George felt his heart begin to beat a tattoo against his ribs. He dropped his voice.

‘I said I would ring you. How did you get my number?’

He heard the man laugh.

‘You paid by Barclaycard, remember? I got your address from your driving licence - you gave it as further proof of your identity. I got your number from inquiries like. Listen, mate, I wouldn’t drop you in it. If your wife had answered I would have given her a load of old cods. Said I was selling double glazing or something. So calm down, for Gawd’s sake.’

‘What do you want?’

‘What do you think? I’ve got some new films in and they are hot.’

Despite his fear, George felt a tiny shiver of excitement.

‘These are from Thailand, and you know what those chinky birds are like, don’t ya?’ The man chuckled and the action caused him to start coughing. George held the phone away from his ear as the man’s phlegmy voice carried on: ‘This new film makes the last one I sold you look like Noddy and Big Ears in Toytown!’

‘How much?’

‘Three hundred smackers.’

The man was aware that George was a bit too quiet at the other end of the phone and hurried on, ‘But to you, two-fifty, being as how you’re a regular customer like.’

‘Well . . .’

‘They won’t last long, mate, these type never do.’

George was in a quandary. He wanted the film desperately, but he had already had to hide one Barclaycard statement. He racked his brains.

‘Look, mate, if it’s too much . . .’ The other man’s voice was placating and wistful. Suddenly George was frightened that the man would think him mean.

‘I’ll take it!’

‘When can you get in?’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

‘See you then.’

The phone went dead. George replaced the receiver and went back to the kitchen. He reboiled the kettle for Elaine’s tea.

The phone call had frightened him. George felt exposed. He poured the water into the teapot. He would get the film. He would draw the money out of the bank this time. Elaine might notice it was gone but then again she might not. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Chinese women . . . He liked Chinese women. They knew their place all right.

‘GEORGE!’ He winced as Elaine’s voice drilled through him.

‘Who was that on the phone?’

George poured out her tea and took it in to her.

‘Just a friend from work. Peter Renshaw. He wished you all the best, dear.’

Elaine took the tea.

‘Oh. Do I know him then?’

‘I don’t think so, dear. But I often chat about you to him. Would you like a biscuit with your tea?’

‘I’d love one, but with my diet and that . . .’ She grinned at him, a girlish look on her face.

George grinned back. If she was waiting for him to say that she didn’t need to diet she had a long wait.