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for a break for a dodgy prawn sandwich, which is probably killing me as I speak – and not a deal in sight.’
    ‘What sort of deal?’
    ‘I’m a mediator. I . . . well, I mediate. Company disputes. Conflict resolution. They argue; I sit with them till they stop.’
    ‘Sounds interesting.’
    ‘You’re being polite.’ He munched on one of his sausages with relish.
    ‘I’m not. It must take some skill.’
    His tired eyes lit up suddenly. ‘I do love it. I just find it fascinating, waiting for the chink in the armour, playing back to them what they’ve actually said, not what they think they’ve said. Offering solutions. It’s bloody satisfying when it works.’
    ‘And bloody frustrating when it doesn’t?’
    They talked easily together, ordered more wine, more food. By eight-thirty the noise made conversation difficult and they were being jostled from behind by the crowd leaning over them to buy drinks.
    ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. My flat’s only in the next street. This is my local.’
    ‘Thanks, but I should get home.’
    ‘Now? It’s so early. I promise I have no ulterior motive except some cold wine in the fridge and no one to enjoy it with.’ He was raising his eyebrows at her, the expression in his eyes amused and self-assured.
    ‘I can’t come to your flat. I don’t even know your name.’
    ‘Easily solved. Hugh Davenport.’ He held out his hand and shook hers firmly as she introduced herself. Then he reached into his inside jacket pocket and removed a card, holding it up to her. ‘These people can vouch for me, can’t you, Jesus?’ He pronounced it as a Spaniard would: Hey-zoos.
    The man who had been doing most of the grilling of the tapas turned his sweaty face towards them and grinned at Hugh.
    ‘You want me tell this lady you not a bad boy?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    Jesus shrugged, turned to Jo. ‘I kill him tomorrow if he try anything. You just let me know.’
    ‘See?’ Hugh already had his hand in the small of her back, guiding her out into the Soho night.
    Jo tossed a mental coin in her head: she liked him; she didn’t fancy him; he really was a mediator, his card said so; he knew the chef at the tapas bar who obviously liked him too; she was too old to be a target for sex; it was early, she didn’t feel like being alone; she was bored to death with her life.
    His flat was up a narrow, steep flight of stairs, two floors above a sports shop. It was obviously his London pad rather than his home, as it was sparsely furnished with laminate wood flooring and basic John Lewis in conservative navy and beige. There was nothing in the fridge but six bottles of the same New Zealand Sauvignon and an opened packet of coffee tagged shut with a yellow plastic clip. He probably has a wife and four children in Hampshire, Jo thought, although there were no photographs to prove this.
    ‘God, glad to be out of that mayhem. I usually get there earlier.’
    ‘You go to the same place every night?’
    ‘I’m only in town two at the most. My home’s in Kent. But yes. It’s easy and quick. I often have work to catch up on.’
    ‘Don’t let me stop you working.’
    ‘Oh, not tonight. Sit down, I’ll open a bottle.’
    He also pulled a packet of cheese straws from the cupboard and splayed them in a bowl, then sat down beside her, there was no choice. Jo suddenly wished she hadn’t come. Hugh had been relaxed in the bar, but now he seemed to have something on his mind which was making him tense, as if he too were regretting her presence.
    ‘One glass and I’ll go,’ she said.
    ‘Will you excuse me while I make one phone call?’ He drew his mobile from his pocket. ‘Won’t be a sec.’ He disappeared into the bedroom and was gone a long time. Jo was just on the point of tiptoeing out, when he reappeared, his tie and suit jacket off.
    ‘Sorry, sorry . . . had to call my daughter. She’s had a problem with a leak from the upstairs flat and the bloody man won’t cough up