One can hardly say that Eugene's business blossomed, though he was making a living. The rent of his office in Dothebooks Hall was far too high but he felt the prestige of the address would ultimately make it worth it. However, that pressure on his resources meant he could afford but one helpmeet, secretary, typist, general-factotum and confidante, and that was Gloria.

Gloria's appearance and general manner belied her true value. She seemed to be blonde and dumb, and she truly did live with her mum on the edge of Bethnal Green. All right, the 'blonde' came out of a bottle, but dumb she was most certainly not. She tapped at the door of the inner-office and entered. 'I done the post, Uge,' she said - she was never one to stand on ceremony. 'There's one that looks a bit good. I put it on top. Wanna coffee?'

'Yes. No. Oh, all right.' Some of Mr Hall's indecisiveness had rubbed off.

Eugene looked at the letter. The notepaper was ostentatious, embossed, gilt, and it proclaimed the originator to be Omega Television Associates - OtvA - of Milton Keynes, Bucks. The OtvA was fashioned into a logo, and we'll leave it to you to imagine what that looked like. The body of the letter was unremarkable, a word-processed request for a quotation to certify the accounts of an 'up-and coming television company' signed 'p.p.' by some typist with horrible backhand writing, the kind one thinks of as 'hairdresser's' handwriting, with circles over the 'i's. The actual signatory was W.St.J.Colquhoun, B.A.(Hons.), Chief Executive, and, below the awful typist's heavily ball-penned name was an elegantly caligraphed postscript: I have a feeling you might be the 'Eugene' I met on holiday in Greece some time ago. If you are and, of course, you want to, please give me a ring. There's a direct-line number on the notepaper. If not, please accept my apologies for the pretension. It was initialled 'W. St.J. C.' after which, in parentheses, was the name (William.).

Gloria had remained leaning on the desk while Eugene read the letter. 'Well?' she said. 'Is he?'

Eugene smiled. 'That's for me to know and you to find out. Go and get that coffee!'

Still, as soon as she had left the room, he picked up the telephone and dialled the number. 'Could I speak to Mr Col-c'hoon?' he said.

He could almost see the secretary smirk as she replied, 'Mr C'hoon? I'll see if he's available. Who's calling, please?'

'Eugene Swift. Accountant. He wrote asking for a quotation to do your company's accounts.'

'Just one moment please. I'll put you on 'hold'.'

He focussed on the letter again, the melody of 'Greensleeves' rebounding in his head, and the circles over the 'i's in the 'p.p.' signature expanded until they enveloped the entire document. The girl's name, incidentally, was Cindi Pitticliffe.

The next voice Eugene heard was undoubtedly William's. He tried to speak, but nothing happened. William said, 'Hello? Are you still there.'

Eugene cleared his throat. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Frog in my throat. It was just something of a surprise to hear you suddenly, like that.'

'I'm so pleased you turned out to be you. We must meet. Have lunch or something.'

'Not easy for me to nip up to Milton Keynes for lunch. Of course, if you want me to do your books, I'll have to come.'

'I'm pretty sure I shall, now that I know you're you. But I'm in London at least once a week. I've still got a flat in Golders Green, if you see what I mean.'

Eugene saw exactly what he meant, and licked his lips. He said, 'Great,' but he said it flatly.

'I'm in Town Wednesday and Thursday next week. Could we have dinner or something Wednesday evening? Is there anywhere you like?'

'Not really. I don't get out much. Too busy.' That was a lie. Simply too poor!

William sounded anxious. 'Is it going to be difficult? Would Thursday be better?'

'No, no. Wednesday's fine.'

'Listen, I'll give you a ring when I get into Town. I'll sus somewhere out. To be honest, I don't eat out much in London these days either. Too bloody expensive! Still, I suppose entertaining my accountant is tax-deductable.'

Eugene almost said, 'Don't be too sure about that,' but he didn't. 'Great. Give me a ring on Wednesday. I'm really loking forward to seeing you again.' He wondered if he hadn't sounded very convincing.

'What's your home number? I might give you a ring before. We ought to have a proper chat. Before we meet.' Eugene told him the telephone number, and he said, 'Muswell Hill. You live in Muswell Hill. Anyway, I must fly. Cindi's making naggy signs. See you Wednesday.'

Gloria came in with a little plastic tray as soon as he'd put the phone down. 'Well?' she said. 'I got you a beigel.'

'Thanks.' He looked up at her. 'How did he know I live in Muswell Hill?'

'Did you give him your phone number?' Eugene nodded. 'Easy peasy! Exchange number. Eight eight three, Muswell Hill. You gonna meet him?'

'Dinner on Wednesday. Do a quote and get it off today. I think we'll get the account.'

'Shall I FAX it? I can go next door.'

'I suppose we really ought to get a FAX machine of our own.' He smiled. 'If we do get this account, we might be able to afford one.'

The aforesaid Cindi-of-the-Circles was blessed, you may remember, with the not-unengaging surname of Pitticliffe. Gloria was less fortunate, for her name was Mudd. She had frequently thought to change it but enquiries revealed that the only economically sensible way to do that was to get married, and she balked at that, largely because her boyfriend, a muscular young man with little between the ears but rather more between the legs, was called Pratt. Andy Pratt was fine to be seen with at discos and wasn't half bad in bed, but that was as far as it went. To go from being called Gloria Mudd only to become Gloria Pratt was obvious folly!

