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Pavlovian, Richard thinks. That's the only word for it. Point a camera at Paul and Tim and watch them snap together like magnets. Arms round each other, leaning in, heads together, bloody near kissing sometimes. And in photo after photo, a gap between them and Richard.

Richard's still not sure if they're fucking. If they're ever fucked, actually fucked instead of this long mindfuck where they row about Tim's girlfriend and Paul's conquests and everything else from pop to politics, where Paul sulks and raves and Tim laughs at his own witty brutalities and all the while it's like they're waiting for the camera, the audience, the permission to be something else.

Occasionally there's a photographer with ideas of his own, who'll say, "Richard, stand over here. Maybe in the middle, yeah, that's good." Those pictures never look right. And the middle never feels like a sensible place to be.