Dying Fall by Judith Cutler

calling. Tony Rossiter.
    I stopped, and smiled to Chris. ‘You can ask him now after all.’
    Chris did not show much delight. He showed still less when Tony kissed me, as he sometimes does in public.
    Tony was off for a drink with Mayou. They’d both be delighted if we would join them. Caste, of course, must be maintained, so the Duke of Clarence was out of the question. We must go to the Mondiale, the hotel where Mayou had a suite, a hotel I’d never done more than cycle past.
    But how? The hotel, one of a clutch of new ones on Broad Street, is all of three hundred yards from the Music Centre, very near the Five Ways island. One of the men would take us in a car. Which man? Which car? Poor Tony and Chris were falling over each other in their efforts not to insist.
    Mayou was looking as if he regretted the whole affair. My feet were getting bored too. I’d persuaded them into my only pair of high heels in honour of the evening. I don’t wear ugly flatties all the time, don’t think that. Very stylish flatties, à la Princess Di. A fall from my bike long ago left me with a tiny weakness in my back. Walking, running, training – it copes with all of these. But heels above an inch high and it soon screams. Mayou caught my eye. He made a minute gesture with the first two fingers of his left hand, his right being occupied by the controversial handbag. He repeated it. His fingers were walking. He smiled: we were to walk too. That was how we reached the Mondiale. The champagne was already on ice when the others arrived.
    Mayou fell silent almost immediately. Completely silent. I got no help from Tony or Chris, who were busy condoling with each other on the fortunes of West Bromwich Albion. I’d have been happy to join in – I’d cheered them from the terraces in my younger and their more successful days – but could scarcely talk across the silent host.
    Abruptly Mayou excused himself.
    I sat staring at the champagne bucket, feeling thirsty and angry in unequal measures.
    He returned quite swiftly, charmingly apologetic, and signalled for the champagne to be served. His first glass made him sneeze repeatedly.
    â€˜That goddamn dust,’ he said, mopping his eyes. ‘Half the time I can’t see, my eyes water so much, I’m sneezing like I had hay fever, and now my physician’s talking about my getting asthma, for Christ’s sake. Asthma! Isn’t that what old men get?’
    Quietly I produced my Ventolin. ‘Not just old men.’
    During the subsequent discussion of symptoms and treatments he becamed elated, as if he were really interested in how I dealt with the problem. Say, why didn’t we jog together? Could I really teach him to ride a goddamn bicycle? As for leaving Birmingham for somewhere less allergenic, he had a job here. He was a professional. ‘Goddamn it, Sophie, I bet you don’t stay off school just because you’ve got hay fever. I just wish I could do justice to this marvellous group of musicians here. I feel like I’m letting them down when I’m like this.’
    â€˜Well?’ asked Chris, fastening his seat belt.
    â€˜Well what?’
    â€˜Well, what did you get out of him?’
    â€˜Get out of him? I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be getting anything out of him. He was telling me all about his studies in Finland and the outsize mosquitoes they grow there.’ I didn’t want to discuss Stobbard with anyone.
    â€˜Great. That’ll be a terrific help.’
    â€˜And what did you get from Tony, apart form an intimate review of his new car? All that black leather. A real seductionmobile, isn’t it?’
    We did not speak again until we reached my front door. Chris was busy demonstrating that he’d passed the police driving course with all available honours. I was trying not to pee secondhand champagne. He braked sharply, but pulled on the handbrake as slowly as if he were trying to