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  Nathan was pretty sure that Sara was sleeping with her boss, who was called Alex and looked like that kind of man.

  There were hints. She'd taken to showering when she got home, as well as when she got up. She no longer wore her slightly tattier, more practical underwear to the office and her lingerie at the weekends; that behaviour pattern had suddenly (and neatly) reversed itself.

  Nathan sometimes saw the flickerings of deceit in her face: the sidelong glance, the secret smile for a private allusion.

  'Are you okay?' he would say.

  'Fine,' she'd say - and smile that dreamy, knowing smile.

  Nathan felt bad for her.

  Now he'd decided the time had come to finish it with Sara; one of them had to do it. This is why he'd accepted that year's invitation to Mark Derbyshire's Christmas party. It was to be a kind of parting gift, and a kind of unspoken apology.

  Sara didn't listen to The Mark Derbyshire Solution - it was on too late - but she'd always been impressed that Nathan worked for Mark Derbyshire, who had once been famous. And she'd always wanted to go to his party. But every year Nathan found an excuse not to.

  The Christmas party had been written into Mark's contract when he still meant something, which was a very long time ago indeed.

  But the radio station still paid for the drinks, the canapes and a miserable local wedding DJ to play some Boney M. records. Most of the senior management and a number of the station DJs and newsreaders felt compelled to attend. Many of the junior staff actively looked forward to it and so, apparently, did the communities local to Mark's house.

  Before leaving for work on Wednesday evening, Nathan told Sara, 'So. We've been invited again.'

  'To Mark's party?'

  'To Mark's party.'

  She froze, like a fawn in woodland.

  Nathan was putting on his plaid jacket, the one he wore to work during the winter. He said, 'It's probably best if we don't go. There'll be a lot of drugs around, I expect.'

  Ordinarily, Sara disapproved of drugs. But now exasperation flickered round the edges of her face. This was Mark Derbyshire's Christmas party, and the presence or absence of drugs was of no interest to her.

  She grew demure. 'But I'd really like to.'

  She said this every Christmas. And every Christmas, Nathan said, 'Maybe next year.'

  Now she simpered a little, half playing, half meaning it, stroking his upper arm with the back of her fingernails, saying, 'Pretty please?'

  And Nathan said, 'Okay, then. Why not?'

  She screamed and kissed him - smacking him on the cheek and on the forehead.

  Even as recently as a few months ago, they'd probably have had quick, celebratory sex. But Nathan and Sara no longer had sex.

  Neither of them had mentioned it; it made them too sad, too awkward and too embarrassed.

  Now, Sara got so childishly excited - running and whooping -- that she had to run to the bathroom.

  At first, this pleased him; it had been a while since she was so happy in his company. Then he began to wonder when, exactly, she'd begun closing the bathroom door when she needed to pee.

  It seemed to him that he really should know something like that if only so he could identify it as the moment he knew for sure that it was really over.

  But he hadn't noticed, and the moment he knew for sure it was really over was right now, right this second.

  After the moment had passed, he called out, 'I'm late, I have to run!' and opened the door.

  From the bathroom, she yelled, 'See you, babes!' and he smiled.

  He caught the bus to work.

  Saturday was the night of the party. Nathan slept late and woke, unusually, to the sound of Sara going about the house, singing. It was a sunny, late-winter afternoon, and from the flat the traffic noise was reduced to a monotonous hiss.

  He got up and pulled on an old and faded band T-shirt. Utterly Bastard Groovy, it read, green on black. Utterly bastard groovy was exactly what Nathan never felt, not any more.) In this and a pair of Calvins, he slapped barefoot to the compact living room.

  Sara was sitting at the table, one hand round a mug of coffee, reading the Guardian Review. Nathan was struck by the reality of her. He saw how pretty she was, and how young; with her face cleansed and scrubbed of make-up, he could see the tiny imperfections and freckles on her nose and cheeks, and her eyes looked naked and vulnerable. She was bare-legged, wearing only one of his Tshirts. It fitted her like a minidress. This is how she'd dressed on those far-off Saturday mornings when he first knew her; those days when it would have seemed impossible that he could ever grow to dislike her, or she him. Or that they could ever stop having sex.

