It would be nearly three weeks before Adrian saw Frankie again. Several times, after that evening when he hadn’t kissed her, he had thought about calling her, always understanding that he wouldn’t. He knew her number by heart now, although he kept trying to forget it. During the week that he was employed to do the filing for Gary’s company, or the Friday early evenings and Saturday mornings when he taught drama and singing to middle-class prepubescent girls who thought they wanted to be actresses because they liked being the centre of attention, or whose mothers had detected a ‘talent’ in them, or in the hours when he idled round the house and watched daytime tv and opened just one more can of beer, he would imagine what it would be like, to hold the receiver against his ear and hear the breath of her voice. Perhaps she’d be baffled: ‘Adrian? Oh yes, that Adrian.’ Or cold with disapproval. Hot with embarrassment. Or maybe a man would answer and ask him to leave a message. But sometimes in his mind he would allow her to be husky and eager … Of course, even as he laid his hand on the phone, he knew it was ridiculous, dangerous and wrong to consider it; he broke into a sweat just toying with the impossible idea of it. He thought of Irene with her cropped hair and her shabby jeans and waited for her to return from work, pushing her bike with Aggie perched on its seat, and the other two running beside her. Everyone liked Irene; she was fierce and loyal and dogged; she spoke her mind and you could trust her. But they didn’t know how she managed to juggle everything: her work, the children, and – their voices would drop conspiratorially – you know, everything. Dear Irene, they would say. Poor Irene.