appreciated. 'I hope at least you will be able to say please.'
'I'm sure I will,' he smiled, as his wife beckoned him forward.
December: The Second Week
The signs of festive celebration were muted this year. Mycroft, with the pressure of work easing as journalists forsook word processors for the crush of Hamley's toy counter and the karaoke bars, trudged aimlessly through the damp streets in search of ... he knew not what. Something, anything, to keep him out of the tomb-like silence of his house. The sales had started early, even before Christmas, yet instead of customers the shop doorways seemed full of young people with northern accents and filthy hands asking for money. Or was it simply that he'd never had time to notice them before? He made a pretence at Christmas-shopping along the King's Road, but quickly became frustrated. He hadn't the slightest idea what his children might want, what they were interested in, and anyway they would be spending Christmas with their mother. 'Their mother', not 'Fiona'. He noticed how easily he slipped into the lexicon of the unloved. He was staring into the window of a shop offering provocative women's lingerie, wondering if that was really what his daughter wore, when his thoughts were interrupted by a young girl who, beneath the make-up and lipstick, looked not much older than sixteen. It was cold and drizzling, yet the front of her plastic raincoat was unbuttoned.
"Ullo, sunshine. Merry Christmas. Need anything to stick on top of your tree?' She tugged at her raincoat, revealing an ample portion of young, pale flesh. 'Christmas sale special. Only thirty quid.'
He gazed long, mentally stripping away the rest of 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 d ays, 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