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just need to accept that.’ I nodded, but didn’t. But he did. Thankfully, enough for both of us.
    Later that night, after we were in the hotel room, David made me call Margaret and tell her where we were. He sat in the next room with the door open, smoking from the ounce he’d bought at the shop, sitting on the edge of the bed watching French TV. I couldn’t figure out if he understood it or if he was too stoned to care. Margaret picked up after the first bring-bring .
    ‘Hi, it’s Chris. We’re okay.’
    ‘About bloody time. Good to hear that, seeing how it’s almost two in the morning. Where are you?’
    ‘Amsterdam.’ Margaret was silent for a moment. Then she was sucking hard on a cigarette, I could tell. Somewhere a little orange fire was beaming.
    ‘Lovely.’
    ‘David told me to tell you we’ll be back tomorrow night, after I finished the project we’re working on.’
    ‘Great. Could you put him on?’
    ‘He went to the store.’
    ‘Did he tell you to say that, too?’ David, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to be nearby, let out a shriek of laughter at something he was watching.
    ‘Uh huh.’
    ‘Is he getting stoned?’
    ‘Uh huh.’
    ‘Let me guess: he’s sitting right there smoking, staring at the wall or something.’
    ‘Yup.’
    ‘Oh God. Do try to keep him out of trouble, all right, Chris? From now on, when I’m not around, he’ll be your responsibility. Promise?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’m being serious. Please, I mean this. I worry that he’s getting worse. Promise me that when I’m not around you’ll watch out for him.’
    ‘I promise,’ I told her.
    ‘At least keep him away from the whores.’
    When I hung up David heard the click, turned from his entertainment, and asked me if she sounded mad.
    ‘A bit. Not too bad, but a bit. She heard you laughing; she knew you were here.’
    ‘She’ll be all right. You know, it could have been the two of us here, working, but she couldn’t trust it, could she? She had to go back to her law work. Said our marriage would be better if we worked apart.’
    ‘She just sounded a little worried, that’s all.’
    ‘Right then, to work with you. I got the management to bring up a typewriter, we’ll put it on the desk in the back, so before it gets here why don’t you go to the bog and put a pair of the Cottonals on your bum. Get a feel for them this time, a real feel, so you can come up with some ideas accordingly.’
    ‘Sounds good,’ I said, reaching for the bag.
    ‘Give me your clothes. I’ll send them down to the cleaners so you’ll have some fresh kit to wear out of here.’
    ‘Cool. But what will I wear till then?’
    ‘The Cottonals,’ David said. I didn’t ask another question because he was staring into my face, ready to answer it.
    It wasn’t that bad, really. I wore two pairs at a time and when I got cold he let me wrap them around my feet like slippers, around both shoulders like slings, even on my head as a skullcap. The Cottonals were so soft, their downy glowing whiteness straight from their plastic womb, silently holding me there, hugging me with gentle, unconditional support as I slammed my fingers into the old manual typewriter I’d been given. David sat behind me, smoking something pungent he occasionally offered and I steadily refused. The method insane but the only way I would have come up with the idea, If Comfort Came First : a campaign bearing that slogan depicting men in a variety of life’s duties wearing only Cottonals as the rest of the room, fully clothed, ignored them. A ballroom dancer performing on the floor with evening-dressed partner in hand. A bus driver who opened the door for the camera/passenger while seated in only his Cottonals and his black cap. One Cottonal-clad man on a subway platform amidst a sea of pinstripe, herringbone, and pleats, the method insane but not so crazy when David walked up the office steps a week later, fresh from his Soho meeting, and said, ‘We got the bastards,’