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'Selina,' I had said, two days after her return,'— Alec told me a funny thing on the way to the airport.' Selina hesitated as she took off her coat.

'What? Don't I even get a kiss then?'

'He said you were fucking someone — a lot, all the time.' I sipped my drink and lit another cigarette.

'He's an English aristocrat,' said Selina intently. 'He doubled the family fortune on Wall Street. His servants come round to get me in a—'

'No. This is serious. This is real. He said you'd got someone on the side. Someone I know.'

'Oh you stupid sod. Don't listen. You know he made a pass at me once.'

'Did he? Son of a bitch.'

'He kissed my tits. Then he put my hand on his cock. Then he —'

'Christ. Where were you at the time? In bed together?'

'Here, in the kitchen. He came round when you were out.'

I refreshed my drink and said calmly, 'Everyone makes passes at you, Selina. Waiters in restaurants make passes at you. Men in the street make passes at you.'

She shut her eyes and laughed. Then she sobered quickly and said, 'But he's supposed to be your friend.'

'All my friends make passes at you too.'

'You haven't got any friends.'

'Terry's made a pass at you. Keith's made a pass at you. My dad's made a pass at you — and he's family.'

'Just don't listen to him. Don't you know how jealous Alec is of you? He's trying to destroy our love.'

This struck me as a novel notion, in all senses. While unscrewing the second bottle of scotch, I thought suddenly, Something else is missing. What is it? But all I said was — 'You really think so?'

'You're spilling it! Bloody hell, take it easy. It's hardly six o'clock. Listen. Have you got those forms from the bank yet? How long have you been in here drinking?'

'What forms?'

'You know what forms. I've got to have some independence.'

'Yeah yeah.'

'I'm twenty-eight.'

'Twenty-eight? Well you don't look it.'

'Thank you, darling. I don't think I'm being unreasonable. Gregory gives Debby an allowance. Why are you so frightened of it? You're quite generous over little things, I'll give you that. But as soon as it comes to —'

'Yeah yeah.'

The trouble is, the whole trouble is, Selina's too clever for me. I tried to change the subject. In my experience, with Selina, the only way to change the subject is to go down the Butcher's Arms. How can you change the subject when there's only one subject? Oh yeah — violence. That'll change it. That'll do the trick, for a while. But of course violence is no longer an option. I didn't even consider it for more than a few seconds. I'm serious about this new self-improvement course I've put myself on—very serious. Self-discipline. A more civilized existence.

So I just got out of bed, told her to shut up, and went down the Butcher's Arms.

Tonguing my tooth and twisting my neck for taxis, I now stroll the length of the dental belt, through the stucco of the plaqued streets and carious squares, past railings, embossed porches, pricey clinics, tranquillized Arabs, groggy mouth-sufferers in their Sunday best, their women wearing fur coats and Harlem lacquer, their spruced kids either pained or happy — across the bus-torn slum of Oxford Street into Soho, the huddled land of sex and food and film, down narrowing alleys until I reached the glass preserve of Carburton, Linex & Self.

For me, now, Carburton, Linex & Self is another kind of waiting room. But what a place! You should see how much money we pay each other, how little work we do, and how thick and talentless many of us are. You should see the expenses claims, the air-tickets that lie around in here, and the girls. C. L. & S. was a breakthrough when we established the company five years ago. It still is. A lot of outfits tried to do what we did. None of them made it. C. L. & S. is an advertising agency which produces its own television commercials. Sounds easy. You try it. I myself was the key figure in all this, with my controversial TV ads for smoking, drinking, junk food and nude magazines. Remember the stir in