If they had known he had so little, would they continue to call? A stupid question, but even when he told them they’d insist that credit was available and the price might go down if he were to ‘avail’ himself – if he were to ‘take advantage of’ – and sign up to whatever it was… you got the impression sometimes that if you weren’t spending, and taking on debt, you weren’t really alive. Michael had given in, taking out small loans and then larger ones – and he’d paid some off, while others had simply grown secretly, tumour-like, until they couldn’t be confronted. It meant more paper in the drawer.

Vines was a nice place to buy wine, and if the women noticed that he drank too much it wasn’t their place to say so. His mother had known, and told him – then she’d died.

Amy had tried to train him into drinking more water. A glass of water for a glass of wine, and with her he’d been able to spend some evenings completely sober. Then she’d get depressed, and order a couple of wine-boxes, which meant you lost all track of how much you were consuming. Two days ago, he had left Vines for the very last time, and he felt he was saying goodbye to family. He wondered if the woman who’d served him had thought about him as he pulled the door shut. She might have watched him go, before saying to her partner in the office, ‘That was Michael’.

‘Michael again – really?’

Perhaps she would ask an affectionate question: ‘How was he?’

‘He didn’t look too well,’ the first woman would say. ‘He looked… sad. He said goodbye very seriously, and shook my hand.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. He’s a sensitive man, and I think he is sad. He’s the kind of man we…’

What?

‘… the kind of man we ought to be friends with. He’s intelligent and honest. We should invite him for dinner. We should ask him if he’s thought of joining our cycling group, or better still – more reasonable and practical – the tasting circle.’

Michael smiled.

He often bought their wine of the month, but on that last visit he’d surprised them by investing in a bottle of Tomatin malt whisky, from the Highlands. It was behind their heads, high on the rack, priced at fifty-three pounds seventy-four… and he used his untouched, special credit card, to check it was working. He’d withdrawn the sixty pounds cash afterwards, so the whisky was the first transaction. The woman didn’t show any surprise at his purchase – why would she? She was too professional. In any case, surprise was not the word: mild curiosity would be more likely, along with appreciation.

Perhaps they had been secretly stunned.

‘I just couldn’t believe it,’ the one who’d served him would say.