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sisterhood—something that men did not have. One man would not say to another, “Are you all right?” A man would not.

“I’m all right,” Barbara replied. “I just decided that it was not for me. I just decided to take control of my future.”

“Good for you,” said the receptionist.

“It’s a strange feeling,” Barbara went on.

“Independence always feels strange at first,” said the receptionist. “These things can be difficult, can’t they? It would be nice not to have to worry about them, but … but they’re all around us, men. And we keep going back for more, don’t we?”

Barbara smiled ruefully. “Not me,” she said.

She said goodbye to the receptionist and went out into the small alleyway that led to the hotel car park. The sun was bright and already warm. She would drive back with the top of her sports car down. She would let the rush of air blow away old memories. Men. Yes, they were all around one. But she would certainly not go back for more. This was it.

In the car park, as she turned the car, she hit the wing mirror on a small hitching post that she had not seen. The glass of the mirror tumbled out and shattered on the cobbles below. She switched off the engine, got out of the car and stooped to pick up the pieces.

“Bad luck,” said a voice. “Let me help.”

She looked up. A young man was standing at her side, amused, certainly, but concerned too.

She straightened, dusting down the knees of her jeans.

“I didn’t see it.”

He bent down to start picking up the glass. She noticed the trim shape of his back. She noticed the nape of his neck.

“You aren’t by any chance going to London?” he asked.

40. Remember Mateus Rosé?

ALTHOUGH SATURDAY was the wine shop’s busiest day, it did not become so until lunchtime. From then on until William closed the door at six, ushering out the last-minute purchasers of a bottle of wine for the evening’s dinner party, there was barely time for a cup of tea. The late-afternoon customers sometimes sought his advice not only on what wine to choose but as to whether or not to take a bottle to their hosts at all. The issue was a delicate one, and William had toyed with the idea of printing a small leaflet that would explain the etiquette of such matters—at least as he understood it.

“The most important thing,” he would say, “is to do whatever you do with good grace. If you take a bottle with you, never present it apologetically. There is nothing worse than people who hand over a bottle of wine to their hosts with a look bordering on resentment—as if they were paying the taxman his dues.

“But, of course,” he would go on, “the real issue is whether you have to take a bottle of wine with you or not. There is no strict ruling on this matter—as indeed on any issue of etiquette; what counts is attitude. The most terrible apparent breach of etiquette can be carried off by one who means well and is charming about it. But for most of us, charm will not suffice—in that we don’t have enough of it—and we therefore need rules. Here are some:

“If you are a student and you are invited to a meal or a party at another student’s flat, there is absolutely no doubt that you must take a bottle of wine with you. If you do not do so, then the host is perfectly within his or her rights not to let you in. This is an absolute rule and cannot be avoided by saying that your friend, who is coming later, will be bringing a bottle for you. Most hosts have heard that line before and will not believe you.

“Students should not bring good quality wine with them as to do so will be seen as elitist and arrogant, and will imply that you do not approve of whatever your host will provide. This rule does not apply if you can explain that you took the wine in question from your parents’ stocks while they were away. That is perfectly acceptable in today’s dishonest climate.

“In my own day, the correct thing for students to take to a party was a cheap Spanish wine or, if flush with funds, Mateus Rosé, distinguished by its squat oval bottle, which can later be turned into a lamp stand or candleholder. This wine can occasionally be found in the back of parental