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been treated like a human being rather than a swing bin or drinks dispenser, and he was enjoying talking to this wry, elegant, slightly severe woman, leaning unsteadily against the doorway. They both surveyed the party. The Twelfth Sexiest Man in the World stood in the center of the room, wearing sunglasses, a cigarette dangling louchely from his lip, juggling satsumas, much to the delight of the Twenty-eighth and Sixty-fourth Sexiest Women in the World. Even from a purely statistical point of view, it was impressive.
    “My beloved husband,” drawled Nora, sipping her drink. “I love him very much, and he’s certainly easy on the eye, but I do sometimes feel as if I’ve somehow married this…gifted child.” She sighed, then forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be mean about him, but we’ve just had this terrible row.”
    “Nothing too serious, I hope.”
    “No, just…a stupid argument.”
    “So you’re not enjoying the party, then?”
    “Two hundred coked-up egomaniacs, treading asparagus into the rugs and asking me who I am? I hope it never ends.”
    They both turned and looked round the party. The last of the children had been evacuated to a safe place now, joints were being rolled on glass-topped tables and, all of a sudden, a very, very long queue of people snaked along the wall to the concealed toilet door. All around the room plates piled high with tiny sausages and mushroom tartlets and skewers of rare roast lamb sat untouched, and the voices in the room had definitely become more strident and intense. “I”s and “me”s, “wow”s and “fuck”s, bounced off the high, plain walls; people were not so much talking as rubbing conversation in each other’s faces.
    “I have some, by the way. If you’re interested…” said Nora conspiratorially, her hand on his forearm.
    “What?”
    “Cocaine. I find it helps to make these things a little easier,” and she pinched her nostrils together, sniffed quietly, swallowed; the first unattractive thing she had done all evening. Stephen couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed; no wonder she was talking to him so intently. She’d probably talk to
anyone
.
    “Not while I’m on duty,” said Stephen, feeling that their moment had passed. “I’d better go…”
    Once again, she placed her hand on his arm. “Hey, have you seen the roof?” she said, widening her eyes. “The view’s amazing. Come on—I’ll show you.”
    “But don’t you think I ought to—”
    “Stephen, I’m sorry, you don’t seem to understand. If I hear one more showbiz anecdote, then I will start to scream, and there’s no guarantee I will ever stop.” And she slotted one arm through his, grabbed a bottle of champagne with the other, walked him out of the kitchen, and over to the glass-stepped spiral staircase that led up to the roof.
    “Quick, before they find where I’ve hidden the bongos…”
    They climbed the stairs, a little unsteadily, and just as they reached the door that opened up into the night air, a particularly full-throated, flamboyant, vibrato-rich chorus of “Happy Birthday” broke out from the room below. Nora looked over her shoulder, smiling conspiratorially at Stephen, and waved her bottle in the direction of the party below.
    “You know how you can tell they’re all actors?”
    “Go on.”
    “Because every damn one of them is
harmonizing
.”

Two Cigarettes at Once

    T he long low flat roof of the old umbrella factory had been turned into some sort of minimalist urban garden, expensively decked and sparsely planted, and lit with strings of all-weather bulbs that transformed the fine drizzle into a special effect. Stephen turned the collar up on his suit jacket, and folded his arms tight across his chest. He’d never been on a transatlantic ocean liner, just the Isle of Wight ferry, but he had a vague notion that this was what it might feel like to stand at the railings and contemplate the wake behind you. What was that corny old