This would never happen in fiction. Filthy, sweat-incrusted clothes wouldn't need washing or dry-cleaning. Instead of Pizza Rapido, a gourmet meal would appear on the table (and disappear again afterwards leaving the kitchen clean again). Oh, and my apartment would look all kinda neat. I like 'tidy', just not 'tidying'. Difference.

I might give the impression to Sam that I'm a guy who eats junk food and live like a slob, and I guess that from the only time he's been in here that's how it looked. I can't blame him, but it doesn't mean I don't like something better. I just don't put it high on the list of Keel priorities when I crawl back home after long hours, long days, and long flights.

So what do I do when I finally put the key in the lock? Well apart from saying 'I'm home, honey' to an empty space and only a photograph for company?

In fact, what do I do with time off, period?

Well, I talk to Sam sometimes over a drink after work, as we seem to be getting on pretty well after only a few weeks together. We criticise Malone and anybody else we feel deserves it, plus some who probably don't. We discuss cases, or argue about British English and the improved version from my side of the Pond. It's all trivial stuff but although I'll never admit it I'm getting kinda used to the weird sense of humour they have over here.

Otherwise, I listen to music or watch Britain's excuse for TV and pretend I'm not brooding, all ready to be Bouncy Keel when it's time to be one of Malone's best (or worst) again. I've even dated twice, but that's a minefield in this job. I'd say that was a problem, but sometimes it's almost a relief.

But there has to be more than this to life, right? I have two whole days to fill.

I need a social life. I need it now. I'm not talking about one-night stands or a movie or even drinks with the usual team either.

No, forget the 'social', I need a life.

Jesus, I hate domestic stuff. I had enough of that in the Navy, although it didn't seem tough then. That was then. This is now. And I have no idea how the goddamned washing machine works and whether this is a small load. What's crease-resistant?

This is a crisis – I'm low on everything and slob I may be, but I like clean clothes. What's the difference between a fast spin and a short spin while we're on the subject?

Sam would know, of course. I reach for my mobile to ask him almost without thinking and then stop. This is Saturday. A weekend. A weekend off so he's got better things to do.

I'm rather sure Mr. Tidy Brit has already been busy with the vacuum cleaner, dishwasher and has ironed a dozen shirts before I crawled out of bed at nine thirty, too. I just get that feeling about him.

Of course he'll also be rushing off to do something interesting with two days off ahead of him. That's normal. I'm obviously not normal.

My finger hovers over the rapid-dial key again and this time I decide he might not have left to go do… what the hell does he do when he's not working? He works out, sure, but that's all I do know.

I can't believe I've never asked. Or that he's never told me – but then I guess we aren't exactly on that level.

Before I get too far into that line of thought, he picks up.

"Busy with the apron and duster?" I ask.

"Done," he says predictably. "Bet yours isn't."

I look around me as if it might have gotten tidy without me noticing.

"It is, sorta." I decide on a half-truth. I was thinking about the washing machine, wasn't I? Which, of course, was why I called, so I explain the problem.

"For a guy who used to fly jets," Sam says calmly, "I wonder why household appliances scare the shit out of you. Shall I come over?"

I start to tell him there's no need, but he assures me that without actually seeing the model and dials this might be rather a hit-and-miss judgement.

By the time he arrives, I've stacked the dishwasher and removed a few stray items from sight. I've even put music on. Saturday morning is… yeah, Mozart. Nice and bright and perky even if some contemporary of the guy's thought it had 'too many notes.'

Mmmm. Flute and harp go well with spring sunshine and as the doorbell sounds I'm actually humming away to the fourth movement.

Wow. Sam's definitely in 'day off' mode. The jeans are actually old, as is the sweater. And I do believe he's not even bothered to shave. It's… different. Mind, nothing looks crumpled but there's probably a limit to how much metamorphosis a person can go through in one day.

He strolls over to the laundry basket, sorts it into two piles, and glances at the box of washing powder.

"Where's the stain remover?"

"The what?"

He sighs, and turns a dial a bit further. Hotter, yeah. A load of sort of light-coloured washing is shoved into the open mouth and it whirrs happily away.

"Got it," I say. Indeed, I've registered that combination for future reference and even decide to try and remember the stain stuff next time I hit the store.

"Yeah? Well I wouldn't put all the dark colours on at that temperature. They'll fade or those jeans'll be a little tight for comfort."