Eugene's sex-life was rather less satisfactory than Gloria's, in fact, he didn't have one. He eschewed 'The Scene' ostensibly because it was too dangerous, though truly because it was too expensive. Just on five, Gloria came in to bid him her usual cheery cheerio. 'I done the FAX,' she said.

'I'm going to finish Solly's books. See you in the morning.'

'What's the rush? We got plenty of time.'

'Just feel like it. See you in the morning,' and he swivelled his chair to return to sorting through the scruffy, blood-stained receipts pertaining to the business of Solomon Cohen, Kosher Butcher of Stamford Hill, one of three hardly overwhelming clients obtained by way of a very expensive advertisement in the Evening Standard.

Thus he left the office something after eight. He thought about going for a drink on his way to the Tube, though few City pubs truly function in the evening. Opposite him on the train a very beautiful young man was deeply engrossed in a book, so Eugene didn't feel he might be accused of 'staring' if he looked at him, but he couldn't concentrate and, anyway, the young man got off at Tuffnell Park. At last, the train reached East Finchley, and Eugene got out to walk the lonely suburban streets to his lonely suburban house. Lonely. As he went through the door, the phone was ringing. William said, 'I'm sorry, but I couldn't resist ringing you. I hope you don't mind. I tried earlier but you were out. I thought you might be out for the evening.'

Eugene couldn't help himself. He said, 'No. I'm never out for the evening.'

'That Young Man' liked to be known as Casey, a name he had most certainly not originally been awarded, and, although good-looking and obviously physically exquisite, was, as they say, as Camp as All-Get-Out. He said, 'Didn't expect to see you, Love. Want a hand with that towel? Don't want to catch cold round your bits!'

'Bugger off.'

'Oh, we are touchy today. Thought we might fancy a little mouthful of tea and a big mouthful of me.'

'Not in the mood. Just want to go home and go to bed.'

'I could come with you.'

'I told you, bugger off. I'm not in the mood.' William pulled on his elegant underwear and slipped into his shirt.

'Oh, go on. I haven't had any nooky since yesterday.'

'And you're not getting any today. Well, not with me anyway.' William buttoned his fly and slid his tie, which he had left ready-knotted, over his head.

'Please yourself then, Ducky.' Casey minced from the locker-room.

William sat to see to his socks and shoes, put on his jacket, and went to the car-park.

He wasn't pleased with his car, a small and unexciting Ford. Chief Executives should drive something more impressive, but it was the best the business could do. That day they had made a coffee commercial with a fairly big star so, perhaps, things were looking up. What was preoccupying him, however, was the phone call from Eugene.

On his way home, he stopped at a take-away to buy fish and chips. His house or, to be more accurate, his mother's house, was a stangely-designed edifice in a rather more imposing part of the town. He parked the car and went straight to the kitchen where he set the fish and chips, still wrapped, on a plate which he put in the oven. He found cold fish and chips unpalateable, and was prepared to accept the unfortunate effect of the oven treatment on the batter. While he was waiting for his supper to get hot, he went into the living-room and dialled Eugene's number.

No reply. He poured himself a whisky and sat to light a cigarette. When he had smoked half of it, he dialled again. Still no reply. Although he felt sure there would be nothing worth watching, he switched on the television and was pleased when a commercial his firm had made a little while before came on. He flipped channels, and his original feeling proved right. Nothing worth watching. Two more cigarettes and another whisky later, he went to the kitchen to organise his supper and sit at the table to eat it. He really didn't want it, but he persisted, considering his work-out. Eventually he returned to the living-room and dialled the number again.

Eugene's voice said, 'No. I'm never out for the evening.'

'Too busy?'

'That's right.' Eugene felt William would know he was lying. 'How're things with you?'

'Very good. Pretty busy, too.'

'Do you live in Milton Keynes?'

'Yes. I've got a rather strange modern house.'

'And a flat in Golders Green?'

'Well, it's not really a flat. More a bed-sit.' Oh, shit! William knew Eugene would know he had been lying. He tried to recover by saying, 'So what sort of place have you got in Muswell Hill?'

'Just a little two-up, two-down. It's got an extension at the back so I have an upstairs bathroom and a reasonable kitchen. It's all right, and I can afford the mortgage.' Eugene was thinking to put his cards on the table. 'Just about. Is there a problem about Wednesday?'

'No, no. Not at all.' Totally irrationally, he said, 'I've just come from the gym.'

'Keep fit, then?'

'Pretty fit. Do you live . . . um . . . on your own?' William's cards were staring up at him from the table, but he didn't seem to have a very good hand.

'Oh, yes. In fact, apart from clients, the only person I see much of is my secretary, Gloria.'

'Oh. Do you . . . fancy her?'

Eugene laughed. 'Of course not! What about you? Do you have a . . . an affair.' Limited experience of 'The Scene' had taught him the term.

'No. I get quite a bit of . . . you know . . . , but nothing serious.' There was a little silence. Then William said, 'This is silly, I don't know about you, but I can't talk on the phone. What're you doing on Sunday?' Suddenly, the trump-suit changed.

'Nothing special.'

'Could we meet somewhere? Out in the country? Have lunch?'

