First of all — actually, first of all and last of all — this business about not sleeping with Ian. How do I know she's telling the truth? She could have been sleeping with him for weeks, months, for all I know. And anyway, she only said that she hasn't slept with him yet, and she said that on Saturday, five days ago. Five days! She could have slept with him five times since then! (She could have slept with him twenty times since then, but you know what I mean,) And even if she hasn't, she was definitely threatening to. What does "yet" mean, after all? "I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs yet." What does that mean? It means you're going to go, doesn't it?

"Barry, if I were to say to you that I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs yet, what would that mean?"

Barry looks at me.

"Just . . . come on, what would it mean to you? That sentence? 'I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs yet?'"

"To me, it would mean that you're a liar. Either that or you've gone potty. You saw it twice. Once with Laura, once with me and Dick. We had that conversation about who killed Mr. Pink or whatever fucking color he was."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But say I hadn't seen it and I said to you, 'I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs yet,' what would you think?"

"I'd think, you're a sick man. And I'd feel sorry for you."

"No, but would you think, from that one sentence, that I was going to see it?"

"I'd hope you were, yeah, otherwise I would have to say that you're not a friend of mine."

"No, but—"

"I'm sorry, Rob, but I'm struggling here. I don't understand any part of this conversation. You're asking me what I'd think if you told me that you hadn't seen a film that you've seen. What am I supposed to say?"

"Just listen to me. If I said to you—"

—" 'I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs yet,' yeah, yeah, I hear you—"

"Would you . . . would you get the impression that I wanted to see it?"

"Well . . . you couldn't have been desperate, otherwise you'd have already gone."

"Exactly. We went first night, didn't we?"

"But the word yet. . . yeah, I'd get the impression that you wanted to see it. Otherwise you'd say you didn't fancy it much."

"But in your opinion, would I definitely go?"

"How am I supposed to know that? You might get run over by a bus, or go blind, or anything. You might go off the idea. You might be broke. You might just get sick of people telling you you've really got to go."

I don't like the sound of that. "Why would they care?"

"Because it's a brilliant film. It's funny, and violent, and it's got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in it, and everything. And a cracking sound track."

Maybe there's no comparison between Ian sleeping with Laura and Reservoir Dogs after all. Ian hasn't got Harvey Keitel and Tim Roth in him. And Ian's not funny. Or violent. And he's got a crap sound track, judging from what we used to hear through the ceiling. I've taken this as far as it will

But it doesn't stop me worrying about the "yet."

1 call Laura at work.

"Oh, hi, Rob," she says, like I'm a friend she's pleased to hear from (1. I'm not a friend. 2. She's not pleased to hear from me. Apart from that . . .) "How's it going?"

I'm not letting her get away with this we-used-to-go-out-but-everything's-OK-now stuff.

"Bad, thanks." She sighs.

"Can we meet? There're some things you said the other night that I wanted to go over."

"I don't want . . . I'm not ready to talk about it all again yet."

"So what am I supposed to do in the meantime?" I know how I'm sounding—whiny, whingey, bitter—but I don't seem to be able to stop myself.

"Just . . . live your life. You can't hang around waiting for me to tell you why I don't want to see you anymore."

"So what happened to us maybe getting back together?"

"I don't know."

"Because the other night you said that might happen." I'm getting nowhere fast here, and I know she's not in the right frame of mind to grant any concessions, but I push it anyway.

"I said nothing of the kind."

"You did! You did! You said there was a chance! That's the same as 'might'!" Jesus. This is truly pitiful.

"If you don't want me to call you at work, maybe you should give me your home number. I'm sorry, Laura, but I'm not going to put the phone down until you've agreed to meet up for a drink. I don't see why things should be on your terms all the time."

She gives a short, bitter laugh. "OK, OK, OK, OK, OK, OK. Tomorrow night? Come down and get me at the office." She sounds utterly defeated.

"Tomorrow night? Friday? You're not busy? Fine. Great. It'll be nice to see you." But I'm not sure she hears the positive, conciliatory, sincere bit at the end. She's hung up by then.