Thom came for the afternoon with his diary under his arm. We were meant to be fishing off the coast but as I made him lemonade in the kitchen we banged heads. He seemed to have grown taller, more angular, all sharp elbows and quick gestures and so when, accidentally, we banged heads next to the fridge it left me, unaccountably, in an awful mood, as if we were mirroring the others' frustration and even a clash of heads couldn't return us to ourselves. So I was happy to drop the fishing and doze in the garden while he furiously scribbled in the diary. Yet, while half asleep I was also aware that Thom wanted a reaction. His diary writing had become almost performative. He would lurch forwards, backwards, then wave his arms around as if were conducting an orchestra rather than writing his most inner thoughts. Then suddenly he coughed loudly and went indoors. His diary was left open on the table. I wondered if he was now watching me from a window so I pretended to fall into a deep sleep. Clearly, there was something he wanted to tell me, but I would have to read his diary to know it, and all the while he would be watching me from an upstairs window, possibly filming it. What had happened to my son? I was toying with a despair for him while balancing it with admiration for his cunning when, suddenly, he burst out the back door with a pair of shoes in his hands. Now, shoes matter to us. When I lived in the family home Thom and I used to polish our shoes every sunday night. It was a quiet, soulful ritual and one I tried to maintain with him since the divorce. He looked almost distraught.

What happened to your shoes?

I have a pregnant client, Thom. She threw up over them.

He nodded, weighing this information slowly. For a moment it seemed as if his recent intensity had given him a clear insight into the truth or falsity of everything I said. In fact, the word client had thrown him and he was actually trying to remember what job I do. We looked at the shoes, as if they held the truth. I hadn't noticed, but he was also carrying the shoe polish kit. I always chose a light tan for the brogues. You'll need a darker hue for that, he said.

Thom? You're right.

And so, he kneeled down and we set to. Me, polishing my shoes for the morning and him, for the new school term, a few weeks away.

Helen's Polo was outside, no one in the kitchen. Slowly, I went up the stairs and gently pushed her door. She was at the window, watering her plant.

Therapy taught me to fight back, she said.

It taught me to forgive, I replied, too quickly.

Was this even true? Only in the most metaphysical sense. Had I not forgiven God for leaving me motherless at nine, for leaving me and my Dad to bring each other up? My forgiveness had been for the facticity of life itself. But I had never been in Helen's position. I had never been in a room with a watering can, trying to forgive a real person. But how much water did this plant need? I considered taking her elbow, and imagined myself gently lifting the can.

Ah, she was crying. What had I done? Had she not mentioned a pervy uncle at a workshop? Had I regressed her? She put the can down and came towards me. This was good, I could work with this, turn my unlovely grope into a deeper process of healing other, far worse traumas. Perhaps she had even precipitated the whole incident? Was I also the victim here? Possibly the main victim? Pulled in by my collar, doomed to repeat her unresolved issues?

She reached out to me, as if she wanted to feel the quality of my shirt, a gesture familiar to our foreplay. I wiped a tear from her cheek, the space condemning us to gentleness. I took a step back as if to prove I could restrain myself. Was that wrong? Her eyes and smile returned to her face. She stepped back, too, retreating into ancient hurt and, simultaneously, the defensive team protecting it. Smiling she said, shall we talk later? I was done for. I left quickly, as if Gareth were there, ushering me out the door.

Yesterday I cancelled my clients. This morning I walked by the sea. But surely that's why it was invented, no? To accompany our moods? It yields to everyone who needs a friend. A friend? I needed a lawyer.

Sweat on my neck. I took off my coat, then my jumper, my trousers, my tee shirt was soaking. Standing on the pebbles, I knew my pants looked ridiculous. Fuck it, I took them off too, and ran crashing into the sea. Why did I not think of this yesterday?

The gulls were screaming. What terrors did they see at dawn? Last nights dream, like a mist trying to condense on my brain, but no. It wouldn't settle. I swam out further, as if the dream lay on the horizon, near the coast of France. The shrill of the gull, pulverising itself. I turned back and began to remember the dream.