'I haven't got a car.'

'No problem. I don't mind how far I drive. Company car!'

Eugene became inspired. 'If you don't mind driving down here, I could cook lunch.'

'Do you cook? Well done! I don't. Had fish and chips from the Chinkie tonight.'

'People never think of accountants as cooking anything but books.'

'How do I get to your house?'

'I'll get Gloria to FAX you a map. It isn't hard to find from the motorway.'

'Great. What sort of time?'

'Eat about one? Any time before then, but don't be late! I'm fussy about my cooking.'

'I won't be. Believe me, I won't be. See you on Sunday morning.' Despite the conclusive connotation, he didn't put the phone down, and there was a pause. 'O.K.?'

'Great. Looking forward to it.'

William wanted to say something like 'Love and kisses,' but Eugene had already rung off.

Of all the people she knew, Garbo's favourite was probably Jeanne, not that Jeanne knew it. Garbo's thinking, like most dog-thought, followed her nose, and Jeanne smelled right. The dog ranked people according to odour, the soft-and-flowery at the top, the raw-and-meaty at the bottom. Not that Garbo had any objection to raw-and-meaty smells, but they meant food and, as eating people is not the done thing, she avoided the company of people who smelled like that.

The old man was something of a puzzle to her, which is why he found her so hard to fathom, not that he knew it either. Sometimes, he smelled all right; at others, though, he appeared to be trying to imitate the odour of Pedigree Chum. What Garbo didn't know was that, sometimes, he had a shower as soon as came home from the taverna, before he fed her; at others, he didn't. Her overall perception of people was that the smaller ones with light voices and soft faces were all right, but the bigger ones, especially ones with hairy faces, often emitted the odour of well-hung beef.

Consequent to all of this, it is hardly surprising that Garbo's abductor smelled flowery, not unlike Jeanne in fact, was small, and had a light, soft voice, the kind of person known technically as a 'woman'. Additionally, the woman had the advantage of already being known to Garbo, albeit only slightly, but the dog possessed an excellent memory for smells. Anyway, she made no protest when she was released from her chain, put on a leash, and taken 'downstairs' to a waiting four-wheel drive. The driver had an intermediate odour that reminded Garbo of distant roast-chicken, and she was a little taken aback when it turned its head and she saw that it had a hairy face.

Garbo's experience of motor-trips was not great. When she was small, her original Norwegian keepers had taken her to a noisy place with many people where a woman in a white coat had stuck a needle in her. She hadn't protested. It didn't hurt. Well, not much. Later, she had been taken to the same place for another attack with a needle. That time, she didn't remember what happened afterwards, only that she woke up with a sore belly and had to be carried back to the car. Thenceforward, she was rarely taken anywhere. When she came to live with the old man and the little rat-dog, he began quite often to take them to an expanse of sand and rough grass fringed with far too much ferocious water. It was horrible! The little rat-dog seemed to like it, but Garbo hated it and must have made her point because the trips became less and less frequent until they stopped altogether.

That day's trip was, in fact, the longest in Garbo's life. Eventually, the car stopped outside a house, not nearly as big as the old man's, next to which was another, even smaller. The woman led the dog to the little house, clipped her on to a long chain and said, 'Well, this is home now, Garbo. I hope you like it. I'll go and get you something to eat.'

The place seemed to be long way from the ferocious water, which was a comfort to Garbo. She went into the little house. Undoubtedly it would be comfortable, but not in the way Garbo liked, so she was sitting outside as a dog likes to sit when the woman came with a dish of food, stroked her head, and set the dish down. Wow! What food! Garbo tucked in but, being a natural pessimist, didn't expect the standard to be maintained. However, it was getting dark so, when she had finished her dinner, she curled up on the soft ground outside her house, and went to sleep.

Not long after daylight, the man came out. He didn't have any of the coverings people usually wrap round themselves and he crouched in front of her to play lightly with her ears. It amazed her that, although he seemed to be hairy all over, his scent was all right, possibly even lighter and sweeter than distant roast-chicken. He took the dish and said, 'Let me put some clothes on, and I'll get your breakfast.'

The dog stood up to stretch, yawn and amble to the extent of her chain. Not bad! She lifted her head and sniffed the air. Somewhere, not too far away, there was another dog, so she let out a single, sharp bark. There was an immediate reply. The man came out, then at least partially covered, and said, 'What's the matter, girl?' but he didn't wait for a reply, just set down the dish and went back into his house. Breakfast proved to be just as good as supper.

Eugene didn't have very long to debate what to cook. He thought to do a roast, but that would need too much last-minute attention, so decided on a blanquette of lamb with creamed potatoes re-heated in a mold, with a crisp, cheese topping, and a bouquettiere of whatever vegetables looked good when he got to the supermarket. He told Gloria of his decision.

'Sounds good to me. What you gonna do for a starter?' She and Andy were not infrequent visitors to Eugene's cuisine, for Andy was a great trencherman, and Gloria wasn't far behind him in the listings.

'Smoked salmon with salad and brown-bread and butter.'

'Blimey! Come into money?'

'It's on special offer in Sainsbury's.'

'What about afters?'

'I thought about Creme Brulee, but fruit salad's probably safer.'

'Your Creme Brulee's a bit good! If there's any left, you know where to bring it.'

