on the end of the bed and frowned. ‘Your foot? There was nothing wrong with your foot at the party.’
‘Exactly. I’ve no idea what’s wrong with it. I’m due to have an X-ray later today.’ He paused. ‘Actually, Joe, there is something I’d like to ask you.’
‘What?’
‘Well, this is slightly embarrassing, but can you remind me how I got to the hospital? It’s a bit of a blur.’
‘We called you a taxi. Don’t you remember?’
‘Oh yes. I remember now.’ Simon felt his cheeks go hot.
‘And you didn’t want to go.’
‘I didn’t?’
‘Well. First things first. You fell on your hand during that game of Twister, and fainted. When you came round you insisted on staying at the party. You wanted to talk to Delphine.’
Simon groaned. ‘Go on.’
‘Anyway, your wrist was swelling, and so Fergus called a cab and packed you in it, gave the driver a tenner and told him to get you to the nearest hospital. And here you are.’
Joe opened the bag of grapes and stuck one in his mouth, looking around the ward as he did so.
‘So,’ said Simon eventually. ‘How is Delphine?’
‘Delphine? She’s fine, I think.’
‘Oh good.’
Simon reached across and took a grape himself. ‘Nice girl,’ he said as he inspected the skin of the grape closely.
‘Very nice,’ agreed Joe. ‘Pretty. Funny too. Apparently, she goes like a –’
‘– shit house door in a hurricane, yes, I know,’ said Simon miserably.
The bag of grapes was now shuttling up and down the bed between the two men. Well, this is an unusual situation, thought Simon. Here am I, trying to make small talk with this man, when the only two times we have interacted socially were firstly when he humiliated me completely in front of a room full of strangers and secondly when he farted so badly that I ended up in hospital. What does one say?
‘I thought Delphine was very nice,’ said Simon.
‘Mmm.’ Joe’s mouth was full.
Did she, Simon wanted to ask, mention me after I’d gone? Ask for my telephone number, that sort of thing?
He tried a different tack. ‘It’s hard to meet people properly at those sorts of parties, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘I suppose so,’ said Joe.
The grape bag scooted up the bed again.
‘Anyway,’ said Joe, ‘I never pull at parties.’
‘Pull? As in pull women?’
Joe nodded. ‘Never do it.’
Simon thought about this. ‘Neither do I, I suppose. It’s terribly difficult, isn’t it? It’s such an artificial situation. Go up to a girl at a party and start talking to her and you may as well be wearing a sign around your neck saying “Sad Bastard”. And women treat you accordingly, which is generally with enormous contempt.’
‘Actually, that’s not what I meant at all,’ said Joe. ‘It’s amazingly easy to pull at parties.’
‘Oh,’ said Simon.
‘You’re right, of course,’ continued Joe, ‘you may as well be wearing a sign around your neck, but that’s the beauty of it.’
Simon looked blank. ‘It is?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Joe. ‘Look. You’re at a party. You see this woman you want to talk to. And, because you’re at a party, you can. You can just wander up to her and start chatting about any fucking thing in the world, and it doesn’t matter – because you’re at a party. Normal rules don’t apply. If a woman goes to a party, she’s more or less signed up for the social chit-chat bit. She’ll be expecting it. It’s all part of the experience. She’s not going to tell you to bog off the moment you start speaking to her.’
Simon said nothing.
‘Now, if this woman gets bored with you a bit later on, then she can quite legitimately turn around and ask to be left alone. And that’s OK, too. That’s all part of the deal. At that point, you’ve had your chance, and you’ve blown it. But at least you got your chance. The party is a great social leveller. It’s a very democratic institution. Everyone has the chance for a go. It’s yours for the taking.’
Simon considered this. ‘If it’s so easy to pull at parties, then why don’t you?’
‘Because the problem with parties,’ replied Joe patiently, ‘is that, by definition, in order to be invited, you need to know someone else there. Or know someone who knows someone. Ultimately, unless either you or the woman is a gatecrasher, there will be some sort of connection, however indirect, between the two of you. Mutual friends, that sort of thing.’
Simon frowned. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Well,’ explained Joe. ‘Exactly that. If this woman is part of your circle, or part of your circle’s circle, then there’s always a risk that you’ll bump into her again afterwards.’
‘Afterwards?’
‘Yeah.’ Joe winked. ‘Afterwards.’
‘Oh. I see,’ said Simon after a few moments. ‘So tell me,’ he said. ‘If you don’t pull women at parties, where do you meet them?
‘The National Gallery,’ said Joe.
There was a pause.
‘What?’ said Simon eventually.
‘The National Gallery,’ said Joe. ‘It’s in Trafalgar Square.’
‘I know where it is,’ snapped Simon.
Joe reached into the bag and took another grape. ‘It’s the best place in London to meet women. Although you do need to do research.’
‘Research on what, exactly?’ Simon asked, distaste and curiosity growing at equal rates.
‘The paintings. I’ve established what sort of women stand in front of what sort of paintings. And then I wow them with some poetry. I’ve got different poems for each painting.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said Simon.
‘It’s true,’ said Joe, missing Simon’s point. ‘If I want to meet a gentle, nicely brought up girl who wears Laura Ashley skirts and reads Jane Austen novels, I go to Boating on the Seine by Renoir. Then I hang around until a suitable specimen turns up – I never have to wait more than a few minutes. Bit like buses. Anyway. So I’ll
