'That's Scotland,' said Israel.

'Ulster Says No!'

'Well, you got there in the end.'

'They're all sorted over there now, aren't they?' said Danny.

'You could call it sorted,' said Israel.

'Why's it called Ulster?' said Ben. 'I always thought that was a funny name.'

'Ulster is actually one of the four ancient provinces of the whole of Ireland,' said Israel. 'Three of the counties of the historic Ulster are a part of the Republic and-'

'Oooh,' said Danny. 'Who's been boning up on his Irish history then?'

'It's actually part of British history.'

'He's gone over,' said Danny. 'He's one of them now.'

'I have not gone over. I'm just-'

'He has. Are you voting for Sinn Féin?'

'No, I am not voting for Sinn Féin.'

'Well, you bloody well should be,' said Danny. 'They're much better than the other lot, aren't they?'

'The Scottish National Party?' said Ben.

'It's Northern Ireland,' said Israel.

'Plenty of crack then?' said Danny. 'The old ceilidhs and-'

'Oh yes, plenty of crack,' said Israel, irritably. 'Loads of it. The whole place is coming down with crack.'

'All right,' said Danny. 'I was only asking. It was a joke.'

'Right.'

'When are you moving back then?' asked Danny.

'I don't know at the moment,' said Israel. 'Soon. But I just wanted to ask-'

Israel couldn't understand why they weren't exactly following what he was saying, and why they were talking to him like he wasn't actually there, but then he noticed: Danny had his right hand under the table; he was texting. And Ben was texting too. They weren't listening. And they weren't talking. They were neither here nor there. They were double-tasking.

'Sorry,' said Ben, looking up.

'When are you going to tell him your news then?' said Danny.

'My news?' said Ben.

'The news.'

'Oh, the news. Yeah. I'm getting married.'

'No!'

'Yes.'

'Congratulations. Let me shake your hand.' They shook hands. 'To Louise?'

'No,' said Danny. 'He dumped her, and he's marrying a call girl he met in a bar.'

'Yes,' said Ben wearily, 'to Lou. That was her on the-'

'That's great, mate; when's the big day?'

'October. You and Gloria will be invited, of course.'

'Super. Great.'

'And how is the fragrant Gloria?' asked Danny.

'She's fine,' said Israel.

'You're still…'

'Oh, yeah. Yeah.'

'You sure?' said Danny with a smirk.

'Difficult being apart?' said Ben.

'It's fucking impossible if you're apart!' said Danny.

'Ignore him,' said Ben.

'Yeah, it's-' began Israel.

'When the cat's away the mice will play, eh?' said Danny.

'Erm…'

'Only to be expected,' said Danny.

'He's just jealous,' said Ben.

'Ooh!' said Danny, checking his phone again. 'You'll perhaps excuse me if I leave you ladies to discuss your scintillating love lives while I get more coffee.'

'He's published his book, you know,' said Ben, when Danny was out of earshot. Danny had been talking about his book for years. Talking about it had in fact been all he'd done until now.

'Oh.' Danny was insufferable before-but now! Oh God. 'What's it like?' said Israel.

'Postmodern Allegories?' said Ben.

'Is that what's it's called?'

'Yeah. With a question mark.'

'Oh God.'

'He gave me a copy,' said Ben.

'He didn't send me a copy,' said Israel.

'You're lucky.'

'Why? What's it like?'

'It got great reviews,' said Ben. 'In the TLS someone called him a genius.'

'Oh no,' said Israel, finishing off his espresso.

'I wouldn't say it was a book for the general reader.'

'Really?' Israel felt himself to be no longer the general but rather the common reader.

'Suffice it to say that the acknowledgements run to two pages, the first chapter is called the "H-brackets-Owl of Minerva" and it's all about Facebook and MySpace, and virtual worlds, and Philip K. Dick, and contemporary American fiction, and he constructs this sort of argument based on Lacan, and Slavoj 017Di017Eek, and he uses the word "meta-epistemic".'

'Wow.'

'In his first paragraph.'

'Wow.'

'Twice.'

'Shit,' said Israel.

'Precisely,' said Ben. 'But don't tell him I said so.'

And then, as quickly as he had emerged into conversation, Ben disappeared back into the privacy of texting. And Israel twiddled his thumbs. He had no one to text: Gloria was not replying.

Danny's book. Ben getting married…

'Anyway,' said Danny, returning. 'Here we all are again. We're like the fucking Inklings, aren't we, eh?'

Israel couldn't quite remember who the Inklings were: were they a cappella, or was that the Ink Spots?

'So what are you planning while you're over?'

'Well,' began Israel, 'I was…' He hesitated, fatally, for a moment, trying to decide how to explain his predicament, and Danny stepped straight into the breach, cappuccino pint aloft.

'You want to know what I'm planning? I'll tell you. I'm planning to get laid.'

'Well,' said Israel, 'that is a very noble ambition.'

'Thank you,' said Danny.

'Actually, boys,' said Ben, 'I've got to go here. I'm meeting Louise in John Lewis-we've got to sort out the wedding list.'

'Right,' said Israel. 'Actually, I just wanted to-'

Ben was already up out of his seat. 'The planning, honestly, it would drive you-'

'You've got to leave it to the ladies,' said Danny.

'I'll maybe catch up with you again before you go?' said Ben, more as a question than a promise.

'Sure, yeah,' said Israel. 'And congratulations again, on the wedding. Send my love to Louise.'

'Yeah.'

And then Ben turned his back and was gone, still texting.

Which left Israel with Danny. Maybe Danny could help him to work out what to do about the van. And about Gloria. Maybe Danny would understand.

'Are you putting on weight, or is it my imagination?' said Danny.

'Actually,' said Israel, feeling a headache coming on, 'I've got to get back too.'

'But I haven't told you about my book yet.'

'Yeah, sorry. Maybe next time.'

'Okay,' said Danny, 'suit yourself.' It didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. He'd already switched from under-table phone to on-the-table BlackBerry.

'Bye then,' said Israel.

Danny was already deep into scanning his e-mails. 'Yeah,' he said, without looking up. 'Sure.'

Walking back home, Israel no longer observed the dramas unfolding around him. His head was down, and his heart, and he felt like shit, and indeed when he reached his street he noticed that the pavement outside his mother's house seemed to have been smothered in what he thought at first was green and white paint, Jackson Pollock-style, but which on closer inspection he realised was in fact pigeon shit, in a kind of Off-White and Heritage Green, the Heritage Green the green of drawing rooms in gentlemen's clubs and of old libraries and leather armchairs, and the Off-White a white somewhere between the white of fine china and the white-blonde hair of beautiful women; and stepping around these colours and associations, and into the gutter, onto the sleeping policeman, inches from the oncoming traffic, and yards from his childhood home, only reminded Israel once again of the many lives he did not lead, and the friends he no longer had.

Frankly, he might as well have been rubbing his nose in it.

He texted Gloria.

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