'I'll remember you in my will!'

At half-past-three on Friday afternoon, Eugene couldn't take the strain any more and cleared his desk to go home. 'I'm off,' he said. 'I want to go to Sainsbury's, so I'll get the Tube before the rush. Shut up shop when you like.'

Gloria was typing the certificate to go with Solly's accounts. 'O.K.,' she said. 'I'll finish this and have a bit of a tidy. Don't want Mrs Thing thinking we're slobs.' 'Mrs Thing' came to clean on Saturday morning. Neither Gloria nor Eugene truly knew her name, which she had told them, but a combination of toothlessness and diffidence made her words hard to fathom. However, she was trustworthy and efficient, and Gloria left her wages in an envelope.

Despite the earliness of the hour, the UnderGround was pretty crowded. Eugene got a seat, but he gave it up at King's Cross to a pregnant woman harrassed by a toddler on reins. He thought to re-gain it when she got off at Kentish Town, but was beaten to it by a spotty youth sporting a very loud Walkman. The train emptied considerably at Highgate, by which time Eugene felt it hardly worth his while to sit down.

Sainsbury's was busy, too. He found a leg of frozen New Zealand lamb, some ridiculously expensive mange tout peas, a bulb of fennel, a pink grapefruit and some sweet oranges, a pack of smoked salmon, still thankfully 'reduced', and a bunch of fresh rosemary, for he knew he had potatoes, garlic, cheese, yoghurt, butter and brown sugar in the house, and fresh mint in his little garden, and would buy brown bread and anything else he needed from the shop on the corner of his street. However, he then spotted and bought two bottles of Greek white wine, a real surprise because not only wasn't it 'Retsina', but it was cheap - well, by English standards! Nevertheless, he paid with his VISA card, knowing perfectly well that there wasn't enough in his current account to allow him to pay with SWITCH.

It was after six when he got home laden with two bulky carrier bags and his brief-case. He had tried to get a taxi from the supermarket, but there was none, so he tramped further than usual, the shop being in the 'wrong' direction. He put the shopping away, poured himself a whisky, and flopped in front of the television to smoke a cigarette and take stock. He dozed off momentarily, but not much later, went to the kitchen to make himself beans-on-toast. The rest of the evening, he watched tv and smoked and drank too much.

William, as was his wont, went straight from the studio to the gym. There he ate a limp sandwich and drank a Coke in the snack-bar before he set to his work-out. Later he succumbed to Casey's charms but, after he had taken That Young Man home the next morning, spent the rest of Saturday consumed with unreasonable guilt.

Eugene woke feeling terrible. He had smoked and dozed through the evening and eventually put himself to bed, after a final stiff Scotch, at half-past-midnight, so that, when he surfaced at nine, his mouth felt as if it had been sand-blasted, and his head throbbed in rhythm to the sand-blaster. He got out of bed in slow motion and picked his way to the kitchen to make some tea and find some breakfast paracetamol. On the way, his feet missed the floor a couple of times, and it took him three goes to get water into the kettle and five to swallow two tablets with water drawn, for safety's sake, into a large plastic bowl. Eventually, he managed to pour hot water on to a tea-bag, add a little milk, and sit at the table to drink.

By eleven, he felt able to face the world and made his way gingerly to the corner shop. You may be wondering why he hadn't bought bread and cream in Sainsbury's, and the answer is simple. The enterprising Sikh gentleman who ran the shop imported bread from a wonderful bakery in Barnet and, albeit a trifle illegally, fresh cream from a farm shop in Monk's Hadley, a bit further up the road. That cream was extra-special, being neither Sterilised, Pasteurised, Mesmerised nor Ostracised. The little herd of Guernsey cows that produced the milk was heavily tested for every possible disorder but, since the milk wasn't 'treated', regulations said that it might only be sold at the farm-shop. The enterprising Sikh gentleman, however, recognised the potential of such produce among the bon viveurs of Muswell Hill, and left his shop at five each morning to collect a supply, stopping at the bakery on his way back.

As Eugene left his house, it was raining half-heartedly. By the time he reached the shop, 'it' was doing a proper job. The shopkeeper's wife, a smiling, dumpy lady with a glittery taste in saris, greeted him. 'You're a bit wet!' she said. Having been born in Cricklewood, she was fully conversant with the good old British habit of stating the obvious. After you've fallen flat on your face, someone's bound to tell you to be careful!

Eugene joined in. 'Yes,' he said. 'It's raining. What can you expect in January?'

'It' didn't give up, and he had completely to change his clothes when he got home with the shopping.

William woke very early on Sunday morning. He looked out of his bedroom window into darkness and the weather, saw it to be horrible, put on his dressing-gown, and descended the elegant though often impractical spiral-staircase to the living-room and thence to the kitchen. The kettle seemed to be taking ages to boil. He lit a cigarette and went to investigate. Kettles always boil quicker if you switch them on!

About eleven, Eugene was still clad only in his dressing-gown but feeling nervously cheerful. He had made the creme brulee the previous afternoon, prepared the vegetables and finished the lamb earlier that morning, and it was time to put it in its cream-and-wine sauce into the oven. He had even cut the bread, buttered it, covered the slices with slivers of smoked salmon, and set them, on beds of lollo rosso lettuce and chopped tomato, covered in Cling-Film, in the fridge. All that remained to be done was to have a shower and get dressed. The doorbell rang.

