‘What?’

‘I completely forgot—I meant to call a friend.’

‘Sandra?’

‘No, nobody you know. I met her recently when I was researching for a feature. You’d like her, but she does have a few…issues.’

‘What kind of issues?’

All kinds, Norah thought.

‘She’s quite lonely,’ she said. ‘Somebody knocked her about a bit and—oh, it doesn’t matter. But I used to meet up with her at least once a week in Berlin, and we never missed a Thursday evening.’

‘I see,’ said Max. ‘How old is she?’

‘A year or two older than me?’

Max frowned.

‘What?’ Norah asked.

‘Nothing. I just imagined her older for some reason.’

‘She’d be disappointed,’ Norah said.

‘Who’d be disappointed?’ asked Paul, reappearing.

‘Just another of Norah’s social projects,’ Max said. Norah elbowed him in the ribs.

‘I see,’ said Paul. ‘More beer?’

‘Yes, please,’ Norah and Max said in one voice, and Paul disappeared again.

‘Give her a quick ring,’ Max said. ‘It’s all right.’

‘I can’t. I’ve gone and left my phone somewhere.’

‘Landline?’

‘I don’t know her number. Doesn’t matter. I’ll ring her when I get home.’

They drank in silence again.

‘I always thought Alex was the one,’ Max said at length. ‘Mr Right.’

Norah shrugged helplessly.

‘You loved him, didn’t you?’

‘I—’ she said and felt her throat seize up. ‘I don’t want to—’

‘You don’t want to talk about it,’ said Max. ‘I know.’

More silence. Then Max got up. He went over to Norah, bent down and gave her a hug. It wasn’t a long hug; he knew Norah couldn’t deal with mawkishness any more than he could.

‘Maybe you should talk to Dr Snitsch about your commitment phobia,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Norah, ‘I don’t have commitment phobia. And who the fuck is Dr Snitsch?’

‘Dr Snitsch is Max’s lady therapist,’ Paul said, appearing in the door with more beer. ‘I never thought a woman would come between us, but I’ve been proved wrong.’

‘Dr Snitsch is wonderful,’ said Max. ‘I won’t let anyone say a word against her. Everyone should have a Dr Snitsch.’

‘What I love is the fact that she’s called Dr Snitsch,’ said Paul. ‘It’s such a great name.’

‘I can’t believe you go to a therapist,’ Nora said. ‘I thought you were an atheist.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Aren’t therapists a bit like gods who answer?’

‘There’s something in that.’

‘Here’s to gods who answer,’ said Paul, raising his beer.

‘To Dr Snitsch,’ said Norah. ‘And to the two of you.’

‘And to our newly Viennese friend!’

They clinked bottles. Then they drank another beer. And another.

Then the beer was all gone and one of them suggested calling a cab and going to a bar, and the night opened at their feet like a trapdoor, and they tumbled down into lights and neon and smoke and vodka and tequila and strangers’ faces and rock music, and stayed until the sun went up.