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... attention. Jane now saw in Charlie not just a man who also thought David Tennant was the better Dr Who and that Chris Evans was now a better disc jockey than when he’d been as a younger man, but also that there was something heroic, even noble, about him. And it was with this generous thought that Jane took the glass of wine from Charlie and dipped her fingers into one of the packets of exotically flavoured crisps that Charlie ripped open onto the table. “Have you been to this pub often?” Jane asked. “Just a couple of times,” said Charlie suddenly quite sheepishly. “With Bob and Sam.”—Charlie’s friends that he so often namechecked on Facebook—“Sam works near here. He’s a cashier at the Santander Bank on the high street.” “And you, Charlie?” asked Jane, as she sipped from her glass. “Where do you work?” “Erm,” he said. “I’m a back room kind of guy. I work in accounts. I’m a clerk for a small accounting firm. Bradshaw & Wilkins. You won’t have heard of them.” “Back room…?” “Yes,” said Charlie, who avoided Jane’s eyes. “I’m not what you would call a customer-facing kind of guy…” This was the first time that either of them had alluded to the very obvious aspect of Charlie that was so difficult to discuss and which must have been at least as uppermost in Charlie’s mind as it was in Jane’s. Nevertheless, Jane’s currently generous, even magnanimous, nature dominated over her more selfish, reflexive revulsion. So what if Charlie wasn’t perfect! Who was? Few of her male colleagues ...

... at the office would pass muster as a television heart-throb and she’d never been bothered by that before. And Jane wasn’t so young and beautiful herself these days: more’s the pity. In any case, she was enjoying herself in the New Inn with Charlie as they discussed whether Holby was better than ER , whether She’s Got Mail was a better film than Sleepless in Seattle , and whether Heart or Magic FM were better than BBC Radio 2 despite the adverts. “I used to listen to Radio One when I was a teenager,” Jane admitted as she sipped the last of her white wine. “I couldn’t listen to it now. What do teenagers think when they hear, what’s his name, Dizzee Rascal? And how can anyone dance to that so-called electronic dance music? It’s just like a quarrel between a pair of road-drills…” “…Or like a motor-bike revving up,” said Charlie who had finished the last dregs of his lager several minutes earlier; not that he was a fast drinker. In fact, neither of them consumed their drinks with any enthusiasm, but it had loosened their tongues and made the evening that much more convivial. “If we were younger, we’d probably be heading off to a night club now,” remarked Jane. “Perhaps if we took whatever it is that young people take we’d enjoy that sort of music more…” “I don’t think so,” admitted Charlie. “Even when I was younger, I preferred a good song with a good tune and a good singer; not this techno or hip hop stuff. Besides I never could dance that well…” “Neither could I,” returned Jane, ...