The need for this chapter was not in fact made obvious until quite recently when it appeared that Claire had been comparing fingerprint samples with a bloke in London. I must now investigate this situation to ensure that nothing untoward took place. This chapter is the result of this investigation.

I really wish I could expurgate this chapter entirely, as it is really quite painful for me to witness. Unfortunately it appears that it was during this party that Claire received the piece of inspiration that was to lead to her finally completing her very important rock song. I guess this makes it rather important that you hear about it, but still. Here's what happened, as far as I can gather from snooping around Claire's apartment while she is out tracking down Anton the Alligator.

It was an old friends twenty first birthday, and she was celebrating it in London. The old friend, Sarah, knew that Claire was in Paris because I had foolishly given away her location earlier in the novel. After a quick reunion over the phone, Claire had agreed to duck over to London for the party while I was busy with Peter-Bowman. It was a cunning plan, and one that would have worked splendidly were it not for that fact that Claire later used a contact from Interpol made at that party to check out the fingerprints on the French words. This was her mistake. I would never have know about it and begun tapping her phone line were it not for this slip up.

At the party Claire turned out to be surprisingly good at mingling with the other guests, talking about their recent health problems and the state of world affairs. She was completely comfortable with making jokes about it all, in a good natured sort of way. You could say that she was the life of the party, except that traditionally that involves getting really drunk and stripping naked while playing elderly Christmas songs on the CD player. Claire did not do this.

Let's watch Claire for a little while. Look at her hair. Isn't it just exactly the sort of hair that you wish you had? That long blonde cascading waterfall of silk. Everybody wants hair like that. If they deny it, they are cruel liars. Claire has this thing she likes to do with her hair. She flicks it. Usually this causes romantic music to begin playing in the background. Hair like Claire's has this trick. Very few other varieties of hair can manage it at all. Most hair, when flicked, results in a rather sad rendition of a Bavarian polka. This is not what you want to hear when you flick your hair. Unless you are Bavarian and beyond all hope when it comes to hair flicking - either as witness or perpetrator. Claire did a lot of hair flicking at this party.

Look at the green flickering of her eyes. These are the sort of eyes you look into in the hope that they will burn you. If they don't burn you, then you are disconsolate for the rest of your life. This is the sort of eyes that I'm talking about, the kind of eyes that Claire has. The eyes that you really would quite like to be able to gaze into for the rest of your life without being arrested as a stalker. It pains me to narrate it, but those eyes did indeed burn that night.

His name was Gerald. He was some sort of high up official in the London office of Interpol. I expect he was exceptionally good to look at. Probably he had dimples. And a witty personality. Intelligence. A nice car, job, money in the bank and excellent prospects for the future. Probably this is hurting you as much as me by now, but the truth may be important. Many people say that it is. Very stupid people, I have always thought. If it were up to me, Gerald would be an ugly little man with bad teeth and no hair. Unfortunately, I am unable to make decisions about his appearance, as Claire met him before I did. Thus it is that I'm only able to tell you what happened, not create it. I really hate it when that happens.

So Claire met Gerald. And her eyes burned, her hair flicked, and I wasn't there. How could I have managed to attend a party that I didn't even know existed, after all? Surely it's not my fault? Claire met Gerald in the kitchen. It could have been in the queue for the bathroom. Or perhaps in the back garden just after Gerald had finished throwing up the gin results. Or, in fact, anywhere less romantic than the kitchen. No. It wouldn't have mattered, would it? There's a certain inevitability about it all. She could probably have met him naked in her friends bedroom and still fallen in love with him. Hmm. Possibly rather quicker in that case in fact. You see? I'm alright, I can still make off colour jokes about the situation rather than bringing out the knives and shotguns. At least for the moment. I wasn't there.

I should have been there you see. How can Claire, a character that never even existed until I typed her name earlier in this novel, duck off to a party in London without me noticing? How can she meet a character who I will swear that I never created and fall instantly in with him? I just don't understand what happened. Unless you had something to do with it.

Did you see Claire and fall in love with her and then imagine her up a boyfriend so that you could live vicariously through him and perhaps get a glimpse of her knickers? I can understand how this might happen. She's so very easy to fall in love with. I wrote her that way. But it's really not fair of you, my dearest reader, to hijack this novel. Whether or not you see Claire's knickers is up to me, OK? I'm in charge here. Really, I am.

I am about to close the door on the matter of the party. It's in the past after all. I can deal with it in a mature manner. Oh yes. The inspiration that helped Claire to write her song. Nothing much really. She just noticed that everybody at the party was determined to be somebody else. Claire watched the smiles, the laughter, the polite conversation, and realised that she had never seen such a bunch of talented actors in her life. You may have noticed this phenomenon yourself, if you go to parties at all. Not that I'm suggesting you don't. Or do, for that matter. Do what you like. Usually people who notice it start talking about what frauds, fakes, or phonies the majority of people they meet at parties are. This is a little unfair. People at parties are not fakes when they don't behave as themselves. They're just people. Really scared people who are worried that if they give in to the urge to scream instead of politely chuckle they will never be invited to parties again. They are of course mistaken in this fear - just about all fear is mistaken really, apart from the fear that you will never again ride a large dog as if it were a horse. Anybody who does scream at parties is pretty well guaranteed a return invite, if only to see if it happens again.

Claire won't actually tell me what happened at the party. I can only surmise it was the usual sort of affair. Drinks, nibbles, music, interesting smoke wafting in from the back steps. You've been to a party, surely, you know what goes on. Think of the most recent party you've been to, and add some more interesting people, drinks, and smoke. It was that sort of party. I think. As for what happened when the party was over. I have no information about that, and if you do I'd appreciate it if you kept it to yourself.