'No one noticed except me,' I insisted.

It's about time you had a new suit. Or what about grey flannels and a dark blue blazer? You could wear that outfit to the office.'

'I don't want a new suit or blazer and flannels, and if I did buy new clothes I wouldn't buy them for the office.'

'You'd look good in a blazer.'

I never knew when she was serious and when she was goading me. 'Wouldn't I need a badge on the pocket?'

'Alcoholics Anonymous?' she said.

'Very droll.'

'I've bought a lovely dress,' she confessed. 'Lilac with big puff sleeves.' So that was really it. That little preamble about me having a new suit was just to assuage her guilt about spending money on a dress.

'Good,' I said.

That wasn't enough to put her at her ease. 'I didn't have a long dress, and I didn't want to rent one.'

'Good. Good. I said good.'

'You are a pig, darling.'

I kissed her ear and grunted.

'Don't do that when I'm driving.'

The Cruyers' dinner party must have been planned for weeks. At previous dinners his wife Daphne – an unenthusiastic cook – could be seen dashing in and out of the kitchen, sipping champagne between stirring the saucepans, referring to cookery books and hissing instructions to Dicky. But this time they had some gravelly-voiced old fellow to open the door and breathe alcohol fumes upon all arriving guests; and an elderly lady, attired in full chefs outfit, complete with toque, to do whatever was happening in the kitchen. There was a smell of boiled fish as she peered out of the kitchen to see us in the hallway. Whether she was counting the dinner guests or checking on the old man's sobriety was unresolved by the time the doorbell sounded behind us.

There was soft guitar music trickling out of the hi-fi. 'We tried to get Paul Bocuse,' Dicky was saying as we moved into the crowded drawing room, 'but he sent his sous-chef instead.' Dicky turned to greet us and said, 'Gloria, cherie! How spiffing you look!' in the fruity voice he used to tell jokes. He gave her a deferent, stand-off kiss on both cheeks to avoid spoiling her make-up.

'And Bernard, old sport!' he said, his tone suggesting that it was an interesting coincidence that Gloria and I should arrive together. 'No need to introduce you to anyone here. Circulate! It's chums only tonight.'

Most of the people must have already consumed a glass or two of wine, for there was that shrill excitement that comes from drinking on an empty head. Daphne Cruyer came across to greet us. I'd always liked Daphne. In a way I shared with her the problem of putting up with Dicky every day. She never said as much, of course, but I sometimes thought I detected that same fellow-feeling for me.

Daphne had been an art student when she first met Dicky. She had never entirely recovered from either experience. Tonight the drawing room was elaborately decorated with Japanese lanterns and paper fish. I guessed it was Daphne's purchase of her amazing rainbow-patterned silk kimono that had prompted this formal gathering. I would hardly think it was prompted by Dicky's new white slubbed-silk dinner jacket. But you could never be sure.

Daphne asked me how I was, with that unusual tone of voice that suggested she really wanted to know. In an effort to reciprocate this kindness I didn't tell her. Instead I admired her kimono and her Madame Butterfly hairdo. She'd bought the kimono on holiday in Tokyo. They'd gone on a ten-day trip to Japan together with their well-travelled neighbours. I would never have guessed how much you pay for a cup of coffee on the Ginza but Daphne had adored every moment of it, even the raw fish. She said Gloria was looking well. I agreed and reflected upon the fact that it had taken over three years for the Cruyers to decide that Gloria and I were socially acceptable as a couple, and that this momentous decision had coincided with the moment I learned that my wife was about to return.

'Dicky said everything in the office got into a terrible muddle when you went away,' said Daphne.

'I think it did,' I agreed.

'Dicky became awfully moody. Awfully withdrawn. I felt sorry for him.'

'I came back,' I said.

'And I'm glad,' said Daphne. She smiled. I wondered how much Dicky had told her about my time on the run in Berlin. Nothing I hoped: but it wouldn't be the first time that Daphne had wormed information out of him. She was awfully clever at handling Dicky. I should get her to give me a few lessons.

'We built on to the attic,' said Daphne. 'I have a little studio upstairs now. You must see it next time you're here.'

'For painting?'

'Still-life pictures: fruit and flowers and so on. Dicky wants me to go back to doing abstracts. But he was always adding blobs of colour to them. I got so angry with him that I finally went back to fruit and flowers. Dicky is such a meddler. I suppose you know that.'

'Yes, I do.'

When Daphne had moved on I said my hellos to everyone including Sir Giles Streeply-Cox – a retired Foreign Office man – and his wife. 'Creepy-Pox' with his sanguine complexion and bushy white sideburns might have been mistaken for a prosperous farmer until one heard that baroque Whitehall accent. Nowadays he grew roses between visits to London where he chaired a Civil Service interview board and prowled around the more languorous latitudes of Whitehall spreading alarm and despondency. Like all such senior officials and politicians he had a prodigious memory. He remembered me from another dinner party not so long before. 'Young Samson isn't it? Saw you at that gathering at that girl Matthews' little place. Nouvelle cuisine wasn't it? Ummm I thought it was. Don't get enough to eat, what?' The Streeply-Coxes certainly got around.

He leaned close to me and said, 'Tell me something, Samson. Do you know the name of this damned tune?'

'It's called " Cordoba ",' I said. 'Albeniz; played by Julian Bream.' I answered authoritatively because after purchasing his hi-fi Dicky had played it over and over to demonstrate the track selector.

'Catchy little piece,' said Streeply-Cox. He looked at his wife and nodded before adding, 'My wife said you were a know-all.'

'I try, Sir Giles,' I said and moved away murmuring about getting another glass of wine.

Once clear of the dreaded Streeply-Cox I decided that finding another glass of champagne wouldn't be a bad idea. I waylaid the old man with the drinks and then took a moment or two to look around. The same rather battered painting of Adam and Eve dominated the fireplace. Dicky always called it naïf in an attempt to give it class but to my eyes it was just badly drawn. The framed colour photo of Dicky's boat had gone. That rather confirmed the rumours I'd heard about him putting it up for sale. Daphne had never been happy about that boat. She was rather prone to sea-sickness and yet if she didn't join Dicky on his nautical weekends she knew there was a risk that some other female would share the captain's cabin.

The antique cabinet that had once held a collection of matchbox covers now held a Japanese dagger, some netsuke and an assortment of other small oriental artefacts. On the wall behind it there were six framed woodblock prints, including the inevitable 'Breaking Wave'. They'd fitted a fine mesh screen across the artificial coal fire. I suppose too many people threw litter into it. Dicky was always on his knees, clawing cigarette butts and screwed up scraps of paper from the plastic coal.

I reflected that every decoration in the room was new except the Adam and Eve that Daphne had found in a flea market in Amsterdam. It was a sign of the Cruyers' widening horizons and deepening pockets. I wondered how long Adam and Eve would last and what they'd be replaced with. Adam was already looking a bit apprehensive.

It was while trying to decide about the expression upon the face of Eve that I spotted my errant sister-in-law Tessa, and her husband George Kosinski. They were both dressed up to the nines, but even Tessa in her Paris model-gown didn't excel the stupendous Gloria, who looked more enchanting than ever.