nick gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll see what I can do.” He picked up his empty beer glass and got to his feet. “Right, keep an eye on Tarquin and I’ll get another couple of pints in. Do you want anything to eat?”

“Not really. I’ll share a ham sandwich with you, if you want.”

“Right, coming up!” He slapped Dan’s shoulder as he passed him by. “And while I’m away, think about how we can improve on the design of the car seat.”

8

As he sat in his office at the top of the house that evening, desperately seeking an e-mail that had vanished from the screen of his laptop, strong evidence came to Dan’s nostrils that his carefully prepared gourmet meal was fast becoming a burnt offering. He jumped up from his desk, squirting the screen arrow off to oblivion, and bolted down the stairs, two at a time. He raced into the kitchen and threw open the oven door, reeling back as the scorching fumes hit his face. He picked up an oven glove from the work surface and waved it about to clear the air, then gingerly extracted the smouldering roasting pan from the oven and hurried out through the French doors into the garden. As the heat from the pan began to penetrate through the flimsy glove, he looked around in desperation to try to find a suitable surface on which to put it. He opted, more out of necessity than choice, for the bird table.

Pulling off the glove, he blew hard on his seared fingers to relieve them, and despondently viewed the blackened lump that was to have been Nigella Lawson’s Loin of Pork with Bay Leaves.

“Bugger it!” he said quietly to himself, and turned and walked back into the kitchen.