Giles kicks off his brogues and saunters over the thick-pile carpet. He’s got two champagne flutes in one hand, a bottle of Lanson in the other and a big box of chocolates tucked under his elbow.
“What are you after?” drawls Amanda as he begins to pour the champagne.
“Celebration time, darling,” says Giles. “My story won!”
She reaches for a glass. “And the Writers’ Group are splashing out on champers?”
“Hardly. The chocolates were the prize. Want one?” He waves the box under her nose and she randomly grabs a couple. “Typical Barry, eh? Not even wrapped. They’re probably knock-offs…”
“Hmmm,” says Amanda. Giles wishes he hadn’t mentioned Barry. He’s worried she’ll think he’s reminding her, yet again, of the affair, even though it’s all in the past. They munch chocolates and quaff champagne in silence. “What was it about, then? Your story?” she asks eventually.
“Oh, a Ukrainian woman and her children arriving in England. Missing her husband.”
“Not your usual sort of thing, is it?”
“No. Funnily enough, it was Barry suggested it. Indirectly. He said whoever wrote the most topical story would be sure to scoop the plebs’ votes. A clever plot or elegant style didn’t matter.”
“So what was Barry’s story about?” says Amanda, scoffing an orange crème.
“Oh, it was some ludicrous crime story about one chocolate in a box being laced with strychnine. It was implausible. I mean, how could you do that? If they were wrapped up? Tuck in, darling.”