the raincoat, discovering a woman who, beneath the plastic, imitation leather and foundation, retained all the vigour and appealing firmness of youth, with even white teeth and a smile he could almost mistake as genuine. He hadn't talked to anyone about anything except business for more than three days, and he knew he desperately missed companionship. Even bickering with his wife about the brand of toothpaste had been better than silence, nothing. He needed some human contact, a touch, and he would feel no guilt, not after Fiona's performance. A chance to get back at her in some way, to be something other than a witless cuckold. He looked once again at the girl and even as he thought of revenge he found himself overcome with revulsion. The thought of her nakedness, her nipples, her body hair, the scratchy bits under her armpits, the very smell of her suddenly made him feel nauseous. He panicked, at the embarrassment of being propositioned - what if someone saw? - but more in surprise at the strength of his own feelings. He found her physically repellent - was it simply because she was the same sex as Fiona? He found a five-pound note in his hand, thrust it at her and spat, 'Go away! God sake ... go away!' He then panicked more, realizing that someone might have seen him give the tart money, turned and ran. She followed, calling after him, anxious not to forgo the chance of any trick, particularly one who gave away free fivers. He'd run seventy yards before he realized he was still making a fool of himself out on the street and saw a door for a drinking club. He dashed in, lungs and stomach heaving.
He ignored the sardonic look of the man who took his coat and went straight to the bar, ordering himself a large whisky. It took a while before he had recovered his breath and his composure sufficiently to look around and run the risk of catching someone's eye. The club itself was nothing more than a revamped pub with black walls, lots of mirrors and plentiful disco lights. There was a raised dance floor at one end, but neither the lights nor juke box were working. It was still early, there was scarcely a handful of customers who gazed distractedly at one of the plentiful television monitors on which an old Marlon Brando film was playing, the sound turned off so as not to clash with the piped Christmas music the staff had turned on for their own entertainment. There were large photos of Brando on the walls, in motorcycle leathers from one of his early films, along with posters of Presley, Jack Nicholson, and a couple of other younger film stars he didn't recognize. It was odd, different, a total contrast to the gentlemen's clubs of Pall Mall to which Mycroft was accustomed. There were no seats; this was a watering hole designed for standing and moving, not for spending all evening mooning over a half pint. He rather liked it.
'You entered in something of a hurry.' A man, in his thirties and well presented, a Brummie by his accent, was standing next to him. 'Mind if I join you?'
Mycroft shrugged. He was still dazed from his encounter and lacked the self-confidence to be rude and turn away a friendly voice. The stranger was casually but very neatly dressed, his stone-washed jeans immaculately pressed, as was his white shirt, sleeves rolled up narrow and high and with great care. He was obviously fit, the muscles showed prominently.
'You looked as if you were running from something.'
The whisky was making Mycroft feel warmer, he needed to ease up a little. He laughed. 'A woman actually. Tried to pick me up!'
They were both laughing, and Mycroft noted the stranger inspecting him carefully. He didn't object; the eyes were warm, concerned, interested. And interesting. A golden shade of brown.
'It's usually the other way round. Women running from me,' he continued.
'Makes you sound like something of a stud.'
'No, that's not what I meant . . .' Mycroft bit his lip, suddenly feeling the pain and the humiliation of being alone at Christmas. 'My wife walked out on me. After twenty-three years.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Why should you be? You don't know her, or me . . .' Once more the confusion flooded over him. 'My apologies. Churlish of me.'
'Don't worry. Shout if it helps. I don't mind.'
'Thanks. I might just do that.' He extended a hand. 'David.'
'Kenny. Just remember,