‘Oh,’ I say. ‘There you are.’ Rufus doesn’t seem to want to look at me. Looks, instead, at the drinkers by the bar. Fifi has come in with him and is sitting by his ankles, and no-one has a word to say about it. ‘Thanks so much for looking after her,’ he says. ‘Bit of a mix-up at home, I’m afraid. Crossed wires everywhere.’ ‘Well, it’s lucky she found us,’ says Ian. I toy with the idea of telling him that it’s been a relief, that I’ve had a more relaxed time in his pub than I’ve had in the whole of the past few weeks down the hill, but I get the feeling that Rufus won’t want to hear it. ‘I’ve had a good time,’ I assure him, ‘seriously. You guys have been great.’ Another pause. I don’t seem to have improved matters any. ‘Well,’ says Rufus, still not looking at me, in that we-are-going-to-have-such-a-row-when-I-get-you-out-of-here voice, ‘are you ready to go now, darling?’ I get up from the table, discover, to my consternation, that I am not entirely sober.