William stood on the doorstep doing a fair impression of the proverbial drowned rat. Eugene reverted to The Old British Habit and said, 'You're soaked! Come in. I'd better find you something to wear. You can't sit around like that. You'll get pneumonia.'

'I only came from the car!' He brandished a carrier-bag. 'I brought some wine. Hope it's all right.'

'Come upstairs. I'll find you a tracksuit or something.'

We shall draw a discrete veil over what happened next except to say that, when they came down again, the lamb was almost ready and it was easily time to put on the vegetables.

On a January Sunday morning - it might even have been the same one - old John was sunning himself on the beach. He had had a little swim, and Yotta had scampered about in her usual scatty fashion, though by then she had exhausted herself and slept at his feet. His only other companions were visiting flamingos and distant fishermen.

Garbo had had her breakfast and was lying peacefully in the sun outside her house.

But that, of course, is the difference between Muswell Hill and a Greek island.

Partnerships are difficult things to manage, be it in bridge, tennis, business or at home. We have encountered several within the story, though only one - that between the old man John and his little dog - may already be seen as a success. For instance, little has been said about the parnership of Jeanne and Petros, rather more about that between Gloria and Andy, but virtually nothing about that between Garbo's abductor and the sweet-smelling, hairy man. However, the partnership that must most concern us is the potential partnership between Eugene and William.

Sunday lunch was a resounding success, and Gloria (and Andy) saw nothing of the creme brulee. The Greek wine went down well, as did the subtle Chardonnay William brought with him, and, by four in the afternoon, he and Eugene knew they had something going for them. During the evening, tipsy arrangements were made for Wednesday. Instead of catching the train from Milton Keynes, William was to drive down early in the morning, park as close as he could to East Finchley Tube station, go into Town on the UnderGround, transact his business, and arrive at Dothebooks Hall in the late afternoon. Thence the Happy Couple would remove to an Italian restaurant in Camden Town, eat, take the train to East Finchley, and drive home to Eugene's house.

On Monday morning, however, William left Muswell Hill as early as he might, which was later than he should, and incurred the wrath of his colleagues when he arrived late for a meeting with the erstwhile purchasers of another commercial. Wednesday evening went swimmingly. William, fearful for his driving-license, drank only mineral water, and Eugene, fearful for his potency, took but a single glass of weak, Italian white wine. We shall pass yet another discrete veil over what took place later in the evening.

Within a matter of weeks, a pattern for the partnership emerged, one which, it may be said, would probably serve other, ailing, relationships well, to whit, the boys didn't get under each other's feet. William ceased to use the 'flat' in Golders Green, preferring to stay with Eugene on his trips to Town. Most Friday evenings, Eugene left the office to go straight to the train for Milton Keynes, though on some, William drove down to Muswell Hill and was at the house with the kettle on, so to speak, waiting for Eugene to come home. Idyllic!

Eugene was very happy. Gloria, ever direct, remarked on it. 'You're bloody chirpy these days,' she said. 'He's done you a power of good. When do I get to meet him properly?' You may remember they had actually met briefly on that first Wednesday.

'Don't know. Have to sort something out. Soon, I should think.' He looked at her anxiously. 'You're very important to me, you know. I don't want to cock anything up by rushing things.'

She smiled. 'I know, Pet. Still, it's lovely to see you so happy.'

Eugene's sister Conny, mother of Katie, the small niece we met by proxy in Chapter One, was less secure. 'Well,' she said, 'I hope it turns out all right for you, but I wonder about gay partnerships. Doesn't really seem, well, right. Not that I'm prejudiced. I suppose it's up to you.' Eugene and Conny's long-absent father, despite having denied being either Irish or Catholic, had insisted on his children being called Concepta and Eugene so, perhaps, inherrent Irish Catholicism had rubbed off on her.

William's mother was, to some extent, in denial. Obviously, she knew her son was gay, and was happy for his sex-life to be a matter between him and the bedroom, but the idea of a permanent relationship she found impossible. She, after all, had never really had one. Her marriage to William's shadowy father had lasted only a matter of weeks after which she had been alone with her mother and her son. How, you may ask, can one be alone with a mother and a son? Easy! One ignores the one and over-indulges the other. Then one settles into a life of effortless luxury at the expense of one's ex-spouse.

Later, they discussed the on-coming Summer. Eugene suggested a package in Sitges, but William said that, with its vibrant Gay Scene, it wasn't really a suitable place for a couple intent on permanence. They scanned the advertisements in the Pink Paper and eventually settled on two weeks in a country-house hotel in Norfolk near which was a nudist beach, important to William, though not to Eugene. Still, the thing about a sound relationship is give and take, isn't it? It cost them considerably more than would have the package to Spain, but that didn't matter because, business-wise, things were looking up for both of them.

The holiday was a whacking success. On the whole, the weather was terrible. Although it was August, the sun shone on so few days that they actually got to the beach on only two occasions. It didn't matter. The hotel was comfortable, its restaurant good, and they spent most of the time in each other's company. Naturally, they had much relaxed sex, but mostly they simply learned more and more about each other. Frankly, they didn't want to go home. Over dinner on the last evening - rather good duck a l'orange - Eugene said, 'I wish we could be together all the time.'

