Intimacy, of course, had banished the flashy impresario myth. His boarding school, bullyboy manner passed for flash. His clothes, so ill-chosen they seemed bohemian. Yes, that part was endearing. The fortunate accident of his image. She wouldn’t change that. And if stylish European parents couldn’t teach him dress sense, she wasn’t about to try. It was his little rebellion for that school, for their wanting the best for him.

Mannybags. She didn’t need his dosh, the show had seen to that. She wasn’t after a free ride. It was about the choices he offered: working or not, attending to children, or even trying that life of a writer.

At the Museum of Contemporary Art she’d seen a painting; a pyramid of slimy creatures, all pushing over each other trying to unseat the figure at the top. And the top figure peering down at them with a look of horror and understanding and inevitability. Journo world could find another torchbearer.

Yes, despite the gaps, Manny’s was an attractive offer.

No, there was something lacking. C’mon, you’re thirty somehow, Pixie, no ideal relationship exists. And she’d have a fine arrangement, be a fool to turn it down. People fussed over love. Good careers and sound finances made enduring marriages. Just her cup of tea — a not-quite-boiled cup of tea. God she didn’t want that. Her agitation was growing. Yet cliché of clichés, she’d edit it from any piece, the biological clock was ticking.

…she’d seen a painting; a pyramid of slimy creatures, all pushing over each other trying to unseat the figure at the top. And the top figure peering down at them with a look of horror and understanding and inevitability. Journo world could find another torchbearer.

But could she attach herself to this man engrossed in her newspaper and her food. Nice if he’d noticed the blouse instead of some stranger.

She’d have to be sure. There’d be no changing horses midstream. No confronting the clueless male with the long brewing decision, no mucky arrangements over kids.

Because he expected as a given along with his business deals; a woman, an engagement, a bride, a showbiz wedding — his office would see to that — glitterati, paparazzi. He’d make a speech and tomorrow, business as usual.

And the after-wedding, the marriage, would be an unquestioned dimension into which, no trying, no changing, he would dissipate — into the bosom of his family.

But putting aside the specially chosen pure white dress — let them write their fingers off about that, could she be the bride of expectation, the embodied form of custom? What happiness or self betrayal would exist for her in that first dance? What hollow or fulfilled, desperate or determined person would she be? — the woman in the guise, the gown, a dancing compromise, a whirling absence, a sham? Would something wholly unexpected break from him during those time-honoured steps? Or perhaps she would press his lanky body to her with a ray of fondness. This bloke has a lot going. We’ll give it our best shot.

She puts a bemused finger to her lips, studying those grinding jaws. Would she crack under that energetic absence, or grow used to it? She’d exist in a jack-in-the-beanstalk scenario, flanked by giants, a Mardi Gras of people on stilts. But think what she would save on ladders. “Take down that jar, for mum, sweetheart,” and an ungainly, pimpled giant, product of a lustreless marriage, in the beautiful home, would oblige. Manny world. She grimaces. You’ve got to start white-hot to descend into that, Pixie.