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practical for him to suggest, for instance (as he would willingly have done), that he might write the dissertation himself, he could certainly give her some practical assistance, in the form of direct access to one of New Labour’s rising stars. The kind of first-hand research that none of her fellow students would be able to match.
    â€œDo I have to?” Paul had complained, as soon as Benjamin put the request to him on the telephone.
    â€œNo, of course you don’t have to,” said Benjamin. “But it would only be a couple of hours of your time. I just thought that the three of us could have dinner together, the next time you were both in Birmingham. We could have a pleasant, social evening, that’s all.”
    To which Paul had said, after a short pause: “Is she pretty?”
    Benjamin had thought for a moment, and then answered, “Yes.” Which was a simple statement of fact. An understatement, actually. It never occurred to him that the question was anything other than casual, offhand: not coming from Paul—a married man, with a young and beautiful daughter.
    But then, Benjamin was married himself; and he had never yet mentioned Malvina to Emily. And tonight, as the doorbell rang, it suddenly seemed more important than ever that his wife should know nothing of this new friendship, should not even be made aware that Malvina existed.
    With this thought uppermost in his mind, Benjamin rushed to open the door.
    â€œYou’re not going in that old shirt, are you?” his brother asked, at once. He was wearing a bespoke Ozwald Boetang suit.
    â€œI’m in the middle of ironing one. Come in.” As he stepped over the threshold, Benjamin added, in a stage whisper, “Look, Paul, remember: we’re not meeting anyone tonight.”
    â€œOh.” Paul’s disappointment was palpable. “I thought that was the whole point. I thought this woman wanted to meet me.”
    â€œShe does.”
    â€œSo when’s that going to happen?”
    â€œTonight.”
    â€œBut you just said we weren’t meeting anyone tonight.”
    â€œWe’re not. But we are. D’you see what I’m getting at?”
    â€œI haven’t got a clue.”
    â€œEmily doesn’t know.”
    â€œDoesn’t know what?”
    â€œThat she’s coming to dinner with us.”
    â€œEmily’s coming to dinner with us? Great. But why doesn’t she know?”
    â€œNo—Malvina’s coming to dinner with us. Emily isn’t. But she doesn’t know that.”
    â€œShe doesn’t know that she isn’t coming to dinner with us? You mean— she thinks that she is?”
    â€œListen. Emily doesn’t know—”
    Paul pushed his brother aside irritably.
    â€œBenjamin, I don’t have time for any of this. I’ve just spent forty-five excruciating minutes with our parents and it becomes more and more obvious to me that there is a streak of insanity in our family, which you seem to have inherited. Now are we going out for dinner or not?”
    They went into the sitting room and Benjamin finished ironing his shirt. Paul attempted a few moments of broken small-talk with Emily and then sat wordlessly beside her on the sofa, watching the cookery goddess unpeeling a banana with languorous fingers and then nuzzling abstractedly at its tip with her pulpy lips. “God, I’d like to fuck her,” he murmured after a while. It wasn’t clear whether he knew he’d spoken the words out loud or not.
    In Paul’s car on the way to Le Petit Blanc in Brindley Place, Benjamin asked him, “Why was it so excruciating seeing Mum and Dad?”
    â€œHave you been to see them lately?”
    â€œI see them every week,” said Benjamin, catching the self-righteous note in his own voice and wincing at it.
    â€œWell, don’t you think they’re becoming odd? Or were they always like that? When I told Dad we were