William, probably wiser and certainly more experienced, said, 'I'm not so sure. I think you need air between the bricks of a relationship. If there's no air, the cement doesn't set,' a most profound metaphor, especially coming from someone brought up to be essentially flippant.

The sweet-smelling hairy man was Dutch and his name was Egbert. His apparent partner was English and was called Gerry. Their partnership was rather more a friendship, as, it may be said, was that between the old man and his little dog, for Egbert was gay, indeed he had had a 'fling' with old John some years before when he, too, lived on The Mountain, but it fizzled out when he moved to share the house 'far away' with Gerry, not that anywhere is that far away on The Island. Anyway, the friendly partnership between Egbert and Gerry became very firmly established. Perhaps another way to seal a partnership is to keep sex out of it.

Garbo rapidly became a third member of the household. Despite her basically isolationist nature, she had become very fond of both of them, as had they of her, and she took it as a compliment when they presented her with a new collar. It really was splendid, a work of great craftsmanship, soft chamois leather over a firm core, broad to fit her ample neck, the gilded buckle lined so it might not chafe. She wore it proudly.

One morning, late in the Summer, Gerry came from the house with a large hold-all. She put it in the back of the car, and got into the front passenger seat. Egbert came out with Garbo's leash and, something Garbo hadn't seen before, locked the door behind him. He clipped the leash on to the magnificent collar, released the chain, and led her to the car, not an unusual thing, for he often took her with him when he went to a kafenio in a nearby village. This time, however, they were to drive a long way, even further than they had done when they had brought her from The Mountain.

They drove to The Town, somewhere the dog associated with the woman in the white coat and the needle, but they didn't stop at her shop. Instead, they drove down to a place beside the ferocious water, and then, though Garbo didn't understand, on to a ship. There, they all got out of the car and went up some stairs, also things Garbo didn't understand, on to an open area lined with chairs, where they settled themselves. Strange people seemed to want to make a fuss of her and, unexpectedly sensing the importance of making friends, she succumbed, even fawned.

Now, Garbo hated to be watched when she was 'relieving' herself and, although Gerry had come prepared with old newspaper and plastic bags, didn't for the entire, long journey. Thus, when they eventually disembarked and Egbert took her for a walk on the leash, she simply had to 'go' at the first sandy place they found. To give him his due, Egbert did look away at the crucial moment.

Petros suffered from more or less the same problems as Garbo, tendencies towards shyness and isolation. Apart from occasional day-trips to nearby places, he had been off The Island for but six weeks during the whole of his life. During his time in the army, he had been sent to Corinth for his initial training, labelled as a cook, and immediately sent home again. Jeanne had been trying for years to get him to come with her when she went to see her mother in Brussels, but he complained that he spoke neither French nor Flemish. She tried to persuade him to come with her when she visited friends in London. He complained of the difficulty in obtaining a passport.

That Spring, however, something clicked. Perhaps egged on by his mother, who had been trying to get a holiday from his attention for ages, he suddenly found that getting a passport wasn't so hard. Thus, also supported by his mother, tickets were booked to Brussels and thence to London for early November, when The Season was over. Needless to say, Petros spend far too much of the Summer agonising about the dangers of aeroplanes, arguing that, while he was a very good swimmer, however hard he flapped his arms up and down, he couldn't fly. Althought, in terms of this narrative, it is looking into the future, in order not to afford you unnecessary stress, we shall report that he and Jeanne returned to The Island at the beginning of December in very good form.

Almost as soon as they had returned from Norfolk, Eugene began to make plans for the following year's holiday. William, rather more worldy-wise, if not cynical, wondered if their relationship might then still exist. Still, he said nothing, partly because he knew that the brochures and, therefore, bookings for the following year wouldn't be available before December. It worried him a little when Eugene had a brainwave.

'Why don't I write to John?' he said.

'Who?'

'You know. The old man in the taverna on The Mountain. I told you about him. If it weren't for him, I'd never have met you. He said I could stay at his house whenever I wanted.'

'He fancied you.'

'Probably, but he never made a move. Unlike some people.'

'You complaining?'

Eugene kissed his friend lightly on the cheek. 'Of course not. But I would like to see the old man again. You'd like him. He's a writer.'

'I thought you said he had a taverna.'

'He does. He's a bloody good cook. But really, he's a writer. He has a lovely house, just down the road from the taverna. You'd love it.'

William was resigned. 'All right,' he said. 'So write to him.'

The response to that letter you have already read in Chapter Four.

Garbo did not like her new surroundings. On one side, the sandy place where she had at last been able to do, so to speak, what she had to, was far too close to the ferocious water, yet, on the other, fearsome traffic thundered along a busy road. Consequently, she was delighted to get back into the car, have the leash disconnected, and be petted by Gerry. When Egbert drove away, she lay on the back seat rather poetically, her eyes closed and her paws over her ears. A picture of her pose would have made a rather good, kitsch birthday card!

