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Arthur leaned against the wall and gave the lovely girl his best smile.
'You'd be surprised how interesting it is, working in local radio,' he said.
'I'm sure,' she said in an alluringly deep voice. 'But I have my sights set on the BBC. I can't really see myself anywhere else.'
'Well, it's always useful to get experience,' Arthur said, desperately trying to imply he was a good sort of person to get experience with.
A voice across the room called, 'Moira!'
'If you'll excuse me,' the girl said in a way that told Arthur she didn't actually care if he did or not, and moved away. He kept his eyes on her slim, dark form until she was out of view.
'Bad luck, mate,' another guest said, and was gone before Arthur could pretend he hadn't been interested in the girl anyway.
He looked around the party, trying to see if there were any unattached girls, or at least interesting people to talk to. Maybe he shouldn't have moved out of London, he thought vaguely. He'd lost contact with so many people, and hadn't a clue who most of the people here were. He had another glass of wine. Then he ate some cheese balls. Then he had another glass of wine to get the taste of the cheese balls out of his mouth. After that he just sort of drifted round the party, trying to work up a headache so he could tell himself to leave. He'd managed to get a few twinges running across the front of his skull when he got distracted by the sight of a vicious argument conducted in a language that at first seemed to be English, but turned out, on closer inspection, to be maths. The red-haired man who'd seen him utterly and hopelessly fail with the girl was holding another fellow by the collar and yelling incomprehensible things into his face from close range. He screamed something rather long that Arthur dimly recognised as some sort of formula, and finished up - more triumphantly than Arthur thought the situation warranted - by sneering,
'And that's why you should just go home and keep picking the fleas off the rest of the troop!'
'Oh here,' Arthur said disapprovingly, 'let's not try to spoil the party for others, shall we?'
The man swung round and fixed a disconcertingly blue gaze on Arthur, who found his eyes begin to water.
'Theoretical physicists,' the man snarled, 'I fucking hate them.' He lurched forward and peered into Arthur's face. 'Are you a theoretical physicist?'
'Er. No,' Arthur said, feeling it was definitely a sign he should stop drinking if someone a head shorter could make him feel like running away. 'I work in radio.'
'Must be a tight fit,' the man said in a puzzled voice.
'Not in a radio -- oh, come on, you need a bit of fresh air.' He pulled the man out the kitchen door and breathed deeply. 'See? Fresh air.'
'Not very fresh. Smells a bit,' the man said. 'Come on.' He staggered off down the garden, and fell face down in the rhubarb patch. Arthur hauled him upright. 'Look,' the man said, pointing straight up, 'look at the stars.'
'Very pretty,' Arthur said, propping him up.
'That one. That one's Betelgeuse,' the man said and Arthur suddenly got the impression that he'd sobered up. It was something to do with the way he was now standing all by himself and not slurring his words any longer.
'Ah,' said Arthur. It seemed the sort of thing to say when faced with a stranger who showed every sign of getting maudlin.
'Ever see a spaceship?' the man said. 'You can tell me, I'm always looking for them.'
'Ha ha. What colour?' Arthur laughed, wishing he'd never spoken to this fellow at all.
'Green,' the man said. 'Preferably.' He looked upwards again, and then turned an insane smile on Arthur. 'You're very kind to humour a drunk stranger this way,' he said. 'You're a nice fellow. What's your name?'
'Arthur,' Arthur said. Then, 'Erk,' Arthur said, or at least he would have tried to say it, if he hadn't been paralysed with shock at the fact that the man was kissing him. A rather alarmed little voice in the back of his head suggested that if he didn't want to give this fellow the wrong impression he should perhaps stop standing there letting his new acquaintance get so thoroughly - acquainted. He regained control of his limbs, and flailed around for a while until the fellow got the hint and stepped back.
'I'm Ford,' the man said, looking at Arthur intently. 'I'm an actor and I'm out of work. I'm from Guildford.' He seemed to notice Arthur's state of panic and said, 'And I'm incredibly drunk. I hope I haven't said anything embarrassing? I can't really remember much since I got here.'
Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. Well, he thought. An actor. That explained a lot. And drunk, which explained even more. He made a polite gesture meant to convey the view that Ford shouldn't worry about a thing, they were both men of the world, and in vino non veritas and all that sort of thing. Ford looked at him quizzically, so Arthur stopped waving his hand around and said, 'Let's go back inside.'
'Sure,' Ford said, smiling. Arthur wished he wouldn't, because it made him look awfully hungry. They strolled back up to the kitchen door, and Ford cocked his head on one side and said, 'Why don't we meet up for a drink next week? We can talk about football and the girls we've slept with.'
'I don't think I've ever heard a social invitation I liked better in my entire life,' Arthur said sarcastically, trying to escape back into the party.
'Really?' Ford said in a pleased tone. 'Excellent! Look, here's my number. What's yours?'
Arthur sought deep inside him for a reservoir of rudeness that would enable him to tell Ford to get lost. After a few minutes he gave up. He also gave Ford his number.
'I'll ring you,' Ford said. 'It'll be fun! It was nice to meet you, Arthur.' He grabbed Arthur's hand and shook it just a little too hard for a little too long, and spun away back into the light.
Arthur quietly left the party and walked back to the B&B where he was staying. He looked up at the stars just before he went inside. He'd forgotten which one Ford had said was Betelgeuse. He shrugged. It wasn't like it was important anyway.