  In the afternoon they snuggled chastely on the sofa, watching a black and white film as the winter sun dipped in the west.

  At 5.30, they began to get ready. Nathan took a shower and shaved. He had a couple of good suits hanging in the wardrobe -- he'd bought them with his first credit card when he and Sara were first together and he was light-headed with the idea of being in love, and being loved by this lovely girl. There were some good shirts, too (also yet to be paid for), and several good ties. Nathan never wore ties; he had the wrong kind of job. But Sara kept buying them, and with each tie he unwrapped from tissue paper, he sensed her disdain for his lack of ambition ratchet up another notch. The ties hung on a rack in his wardrobe, a Technicolor indictment.

  When, in a rolling cloud of scented steam, Sara finally emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel, Nathan was dressed and ready, laying out his wallet and keys on the kitchen table. He wore a charcoal-grey suit over a black T-shirt.

  He sat on the bed and watched her. There was no prevarication; she'd been planning her outfit for days now. She blow-dried her short hair with brisk, staggering efficiency, so the asymmetrical fringe fell over one eye. She applied her make-up with a few, quick, practised strokes (but in a manner he knew required years of diligent practice, like elite sportsmanship). Towel off: knickers on. Bra. Pull-up stockings.

  Spritz of perfume. Dress. Slip on heels. Suddenly remember to apply roll-on deodorant. Examine self in mirror from several difficult angles, smoothing down creases with an alluring little shimmy. Open handbag. Double-check keys, address book, mobile phone, whatever other mysteries the bag contained. Lean in to mirror. Fiddle with fringe, minutely calibrating it. Add mascara.

  She ordered a taxi and mixed them a gin and tonic. The plan was to sit listening to music - Sara's choice - until the taxi arrived. Nathan hated the Cranberries.

  He walked to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

  Faintly embarrassed by his own nervousness, he ran the taps just to make a noise. Then he removed from his pocket a little Ziploc bag containing four grammes of cocaine in four paper wraps. He'd cleaned out his savings account to buy it. The supplier was Howard, the grey-haired ex-hack who produced The Mark Derbyshire Solution.

  Nathan racked up two fat lines on the cistern, then took the little pewter snorting spoon he'd bought from a now-closed head shop in Cornwall one good summer that seemed a million years ago, and he snorted back, crisply and efficiently. Then he stood straight, looking at the ceiling, sniffing. His snot tasted chemical.

  He smiled with joy at the memory of it and knew it was working already.

  He tucked the spoon into one pocket and the wraps into another, opened the bathroom door and walked out, sniffing.

  In her party dress, Sara stood alone in the centre of the room, one hand cupping an elbow, the other holding a long glass of gin and tonic. As if she were the host and waiting for the party to begin.

  At the railway station, they queued for tickets. There were twenty minutes to kill. They stopped for a drink at the generic railway bar.

  Nathan visited the lavatory. Then they hurried to catch the train. It sat on a wintry platform. They boarded and sat without speaking, Sara staring - apparently sombre - at her blank-eyed reflection in the train window, and through it to the passengers on the platform who pass
ed spectrally by.

  Nathan said, 'Christ. I'd kill for a cigarette.'

  She gave him the look.

  'Come on,' he said. 'Just one night. It's party nerves.'

  She allowed herself an expression of benevolent radiance. 'Go on.

  It's only one night.'

  It's only cancer, he thought, producing a packet of Marlboro Lights from his coat pocket; one of four he'd bought to last him a long evening.

  He stood between the carriages of the juddering train, blowing smoke out the window.

  Half an hour later, they pulled up to Sutton Parkway. It was little more than a dark, astringently cold concrete platform.

  Nathan gathered himself, saddened a little to know the best part of Sara's evening, the anticipation, was nearly over. Almost certainly, from now on, the evening would only get worse.

  Outside the station, they caught a minicab.

  Nathan paid the driver and the minicab pulled away, its tail lights smudged and indistinct in the billowing white exhaust.

  Their party shoes scratched on the cold gravel of the long driveway.