They didn't travel for very long, thankfully away from the frightening throng of the city, and stopped on the drive of a substantial house surrounded by other substantial houses. It stood squarely in the middle of a garden enclosed by walls and railings, and, before he went to the house itself, Egbert closed the great iron gates at the top of the drive. Then he opened one back door of the car, ostensibly to let Garbo out, took the heavy holdall from the boot and went to open the front door of the house. Garbo didn't move. Gerry left her seat and went to coax her. Still she didn't move, and Gerry said, 'All right. Please yourself, dog. I need a drink, so I'm going inside.'

Petros had been a Happy Tourist in Brussels and London. Jeanne, however, had insisted that, as part of the deal, they should stay a few days in Athens on their way home, since she had spent very little time there in the past. Petros, being Greek, felt he really shouldn't act like a Happy Tourist in his own Capital City, even though he had never been there before. Consequently, he was sullen and disgruntled when they arrived at a simple hotel not far from the Acropolis.

One entered the hotel on the ground floor, but the reception area and bar were on a sort-of staging above approached by two flights of curved, iron stairs, so that the whole effect was that of a big ship. This turned out to be hardly surprising when one learnt that the proprietor, Mr Dimitris Galatopoulos, was universally known as 'Naftaki', which is Greek for 'Little Sailor', yet, while 'Sailor' he had certainly been, 'Little' he was equally certainly not. He stood pretty well two meters tall, and must have weighed a hundred and fifty kilos. (For those of you less-recently schooled, that's six-foot-six tall and something near twenty five stone!) He was heavily bearded and, had Garbo have been there, would probably have smelled like extremely well-hung beef!

The following day, Jeanne and Petros 'did' the Parthenon and the other antiquities. He got into the swing of things, and talked loudly in English, not, one supposes, minding being a tourist as long as he was thought to be foreign. When they returned to the hotel and sat in the bar having a pre-prandial drink, Naftaki accosted them and asked in halting English how they had enjoyed their day. Petros, by then full of confidence, replied in Greek and claimed to be from Cyprus to account for his ignorance of Things Athenian. He asked what else they should do in the city, and Naftaki recommended a day in the great shopping area around Omonia, the true reason, it must be said, Jeanne wanted to be in Athens, for she had been before but then had little money to spend. This time would be different!

Consequently, Petros was dragged round many, many shops. At first he didn't mind, but, by lunchtime he was tiring. They had something to eat in a street-side cafe but, as soon as she had swallowed her last mouthful, Jeanne wanted to be off again. Petros said, thank you, but he would stay where he was. She didn't want to go far, and she would have no trouble finding him later. Jeanne acceded quite readily, for he was becoming something of an encumbrance to her, and anyway, she would be able to leave him to look after her already manifold packages. Thus he watched her go and ordered an ouzo with ice. About half an hour later, as he was about to order another ouzo, he saw, or rather, thought he saw Garbo.

Garbo certainly recognised him - lightly-grilled lamb chops - but she didn't attempt to acknowledge him. She had become almost used to being led through crowded streets, but her head was still full of a need for awareness, and, since she didn't particularly care for him, he would have been simply another muddy annoyance. That day, although she didn't then know it, she was being taken to a flat in a high building above a big shop quite near Omonia Square, and that involved the most terrifying journey of her life.

Egbert led her through swing doors to the side of the shop into a spacious entrance-hall. There they stood for several minutes in front of a wall. Suddenly, the wall split open to reveal a room lined with mirrors, into which they went. The wall closed behind them. Garbo looked up at Egbert trustingly. Then the room began to move - upwards! So scared was poor Garbo that, to her intense shame, she urinated, albeit only a little, on the shiny, black floor. She looked up at Egbert and saw herself, and her 'mistake' mirrored on the rapidly rising ceiling. Egbert rubbed her ears and said, 'Don't worry, old girl. Soon be there.'

Petros had ordered a third ouzo when Jeanne came back with yet another glossy carrier-bag. She said, 'I'll have an ouzo, too. My feet are killing me. Can we get a taxi back to the hotel?'

The waiter came with the drink and Petros indicated that it was for her, though he ordered another two. He didn't drink ouzo very often but when he did, quite soon got the taste for it. 'I think I just saw Garbo,' he said.

'What?'

'I think I just saw Garbo. In fact, I'm sure I did. She was with that Dutch chap who used to live up by us. You know. Queer bloke with a beard. Went to live with that English woman down the other end.'

'Don't be daft. Must be the ouzo. How many've you had?'

'I'd only had one when I saw them. I'm sure it was them.'

Inside, the apartment smelled of roses and violets, which helped to make Garbo feel a little more secure. The woman therein had a gentle, almost enticing voice, and made a fuss of her. Garbo felt much better. The woman and Egbert talked a little in Dutch and then the strangest thing of all happened. Egbert led the dog on to a spacious balcony, ostensibly to let her finish what she had begun in the lift, took off her beautiful collar, and went back inside, closing the door behind him. Naturally, Garbo 'did' nothing. The floor was much too shiny! Not much later, Egbert came out, put on her collar, and attached the leash. He and the woman said goodbye, and he and the dog left.

What goes up must come down, it is said. Suffice it also to say that, although the 'down' was, if anything, even more terrifying than the 'up', Garbo didn't disgrace herself again. Anyway, someone had been into the mirror-lined room and mopped the floor with bleach. At last the wall opened, and they were soon back on the street. Although the desire was great, Garbo held herself in. Then she recognised a scent and set to barking and straining at the leash, for she knew it was Jeanne. Egbert actually saw Jeanne and Petros sitting in the cafe, but he chose not to and pulled the dog back all the way to the car-park. Not until he had got out of the car, closed the heavy iron gates and let her out did poor Garbo finally get to relieve her uncomfortably distended bladder.