I nod wisely as he straightens up and tips a capful of fabric softener into the drawer. I know about that. Commercials are a fascinating source of information sometimes.

"Thanks," I tell him. "Appreciate it. Beer?"

He nods and we carry it through into the living room. He likes the music, he says.

"Mozart," I tell him.

"You know what? I couldn't tell one classical composer from another. Never really got into it."

"Probably less useful than knowing how to use that thing." I nod in the general direction of the kitchen and the happily revolving load of clothes.

"Depends," he says thoughtfully, staring out at the graves. "Sometimes I'd rather have had a bit of musical culture than a bellyful of practical experience in housekeeping."

I'm not sure how to take this. In a way, it's telling me a lot – or rather a lot more than I know already. He sounds… wistful. That's the word.

"Gotta say that Mozart wasn't a whole lot of use in the Navy," I tell him.

He chuckles.

"Well at least you got the chance to get into something a little more high-brow than pizza."

"Music, yeah. Some other stuff. Didn't get into wine though."

"Oh, that was a love affair," Sam says with a slight smile.

"Like the Armani suits?" I tease.

"Definitely," he grins. "Don't forget the posh restaurants."

I'm not sure what to say to that, as falling in love with a bottle - or clothes - with fancy labels wasn't part of the Keel family tradition. We kids didn't get to go to restaurants – we had a cook anyway. Piano practice (often Mozart) was part of life though, not to mention trailing around art galleries when we weren't learning to sail and ride and play baseball - and going to church on Sundays, of course. There wasn't much time off then, either.

We drink in silence for a minute or two.

"So," he says eventually. "Got any plans?"

I grimace without thinking but then remember that Saturday is get-a-life-day.

"Yeah," I say on impulse. "I'm gonna do the tourist thing. Tower of London, Madame Trussardi's…"

"Tussaud," Sam interrupts with a grin. "If you're not talking about Italian designer jeans, that is. Want a guide?"

I stare, then realise what he's suggesting.

"That would be neat," I grin back. "You not doing anything more exciting?"

He grimaces himself, which is a most un-Curtis-like thing to do.

"You mean hotshots like us should be doing extreme sports, buying designer clothes and wining and dining, right?"

"Something like that. Or a quick hop over to the casino in Monte Carlo," I suggest. "And you've forgotten the blonde that goes with it."

"I'm off blondes," Sam says. "Since last week anyway. How was the date with the girl you met at the pub?"

"You mean the one that ended after one hour because we were hauled into work? She's also history."

I'm tempted to ask why Sam's latest romance is over, just in case it was actually a case of a guy in our job getting a chance to break anything off before the job does it for us, but I don't. For somebody who says his life is an open book, Sam can be as closed as one of those diaries that come with a padlock on them when he chooses.

One thing my Mom always complained about was that I was curious in all the wrong places. It was kinda useful in my job, but since Teri died I guess I've also stopped asking stuff just so people don't ask me.

This, then, is why we talk about nice, neutral topics. I guess all we really know about each other's background is from the introductory meeting with Malone. Ex-Seal meets ex-M16. I do explosives, he does languages and we're both supposed to be all-rounders in the 'let's make the world a better place' game.

I reach out for a jacket and glance over at the photo without thinking.

"Miss her?" Sam asks softly and I realise I stiffen. It was only a week ago that he first saw the pictures and there was no way in hell I was going into it all then.

"Yeah," I say shortly. "Open books again?"

"Sorry. I was prying," he says. "My Mum always said I was too nosy."

"That's a Mom thing. So did mine," I say lightly, trying to shrug it off and not ruin a day by letting my thoughts slide where they shouldn't.

He doesn't comment as we go downstairs but apologises again as we get in the car.

"No big deal," I say a bit more sharply than I intended. I just feel he's processing it all like he does with everything. Why would a guy who's on another continent and obviously unattached keep wedding photographs beside his bed and in the living room? Divorced people don't exactly go for that kind of thing, not when they're supposed to be looking for dates, which it's pretty clear I am.

I don't mean to sigh, but I do anyway.

"You okay?" Sam says, very casually but glancing over at me.

"Fine." It's an automatic response and I stare out of the window. "Where are we gonna start then?"

"You'll see," he says quietly.

We fall silent, and the slight tension fades quickly. We do 'good' silence as opposed to 'hostile' silence – that's a positive thing about how we work together too.

