Right. So everyone's got secrets, is that it? That's not difficult to fathom; he's got secrets too. A long-ago conversation wedges itself into his memory. A girlfriend, Lucie was her name, sitting on a bench with an unfortunate view of the Tate. What's the point, Alvo, she asked, when you don't tell me what you're thinking and I don't tell you what I'm thinking? His answer was brief, filled with sudden realisation: no point, Lucie, I'll walk you home, then? and that was that. Human nature being what it is, that's a mistake he's not particularly eager to make again here.

But honestly. "A haircut, Quinn? That's all, then? It must be an exciting life you're leading."

He shouldn't, but the words fall out and as always, he shrugs them back. "And Woody's quietly seeing someone whose name he's not giving up -- well done, well done -- and Bax's girls are getting to that age where they'll be asking for the car keys, won't they, lucky thing business is booming. And it's damp and cold here. I say that's all worth drinking to. Come on, yeah?" He lifts his glass. "To you three. And to absent friends." If Rick had managed to be here, it's quite possible there would be actual fireworks and he's tempted to ask Quinn if he's seen Nina, but even he's not that big a fool.

At least the ale is decent enough. Get a few rounds in all of them, and he might have an idea to put forward. See how it suits these three.