  From inside the big house came a faint, muffled, repetitive boom; the windows vibrated with it.

  Mark Derbyshire had built this mansion in the late seventies, when he could still afford it. At the rear was a helicopter landing pad, long since overgrown.

  Nathan offered Sara his elbow and together they approached the door. It was answered by a balding man dressed as a butler; Nathan hoped he'd been hired for the evening.

  Sara removed her coat, shrugging it from her narrow white shoulders in a way that made him remember, for a moment, why he'd once believed himself to be in love with her.

  The magnolia hall was hung with gold and silver discs from forgotten bands and singers whose records Mark Derbyshire had once helped to climb the charts. And there were many framed eight by tens. In them a younger and thinner Mark Derbyshire - but with the same neatly trimmed beard, the same look of jovial malice - placed his arm round the shoulder of one squirming celebrity or other: a young Madonna was there, and David Bowie showed his David Bowie teeth. Elton John looked frumpy and unhappy in a straw boater and comedy spectacles. The photographs made Nathan melancholy.

  Sara said, 'Shall we?' and - feeling for a moment like Cary Grant -- he led her inside the double door into the ballroom.

  At the far end, the wedding DJ stood at his mixing desk. A few guests, mostly young local girls, were dancing.

  Sara tugged his elbow.

  'What?'

  'Celebrity count?'

  'It's early days. It's not even nine.'

  She looked at him, trustingly. They pushed and 'excuse-me'd and danced round the loose crowd to get to the drinks table. It was a long trestle, behind which stood six young men in burgundy shirts, pouring drinks.

  Nathan surveyed the party, holding a gin and tonic. He barely knew anyone - certainly nobody to whom he felt inclined to introduce Sara. He wondered what on earth they could find to talk about until it was time for her to go home disappointed.

  They stared at the party and into their drinks. Nathan tried not to look at the senior managers -- whom he regarded with contempt for their black suits and their big, old-man ears and their stupid fucking cigars.

  He made an effort to point out colleagues whose names he might have mentioned in passing, but Sara wasn't really interested; she wanted to see, and be introduced to, celebrities. But no real celebrity had stepped over Mark Derbyshire's threshold since Margaret Thatcher was in power.

  Eventually, Howard strolled past. Although to Nathan he was obviously fucked out of his mind, he carried a certain louche charm, with his curly grey-white hair, his unlatched bow-tie. Nathan grabbed his elbow.

  'Howard! Mate! Have you met Sara?'

  Howard had not met Sara.

  Shaking her hand, he glanced at her creamy decolletage with an expression that resembled sorrow. Then he locked eyes with her.

  Howard had pale Icelandic eyes and they shone like a missile guidance system.

  Nathan said, 'Tell her about some of the people you've worked with.'

  'I'm sure she's got better things to do than listen to my war stories.'

  'The Rolling Stones,' said Nathan, not without desperation. 'The Beatles. Spandau Ballet.'

  'Spandau Ballet!' said Sara.

  And that was it. She was happy.

  Nathan hung around for a while, but soon it became clear he was no longer required. He wandered off to get another drink, then followed the chlorine tang towards the indoor swimming pool.

  The atmosphere round the pool was excitingly muted and full of potential. Nathan leaned against the damp wall and stared through the steamy glass ceiling at the pin-sharp December sky. He recognized none of the constellations and for a moment fantasized that he'd entered a deeply foreign country. He felt good.

  In the corner was Mark Derbyshire. He was engaged in restrained conversation with a big, shambling, shaggy-haired man in crumpled dinner jacket and an Hawaiian shirt. The shambling man seemed to be controlling the conversation: Mark Derbyshire looked diminished, clutching his glass of wine in one hairy-backed hand, nodding along, glancing left and right.

  Mark spotted Nathan and rolled his eyes with relief, beckoning Nathan over.

  'Nathan. You have to meet this guy.'

  The shambling man turned. And for the second time in his life, Nathan reached out to shake Bob's hand.

  'Mate,' he said, recognizing Nathan. 'Good to see you.'

  Mark said, 'You know this guy?'

  Nathan said, 'Kind of.'

  Bob said, 'From way back. How are you? You're looking a bit more prosperous.'

