Coda honour

Vicky, Bad Lindy and I are waiting for a train after a brief, celebratory stop-off at a nice little waiter round the corner who, conveniently, comes with in-built wine bar ("I could listen to him croon that list of specials all night, couldn't you?" says Lindy. "No," we chorus rudely.)

The station is crowded with the walking inebriated who are still able to move at a fast stumble without vomiting. We're hoping that by now, all the concert goers are well on their way home.

"What about the phone you put in the briefcase?" I ask.

"What about it?" says Bad Lindy.

"Couldn't it be traced back to you?" I ask.

"No way," she says. "And the phone I called him on is registered to a small haybarn in Lithuania. I knew that private detective would come in useful."

"What private detective?"

"The policeman's wife hired him to discover if there was anything going on between us. He turned up on my doorstep to read the meters. I let him in and locked him in the cupboard under the stairs - they'd only been done the week before, so I knew he was a fake."

"How long did you lock him in there?"

"I dunno. Ten minutes or so. Well, as long as he took to find where I'd hidden the key."

"What were you doing in there with him?"

"What do you think?" says Lindy. "I never could resist a man in overalls."

"Or dungarees," says Vicky, "Or clothes. Or standing up, sitting down -"

"So, what about Colin?" continues Lindy, taking Vicky's comments as some sort of tribute. "Ra'll ditch him. Got to. It's embarrassing, crass, tasteless." She looks a little wistful for a mioment. "Shame to waste it, really, but there we are."

"He'll certainly find it hard to explain away," I say. "Mind you, should make for an interesting review. That is, if he ever gets round to writing it."

"He's like a jackal," says Vicky, indignantly. "Sneaking round and scraping up the fag ends of other people's marriages."

"No, he's not," says Ra, suddenly.

"No, I'm not," says Colin, popping up behind her. "And what's more, I resent that."