Soon after I trotted down from the third floor at Booktastic and made my way toward Shabitat, where Landen was hoping to buy one of their huge trademark Flipdate clocks. I found him in the glassware section. The trouble about having a huge house was that it was easier to double or triple up on things than carry them from the kitchen to the dining room and back again, which meant we needed three of everything.

“You can get an entire set of glassware for only fifty quid,” said Landen, looking at me for a moment before digging out his cell phone.

“It’s ugly,” I said.

“Ah, yes,” replied Landen, dialing a number. “But before it was expensive and ugly, and now it’s cheap and ugly. So everything’s changed.”

“Has it?”

“Sure. What was your new office like?”

“Pretty cool.”

“Describe it to me.”

“Windows . . . a door, a phone. A large red one. A hotline.” I narrowed my eyes as I tried to remember what else I had seen. “I bumped into Jim Finisterre. Who are you calling?”

“Stig.”

“What do you want to talk to him about?”

“Just a job we have to do. All three of us.”

“Can I know?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I like surprises.”

“Stig?” said Landen. “It’s Landen. We need you.” He paused for a moment and looked at me. “We’re in Shabitat, glassware section. . . . Yes, I know they’re ugly. See you soon.”

He snapped the phone shut and looked at me with his head on one side. There was a brief silence. Not one of those companionable silences that are quite enjoyable but an empty, cold silence, of people soon strangers. And that was when I had a peculiar feeling. One I hadn’t had for a while.

“Landen?”

“Yes?”

I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “I want to make love to you.”

“What, here?”

“Well, no—we could find a hotel. I’ve not felt it this strong from well before the accident—probably that holiday in Greece when you’d lost ten pounds and we had dinner at Arturo’s. On our own. No kids.”

Landen said nothing and stared at me. I frowned. It wasn’t a bad feeling—quite the opposite, of course. But it was unusual, and that worried me. Even following the accident, I still wanted him in a “that would be nice if I weren’t feeling so shitty,” sort of way, but this was like being a teenager again—that sort of lusty yearning that is born of fresh discovery and young hearts bursting to be free.

“Say something,” I said.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. ‘Me, too’ would be good for starters, rapidly followed by ‘Does the Finis Hotel rent rooms by the hour?’ To which the answer is ‘Yes, notorious for it.’”

Landen gave me a weary half smile.