‘So what shall we talk about?’ Laura paid for the broccoli which Brian handed her in a paper bag marked ‘recycled’. Laura added the broccoli to other purchases in a large basket with leather handles somebody had brought her from Minorca. ‘You get the authentic taste from Brian’s veg,’ she said. ‘He’s been seen scattering the contents of his cesspit over his patch when short of horse shit, and his girlfriend, Susie, famous for her skin, quaffs her own urine every morning. She doesn’t look more than thirteen; how’s that for advertising organically grown food and back to nature?’

Claud followed Laura through the market. ‘D’you remember my name?’ he asked hopefully. It would be nice to get off the subject of Brian and back to himself.

‘By association. Lifts? Elevators? Something like that?’

‘Elevators?’ Claud was at a loss. ‘Lifts?’

‘Miss Otis regrets—is Otis your real name?’

‘My name is Claud Bannister,’ said Claud, offended.

Laura laughed. ‘So it is. I wonder what made me think it was Otis? Got it, you are a writer.’ She stressed the word, pinning it down. ‘Banisters, stairs, not lifts.’

‘You remember that.’

‘How could I not? You had me trapped in a corner. Undiscovered, but not disheartened, you said.’

‘Was I so boring?’ Claud’s voice rose on a note of pain. ‘I was going to suggest-to offer you a coffee, but if I—’

‘Not boring at all. Yes, I’d love some coffee. It’s draughty in this market, much as I enjoy it. Shall we go to the wine bar? The coffee is tolerable there.’ Laura threaded her way through the stalls. Claud followed. ‘As I remember it, you are writing a novel, have neither publisher nor money, but are determined to succeed. Right?’

‘Oh yes, yes I am.’

‘Why don’t you keep a stall in the market?’

Entering the wine bar, Laura unwound her magenta-coloured scarf and unbuttoned her overcoat. She put them on a chair, her shopping basket on another and sat, effectively claiming for herself and Claud a table intended for four people.

Claud sat opposite her and after a moment’s hesitation added his anorak to Laura’s coat. ‘What would I do with a stall?’ he asked.

‘Survive,’ said Laura, ‘while you write your books. I take it you are on unemployment benefit?’

‘Lord, yes, but I’d lose it if I was caught running a stall. I wouldn’t know how, anyway, and what would I sell?’

‘Any sort of rubbish. Antiques? Old clothes? Old bottles from tips, your mother’s cast-offs. It would pay better than the dole and keep you rich in ideas. You get a cross-section of people in the market.’ Laura looked through the window of the wine bar which, steaming up, distorted the figures of people passing outside. Catching the eye of a man looking in, she raised a finger and mouthed, ‘Hi.’

‘Who was that?’ asked Claud suspiciously.