I was in a gallery. Musee d' Orsay? It was a Degas nude, one of his women bathers, washing herself in an old tin bath. She was leaning over, scrubbing her back. But I wasn't alone with this Degas. A security guard was standing to my left.

How much does it cost? I asked, as if the saturday boy had forgotten to price it up.

Thirty seven pence, he said. I thought this was probably beyond my means but I knew there was some money rattling in my pocket, so I took it out. Mmm, possibly. Could he see his way to doing it for thirty pence? He nodded, as if resigned. There were a lot of my kind around these days, and if he was going to make a living, he'd have to suffer it. Thirty pence it was. So I pulled out the pennies but the coins were not coins, they were Gareth's teeth. Slowly I counted out thirty of my colleague's teeth, the security guard watched me closely, then scooped the teeth into his own pocket. Carefully, I took the Degas off the wall, nodded again to the guard, and walked out.

I'll interpret the dream later, I thought. And so, feeling as though that were the only thing left in my life, I dried myself with my pants.

Who goes there? An early morning jogger with his headphones. How many cocoons does a man need? But even he is sweating, the drops falling into his tragic mouth.

No, I have to face Helen. I mean, what's the fuss. We've been friends, colleagues, lovers. What's a grab and a feel, next to that, all that history?What's the worst that can happen? And she has a big heart, Helen. Under a certain legal demeanour she has a wide appreciation of human need, and it's excess. But I did wonder, as I threw my pants back into the sea, that maybe she reserves that grace for her clients, possibly not her friends, definitely not her lovers. I really was in the shit.

Two days of brandy.

In the kitchen, my hands shaking. The hangover had yet to start. The floor was rolling under me and I could only gather every third word Helen was saying. It must have been 9 o'clock. I was stinking drunk and could've peeled wallpaper with my breath and I wasn't sure she had noticed. She was talking about a mutual friend, then another and another, till it felt there were thirty people having coffee in the kitchen with us. My mind's not right. My brain was kissed with an insanity and only by clasping Helen's arse could anything be salvaged, and so I lunged at her. My God! She pushed me off, splattering coffee all over my shirt. What are you doing...? I was staring at her, as if searching for answers, panting like a dog, perhaps dimly aware that dogs could be forgiven these things. Get away from me! The more I stared, the greater the space for her anger. I had to leave the room, quickly. But some slow awareness that I may have assaulted her prevented me moving. Oh fucking hell, she said. That felt like the height of her anger and so possibly if I carried on staring at her she would leave the room and, in a week or two, I could plead insanity. She walked out of the kitchen and Gareth came in. My best hope was to vomit over my shoes, so I did.

Client R.

How long will we play this game?

She has colour for every occasion but I always felt her autumnal choices were worn for me and so it was, my desire became an impatience.

You're pregnant.

What! No I am not!

Yes you are.

I am not! Oh god, that's actually...

Yes you are.

So humiliating!

She simulated such wonder, shaking her head, such bafflement. Oh god. The insincerity of her display confirmed the pregnancy, but I also sensed her joy in being uncovered. I began to wonder if, after all these years, this was the start of my seduction. But I could still hear my own voice:

I have been on this planet for forty eight years. I know when a woman is pregnant and if forty eight years doesn't help me then I have also written a book on the subject. Why will you not tell me? It's wasting my time and your money and, frankly, I have had enough. It's the professor's baby, isn't it?

No, it isn't.

Yes, it is.

No, it isn't.

So you admit you're pregnant. It's the professor's isn't it?

No, it's not.

Yes, it is.

No...Ok, yes, it is. It's HIS ALRIGHT!

It was the most deeply unprofessional session of my whole working life.

Axel? I will write the book.