Britain is weird. Warm beer and police with dinky little truncheons. Open hours to get alcohol, lousy traffic and stiff upper lips. And guys like Malone – before I met him I really thought accents like that belonged to old films.

At least it's different. I needed different.

I'm expecting Sam to head for the centre – but he's the expert in shortcuts and getting around the endless traffic jams so I say nothing as he takes one turn after another. It gets seedier at every block – more like places we end up seeing as part of the job than a tourist sight.

He stops beside some kind of fence, graffiti-sprayed and filthy, and motions to an apartment block that wouldn't be out of place in some parts of South America I've seen.

Somehow I know what's coming next just from the studied neutrality on his face, so I wait it out.

"They've ripped down the pub and the boxing club's gone," he says quietly. "And there are a few more satellite dishes, but apart from that it's not changed much."

"It's –" I start to say something but even as I do I know it'll sound wrong so I stop.

"It's poor, filthy and full of no-hopers," he says bitterly. "Let's go."

He slams the car into gear and drives off a little faster than necessary. The gesture is the only thing that betrays him, though, because his face is still completely blank.

Think, Keel. I have to avoid trite, condescending but I can't say nothing.

"Part of the open book?" I say eventually.

"Something like that. And I'm glad you didn't go for pity. I wasn't barefoot, I didn't go hungry, and most of the time I even had a school uniform. My dad wasn't a drunk and he didn't beat me, but Armani – or Mozart – didn't get much of a look-in."

"I bet. But you… got out of it."

"Yeah," he acknowledges. "And my parents were right behind me. Or rather Mum was in particular until she died. Dad let me study as long as I did my share at home – hence the domestic bit. He was proud when I went to University, too."

"He still lives in that place?"

"He died a month before I graduated," Sam says, a little emotion showing now. "Before I got a chance to take him to see Paris – where I spent most of my year out."

"I'm sorry," I blurt out.

"It was a good thing in some ways. He – he was ill and he went before it got unbearable. Anyway," he obviously makes a conscious effort to change the subject and grins over at me. "That's history. So what next? Your call."

"Meaning tourist sights or revelations about families?" It sounds a bit unkind, but families are the last thing that I want to think about. I don't think he's expecting sympathy either, somehow.

"I wasn't asking you to reveal all, Chris. I just owed you because of that comment about the photo – I shouldn't have asked about your background so thought you might as well see mine."

"You didn't owe me anything," I say quickly. "I just… don't talk about mine much. It's the past."

"Mozart's still around, though," he says. "But apart from that you've really burned your boats."

"Something like that. Sometimes you move on or the past catches up with you."

As corny goes, that's a winner but he's nodding.

"But the nightmares don't help. And no, I'm not digging. I get them too – past jobs, near misses…"

"Are you ever gonna let that drop, Curtis?" I probably sound angry but it's not that. Seeing him there when I woke up last week, realising he genuinely wanted to help, was weird.

"Like I said, I'm not digging. Or criticising."

"Great," I say shortly and leave it there.

This time, the silence isn't quite as comfortable as it was before. I guess it'd be only fair to at least sketch out some details of the Keel dynasty, the New England elite, the naval tradition and even the grand piano in one of the many reception rooms with Mozart on the music stand, but what's the point? Casually dropping the fact I'm a goddamn millionaire into conversation isn't real appropriate either given the guy's background.

The only conversation for a while is Sam explaining that Madame Tussaud's is probably a good starting point and I think I manage an 'uh-huh.'

I've definitely fucked up the day as only I could. Here's my living, breathing example of the reserved British people showing me the slum he grew up in, opening up, and I've turned from a walking domestic disaster into a sulky, secretive bastard in one easy move.

Well, there's only one thing for it. Mentally file it and move on. Tomorrow, I'll get back to getting a life – it's been on my list of things to do for the last three years anyway.

Maybe I'll quit CI5 and go…

Where? Do what? I mean I've only thought about this a million times.

I guess I'd miss Sam, though. The partner stuff turned out better than I'd expected it to and for a while, among the fabric softener and the spring sunshine, I'd though we were progressing to friendship – something I've avoided for a pretty long time now.

I paste on my best 'I'm a happy tourist' grin and trail through the place. Sam's back to how he was when we first met – pleasant and polite. We're partners, I remind myself. Governed by the first rule of zero personal involvement. He's doing me a favour, no more, no less and threw in the 'here's where I grew up' because he thought he owed me.