In Brussels, London, Athens, and even on The Island, it was mid-November. Everywhere, it was also Saturday. In Greece, it was mid-morning, fine and sunny. In Belgium, it was a bit earlier, overcast and chilly. In London, it was earlier still, black with cloud and, as they say, tipping it down. Eugene seemed still to be asleep, so William got up carefully and crept downstairs to make some tea. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil, the postman came. An electricity bill, a postcard from Eugene's sister on holiday in the Canary Islands, and a letter from Greece. He made the tea and put the two mugs and the post on a tray, easier to carry everything upstairs.

Eugene, who hadn't really been asleep when William rose, sat up. 'One of the nice things about you staying here is tea in bed,' he said.

'Thank you, kind sir. You got mail.' William set a mug on either bedside table and got back into bed still holding the post. 'Shouldn't think you'd want the bill,' he said, 'But there's a postcard from Conny. Why do they go away at such strange times?'

'Money. They go for bargains. What's the other one?'

'Don't know. It's got a Greek stamp.'

Eugene opened it and read, smiling, while William sipped his tea. At last he said, 'It's from old John. He says we can stay in his house in May, or, if we don't want to, he can find us an apartment downstairs.'

'I didn't realise he lived in an apartment block.'

Eugene also sipped a little tea. 'He doesn't,' he said. 'He has a lovely house with the best view in the World.' Then he 'clicked'. 'Oh, no! 'Downstairs' means in the village by the sea. You know. The one with the beach with the dunes.'

'O.K. I know. I've stayed there a lot more often than you have.'

'I've never stayed there.'

'It's nice. Quiet. But there's no bar, as far as I know.'

'I seem to remember quite a lot of bars.'

'Idiot! I mean no gay bar.'

Jeanne and Petros visited old John the day after their return and reported their approximate encounter with Garbo. Jeanne said, 'It was really odd. I'm sure Egbert saw us, but he pulled Garbo away as if he didn't want to. I can't think why. I know we haven't seen him for ages, but I can't think why he should want to avoid us. And why should he steal the dog? I'm sure you'd have given her to him if he'd asked.'

'I most certainly would.' The old man sipped ouzo and lit a cigarette, though not at quite the same time. 'As far as I was concerned, she was a pain in the bum. She didn't really want to know me, and I reckon she positively hated poor Yotta.' The little dog put her front paws on his knee and tried to look appealing. 'Egbert and Gerry are welcome to her.'

Petros said, 'Who's Gerry? I don't know him.'

'Her.' John indicated for Jeanne to re-fill his glass, which she did. 'The English woman he shares the house with is called Geraldine, Gerry for short.'

Jeanne topped up her own drink too and said, 'I thought he was . . . you know.'

'Oh, he is. He certainly is. But they're friends. Sometimes it works better like that.'

Jeanne blew Petros a kiss. 'But not always, does it, Love?'

Petros looked solemn and said, 'Probably not.'

Sunday dawned bright and clear. Egbert rose at first light, put on a wet-suit, and left the house. Garbo woke, but only momentarily, for such events were not unusual. He got into the car and drove away, down the track from the house, along the made road for a little, but then straight across country, though careful not to follow any previous tracks. Eventually, he parked among trees and low scrub a little away from a low cliff, took a camouflage-net from the boot, and threw it over the car. Then he descended the cliff.

At its foot was a rocky cove, a natural harbour, and in the harbour was a boat, a pretty substantial speedboat equipped for fishing. He lowered himself into the water, swam but a few strokes and hauled himself aboard. Half-way between the rocky cove and the Turkish coast, he stopped, let down the sea-anchor, and cast a fishing line. Once his instruments and his instinct were sure no other craft were in the area, he reeled in the line, and found he had a decent red mullet. He made a brief call on a mobile telephone, started the engine, and sped towards Turkey. There, he harboured in a cove not dissimilar to that he had left behind on The Island and waited. Not much later, a man appeared.

Egbert lowered himself into the water and swam the few meters to the shore. There, he and the man exchanged packages. Then he regained the boat, started the engine, and sped away. Again, half-way across, he paused and cast a line. A Greek coastguard boat approached, but ignored him. Once it was out of range, he took in the line and prepared to set off. Incidentally, he had caught another substantial fish.

He didn't go back to the cove, however. On his return, he took the boat to the marina in The Town. There he moored and registered it for the Winter as he had often done before. Then he went to the club-house, changed his clothes and, with his wet-suit in its valise, had a drink while he waited for a taxi to take him home.

The following morning, not nearly so early, Gerry came out first. She wore clothes suitable for serious hiking and she carried Garbo's leash. Garbo got up and wagged her tail. Gerry clipped on the leash, released the chain, and she and Garbo set out for a walk across country. Nevertheless, it wasn't much more than an hour before they came to the car. Gerry lifted the camouflage-net so she could open a back door and let Garbo in, then removed the net completely and stowed it in the boot. Considerably less than two hours after they had left, she and Garbo drove up to the house.