  Nathan looked down at his suit, still unpaid for. 'Well. Y'know.'

  He caught Mark Derbyshire's confused, malevolent little eyes.

  Bob explained to Mark, 'He was a bit of a hippie when I knew him.'

  And Nathan protested: 'I don't know about that'

  'Bit of a new age traveller,' said Bob. 'All patchouli and ganja.'

  'That's great,' said Mark, who at least knew what ganja was; he'd heard it mentioned in a comedy reggae song. 'It's great that you two know each other. I can make you Bob's liaison, Nathan.'

  'Great,' said Nathan, not knowing what Mark was talking about.

  'We're going to have Bob on the show,' said Mark.

  'As an experiment,' said Bob.

  'What he means is, for a trial period. Thursday night, 12.30, for six weeks.'

  'It's part of the research,' said Bob. 'I'm compiling stories for a book.'

  'Still working on the PhD?'

  'Inter alia.'

  'Nathan, boy,' said Mark. 'Do us a favour - go and get us a drink.'

  It was at once a jovial and venomous reminder of who was boss.

  Bob caught Nathan's eye and winced in sympathy. Nathan set down his drink and walked quickly to the trestle table, ordered the drinks, looked for Sara, saw that she was still enchanted by Howard, then went back to the pool. He handed Mark Derbyshire his whisky and Bob his vodka tonic.

  They said cheers and clinked glasses. Then a doddering, silver haired guest took Mark's elbow. Unsure whether to address Nathan or Bob, he alternated between them. 'Do you mind if I borrow the host?'

  'Not at all,' said Bob, and lifted his vodka tonic in silent salute. The guest led Mark Derbyshire back to the party.

  Bob watched him go.

  'Christ,' he said.

  Nathan smiled, not without guilt.

  'I mean really. What a cocksucker.'

  Nathan laughed, but he was uncomfortable.

  Bob changed the subject. He said, 'So. Do you have any drugs?'

  They stopped off at the bar. Sara was still in conversation with Howard, but they'd been joined by a number of other party goers. She looked like she was enjoying herself. Making friends. Wherever she went, she made friends.

  Clutching a bottle of gin in one hand and three wine glasses in the other -- one glass full of ice -- Bob sidled alon
gside Nathan.

  'She with you?'

  'Yeah. Well, nominally.'

  'Lucky man.'

  Nathan ignored that -- it hardly mattered to him any more that Sara was good-looking.

  And, actually, Nathan got the impression that Bob had disliked Sara on sight. Not many men did that, and Bob kind of went up in his estimation because of it. In some strange way, it made him an ally.

  They hurried up the main stairwell. On the first-floor landing, they turned down a half-lit, door-lined hallway.

  Nathan said, 'Have you been here before?'

  'Nah. I'm following the vibe.'

  'Right.'

  'I know it sounds like bollocks. But you attend as many hauntings as I do, you learn how to read a house.'

  He tried a door handle, moved on. Tested another; the door opened. He groped in the darkness and a light came on. They stepped into the room and Nathan closed the door.

  It was a guest bedroom, impersonal as a Holiday Inn. A double bed, a bedside table, a mirrored wardrobe.

  Nathan turned on a standard lamp that stood in one corner; it shed a more pleasing glow, so he killed the overhead light.

  He said, 'You really believe that stuff?'

  'Yep.'

  Nathan took from the wall a square mirror, about the size of an LP, and lay it mirror-side up on the quilted bed. Then he kneeled and laid out four lines of cocaine, a cat's claw gash across his reflection.

  Bob

  went hunting in his thick, greasy wallet. He produced a ten pound note. Two lines each.

  Then they were sitting on the floor with their backs to the bed, sniffing.

  'So,' said Nathan. 'Have you ever actually seen a ghost?'

  'Not as such.'

  'What does that mean, not as such?'

  'It means, I've seen their effects.'

  'Effects like what?'

  'Anomalies in haunted houses. Electrical disturbances. Cold spots.

  Poltergeist phenomena.'

  'No way.'

  'Yes way.'

  'As in, you've seen a ghost that throws stuff around?'