No, I'll never understand Brits. Not because of the 'owing' idea, but more because of the complete understatement of it all. I get the feeling that if this had been the US the whole 'revisiting my childhood' thing would have been intense and deep and yet somehow superficial.

I'm busier with this whole question than looking at the statues, and not being a good tourist at all, so I give myself a mental shake and do 'enthusiastic'. However, after I've said 'wow, that's real… realistic' for about the third time Sam's obviously got the point and suggests a beer.

OK, we're doing London. So warm beer, pub food and off to the Tower. The ravens, the cutesy Beefeaters and yeah – a trip on the river. Sam's doing a great job pointing stuff out and decrees that we should head for the next item on the list. Hyde Park, apparently.

This is a big favour, I tell myself, because he's probably seen it all a million times before, and now I'm owing him and decide thanks are definitely due.

"You know what?" he says thoughtfully. "I've never seen half of this myself. I mean not really seeing it. I always knew it was there, but it's different to do the tourist thing."

"I guess," I say in my profound American way, and add a few platitudes about it being one hell of a city. That seems appropriate.

"Why come?" Sam asks as we end up eating ice creams like two kids. "To England, I mean?"

I pause from my mission of saving the jeans that are the only survivors of the washing machine experience from pinkish goo dripping from my cone, and tell him it's no big deal and it was for the job – a change. Like him leaving MI6.

Then, I get up and go look at the ducks, picking bits off the cone and throwing them in the water. It causes a near-riot of highly excited birds, which for some reason makes me smile. Then a couple ducklings suddenly appear, bobbing along in Mom's wake.

Shit, I didn't need that reminder right now.

I'm standing beside the pond at home, beside Teri. She's throwing bits of bread into the water as our estate's own small population of ducks and ducklings surge forward. The diamond on her finger sparkles.

It's like one of those sickly web pages with rippling water and soft music, and just as tacky, but it hits me like a fist in the guts. This is sure as hell not the right time for that kind of thoughts.

"You all right, mate?"

I jump. Sam's standing there with the vestiges of his own ice cream cone but instead of crumbling it, he's staring at me.

"Fine," I mutter, turning away because I can't hide feelings like he can. Not right now.

"Chris?"

"I'm fine," I say, furious that my voice is choked. This is goddamned ridiculous. I'm a 28-year old ex-Navy SEAL, and ducklings and memories best forgotten do not turn me into something from a bad novel.

I was wishing for fiction this morning, sure, in terms of household chores, but right now I want reality and I want it now. The reality where I'm over it all, not the one where I'm anything but.

Sam just stands there. I feel like doing what I did with all the guys from my unit after the funeral – telling them I don't need anybody and to leave me alone. I drove them all away in the end until they just worked with me, drank with me, but kept their distance.

"How about heading back," he suggests mildly. "Put the other load of washing in, maybe order a Chinese?"

What? He still hasn't got the message?

"What do you want from me Sam?" The words come out all by themselves. "Confessions? Juicy details?"

"Hardly," he says tightly. "Just to talk if you felt like it."

"I don't."

"Fair enough."

Now, the silence is nothing short of hostile. Well no, not hostile, just uncomfortable. He's pissed and I don't blame him, but there's nothing I can do about it. He can have the easy-going Yank partner back on Monday with a little luck, if I don't decide to quit.

Oh, and I still need to get a life. After I get over the hangover, which is the luxury bonus of being 'free' again tomorrow.

We drive back, and I decide to make some logical plans. I still need to go out, meet people. Find a new hobby. That's what people with lives do, right? It's even what I told all the shrinks I was going to do in between cleaning up the world a bit. Optimism – or a pretty good imitation of it – was what kept them from deciding I was a head case.

I'll get around to it. No question. Tomorrow.

"It's not a crime to be lonely," Sam says out of the blue.

My jaw drops. I need a suitable response but what comes out isn't in synch with my brain, which is registering the fact that he's realised how I'm feeling.

"And what makes you think I am?" I snap.

"Just an impression," he shoots back. "It goes with the job. Or did you think CI5 was just one big social club and we often get time for any sort of private life?"

"I'm not lonely." It sounds pathetic even to me, as lies often do when something hits home like that.

"If you say so."

"I do." Now I sound like Keel aged about nine when I was arguing with Mom, wanting the last word. She used to shake her head and tell me I was just like my father, stubborn as a mule. But most of the time she was smiling, too.