There was no point in calling the hospitals in Hamburg. Axel has the money and  reach to have every base covered. Besides, I wasn't remotely surprised to find, ringing his home on the Reeperbahn, that he was released from hospital, recuperating, taking calls and, while feeling tired and weak, a bit chesty and spleenish, absolutely fully recovered. If I am going to be manipulated by anyone on this earth, I'd rather it were Axel. Like his demented niece in Berlin, this brush with death was entirely fictional. But it got me thinking. Perhaps I owed him something, perhaps I owed the world? Had I not taken enough pleasure from it all? I wasn't worried about losing my free pass to the boat party. A lapse in taste, possibly, or a loss of vigour would count against me there. Probably I'd have to commit an historical atrocity to register my presence amongst the international financers, thieves, princes and diplomats who charm his circle. No, if anything, I am considered a balanced, serious, a decently withdrawn presence on the boat. And besides, Axel needs me there almost as a totem of conscience. I am one of those he chooses to share a few words with before the festivities begin. We always mention the lunatic niece in Berlin. As a nod to my calling, he requires my assurance that he is doing his best by her, poor thing. He will close his eyes solemnly and, from this set piece, our enormous transgressions can begin.  No, no. I wasn't concerned about losing my pass to the boat party. But Axel's imaginary illness reminded me of my father dying, the escalation of his last hours. How can anyone really fake anything? If this was not the end, then it was the image of the end. If anything is serious, it's the games we play. And so it was, I called Axel, soaring with an almost transpersonal sense of owing him, if not the world, something true of myself.

Oh, by the way, I'll throw in the Chorier, he said.

2nd message. George was cooking supper. Was I hungry? Since ignoring Axel's message, I had felt heavy, inert. I was reminded of my days smoking the O. It was as though I were a quarter pipe down. This mild trance was also faintly voyeuristic and I kept checking the neighbours windows for a glance of flesh. Before going to George I took a brandy into the garden and lay on the grass. From the corner of my eye I could see my fruit trees required attention. The rain had swelled the buds to breaking. The secateurs were here, on the grass somewhere. Should I prune or not? I allowed the weight of the decision to pass.

I liked to watch George fuss around in the kitchen. I gathered he enjoyed being watched, too, for he always seemed to have a new apron. Obviously, we had come a long way since we met at the members club. It was an absolutely sumptuous feast of chilli crab with a Rojak salad, Singaporean recipes that his Thai girlfriend had given him. She had recently returned to Thailand and he was happy to report they were getting on better than ever. When we met, George and I were bonding in despair over our divorces and, even now, irony was the air we breathed. Then, a misunderstanding. We were drinking the last of the brandy when George said he was going to the kitchen to get desert. I said no, surely not, haven't we had enough? He sat down, his face crumpled. I realise now, driving home, that he hadn't said anything about desert. He had been talking about Thailand- and going back there to find another girlfriend.

3rd message.  Guten Abend. Ich fordere, dass ihr freund Axel im krankenhaus. Er ist sehr krank aber er sagt, sie mussen sich keine Gedanken. Er wird bald besser. Danke.

This was bad, whatever it was, it was bad. Gertrude was no bearer of good news. It was late and I was drunk but I rang Thom. Serena answered, he was in bed, it's late. Why is it always Serena answering the door, the phone, pulling the blinds. It was while picturing the servility of this relationship in sexual terms that my heart leapt with joy. Thom had grabbed the phone. What is it, Dad? I need you to translate something for me. Wait, I'll get changed. No, Thom, we'll do it over the phone. I still need to get changed. I'll call you back, he said. Why did he need to dress properly? I had an image of him in twenty years as an international spy. Maybe he was checking out the hallway, listening for possible lesbianism, making a safe room for me, his agent. The image felt like a memory. Dad, shoot. I played the message down the line. The force of his concentration seemed to weaken my grasp on the phone.

It's Gertrude! Oh no, she says Axel's ill.

The news upset Thom so I tried steering the conversation back to him, to school, his Holocaust project.  After all, he had just got changed. He mentioned a rained off hockey practice. Hockey? Actually, Thom. I was drunk, interrupting him. Can you give me a word for word translation? I played the tape again.

Good Evening. I am calling to say that your friend Axel is in hosptial. He is very ill but he says you must not worry about him. He says he will be better soon. Thank you.