The wind had not died with the dawn. Cindy had awoken into cold light and the rocking of the inn sign, with its grim, grey, curly-horned ram. Amy collected his dishes. She wore one of her little black dresses, very Juliette Greco. Quite sexy, he thought sadly. Too late now for him to appreciate such qualities. The course was set; whichever way he turned would leave him leaning suicidally over the abyss. ‘How can they say those things?’ Amy said. ‘They don’t know you. That brother, he’ve got no brains. Just hit out, they do, without a thought.’ Cindy was silent. ‘You mustn’t let them get away with this.’ Cindy smiled with a sorrow which, in the gloom of the bar, Amy would be unlikely to discern. ‘Not as if they’ve sacked you, Cindy, is it? The BBC would not be so daft! You’re a big star!’ ‘A big star. Yes.’ The Sun lay folded by his plate. He poured himself a coffee, picked up the paper. ‘Don’t…’ Amy said anxiously. ‘Don’t torture yourself.’ ‘A little late for that, my love.’ Cindy spread out the Sun.