Sam's not smiling and I suddenly feel as afraid as I did when it was my father chewing me out. The fear that he'd never love me again, that I'd failed.

Sam isn't my father. I don't love him, I argue with myself. He's just a buddy – hell no he's not even that. He's simply a guy I work with. A pretty astute one I admit, but I don't need anyone close to me.

"It's funny," Sam says as we get close to my apartment. "I thought when you called this morning you were as much at a loss for something to do as I was. I always say I'll do a whole lot of stuff when we get time off but the furthest I usually get is the gym. And some music that's a whole lot less sophisticated than what you like."

He says it calmly, but there's that wistful tone there again that, this time, makes me feel like a jerk. I never imagined Sam Curtis lonely somehow.

"Mozart's not sophisticated," I tell him. "It's just sorta… I dunno –"

"Different?" he suggests.

"I grew up with it. Got used to it – it was my Mom's favourite once."

"And she's moved onto heavy metal now?" he says it so naturally that it'd be funny under normal circumstances.

"She's dead."

"Sorry, Chris." He winces slightly. "Didn't know."

"Why should you?" I say. "I didn't know your folks were either."

The silence is back, but it's a little less strained now.

"I shouldn't have been nosy," he says eventually. "But it's your fault, y'know."

"Oh yeah?"

"You remember saying there was a lot about you I didn't know? Last week? I suppose it was a sure recipe for me wanting to know what it really was like to grow up over there, what it was like in the SEALs. I figured there'd be parts you didn't want to share – like your wife…"

"What's the point? That's the past, Curtis. It's over."

"I realised that much." He doesn't react to the sharp use of his surname. "Must be tough, though."

"What must be?" Suddenly, I'm scared he does know about my family after all.

"Being away from the rest of the family. Whatever came between you and your wife. Look, I won't pry any more and I'm sorry I even tried."

We're in front of my apartment now, and the best thing I could do is to get out of the car, turn on the stereo, get large quantities of beer from the refrigerator and anaesthetise what's heading towards being a long, miserable evening and yet another empty 24 hours tomorrow. Getting a life looks like it's postponed.

I don't even know what makes me say it – probably just to drive him and his genuine wish to help away so I can get on with the self-pity in peace. At least I've got pretty good at resuming the whole thing from machine gun fire to a series of funerals, in a couple sentences now, so I tell him.

He looks stunned – genuinely stunned. He didn't know, that's obvious. I open the car door.

"Wait, Chris," he says quickly, in step beside me immediately. "I'm so sorry…"

"I do not need pity." I don't even look at him.

"I'm not offering it, because I can imagine that. It's probably the last thing you need. I'm just sorry I hassled you, dragged it out of you."

"You didn't," I say dully, wishing he'd go away. "Everybody finds out sooner or later. Look, thanks for the help with the washing, OK?"

"We haven't done the second load yet," he says calmly, still following me. "And if you feel like getting drunk tonight you're not the only one. Mozart might be an interesting sort of background for it."

He's reading my mind now, which is eerie, although Chopin is better for this sort of mood.

"I don't have wine."

"Beer's fine."

"And you're not into classical music."

"I don't understand it. I'm not saying I'm going to love it any more than you're going to like going to a football match tomorrow. But it beats sitting at home chewing over stuff – which is what I was going to do and so were you."

He's not going to be put off, and to be real honest I don't know why I'm trying to drive him away. I guess I've found several similarities between us today – curiosity, stubbornness and no great love of the mushy stuff. And loneliness.

"You think?"

"I wasn't born yesterday. Although I'm picky about takeaway stuff."

I look over at him.

"If I have to watch soccer, you can eat that."

"Seems fair," he grins. "But we can go to the off licence and get wine to go with it before you go."

"Done," I say. "Just put the washing in while I'm out, then."

He chuckles.

"Buy stain remover if they have any."

I roll my eyes.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. If there's a blonde at shop neare the takeaway – or even at takeaway for that matter, see if she likes football and has a friend. Tomorrow's another day."

It sure is. I find myself humming the fourth movement of the flute and harp concerto again and prepare to receive instructions among the bottles with fancy labels.

Must remember never to tell Sam I actually like soccer. But I get the feeling there's plenty of stuff we can talk about besides that. Like how to tell Mozart from Chopin and whether Armani is crease-resistant.

And a whole lot more besides.

March 2002

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