'Absolutely. If you should get hit by a truck and end up a cabbage, I promise that I'll personally...that I'll, uh, get the nurses to keep your moustache in good order.'

He said it with a completely straight face. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me.

As we cross the Macarthur Causeway towards the beaches I get my first glimpse of the port. Crisp, white cruise ships fill the basin, their fairy lights glinting off the water. Beyond them, in the distance, sit the jetties and the piers where the freighters empty out their precious loads: iron, maize, tin, ore; silicone, golf clubs, people. And away to the right sits downtown, glowing in the apricot sun. It looks like someone has thrown fertiliser over this city; it's grown so big, so impossibly tall. I remember the first time I saw it from the back of the rental car my dad was driving. Sylvie was fast asleep on Daniel's lap and the pair of usbrother and sisterwere staring out of opposite windows. Daniel moody, grumbling and quiet; me overcome with excitement. I was carried away with the difference of it all. After the leafy green suburbs and terraced houses we'd left behind, Miami seemed to me like an alien landscape: hot, breathless and arrogant, a city with its arms folded across its chest.

There were cruise ships on the water that day too, and I remember being awed by the size of them. This was a time in my life when size impressed me, when taking a cruise seemed like the best of all possible holidays. A floating hotel, a different country every day, and a kids club where they could stow my sister, Sylvie. I think of her now, back in London. I think of my mum and of Kay. Already it feels like they're a world away and I begin to feel calmer and quieter. I begin to enjoy the stickiness, the heat on my skin. I begin to relish the absence of winter. The city's arms are unfolding; embracing us, pulling us in.

There's an ocean and palm trees outside our taxi window now, and a street lined with pavement cafes. Art deco palaces in chalky pinks and blues; sea colours, sky colours, instant summer. The ice cream coloured buildings cast long shadows over the dunes, sunbathers twist their toes in warm sand. Beautiful boys cruise the sea front in vintage cars; pretty girls drive cherry-red Lamborghinis. There is sadness in this part of the city, there must be, but at the beginning you just can't see it. It's so new, so shiny, so pleased with itself; the way rediscovered venues always are.

We turn off the beach, away from the sparkle, and head to where the streets are coa.r.s.er and shabbier: past the clubs, the discount pharmacies and the T-shirt shops and the needle buzz from the dingy tattoo parlours. We come to a stop a few blocks to the west, at the corner of Washington Avenue and Espanola Way. Our new home. Our new host. Our first staging post in this segment of our journey. As we drag our bags from the taxi I notice the stars are coming out, peppering the inky sky with dots of light. I stare up at them for a moment: wondering if I'm the only person doing it, wondering if someone I know is doing it too. It's a brief moment of reverie, a heady moment of optimism, quickly shattered by the rumpus on the street.

There's No One Quite Like Huey 'Sell me your hair.'

'My hair?'

'Yeah, man. I want to buy your hair.'

'How much you gonna give me for it?'

'How much do you want?'

'A thousand dollars.'

'A thousand thousand? Are you crazy?'

'This is nice hair that I've got. Very thick. A nice curl. When it's clean it comes up pretty nice.'

'Christ, Christ, it's so unfair. This is so so unfair. You're a b.u.m. Why do you even need hair?' unfair. You're a b.u.m. Why do you even need hair?'

The b.u.m shrugs.

'You live on the streets. You pee in your own d.a.m.n pants. What are you? Sixty, sixty-five? f.u.c.k...this universe, man, it's so...unjust. You have the finest head of hair I've ever ever seen.' seen.'

'Thanks.'

'I'm not complimenting you, man. I'm cursing you. Don't you get that? I'm cursing you.'

'Not complimenting me?'

'No.'

'Well. That's not very nice. I don't think I want to sell you my hair no more. What you gonna do with it, anyhow?'

'I'm an actor. I need it. I've been in movies. Actual Actual movies. Do you even know what that means?' movies. Do you even know what that means?'

'That you're rich?'

'No, idiot, I'm not rich, I can't get cast any more.'

'Why not?'

'Because I'm bald bald!'

'You can't even get the character parts?'

'The character character parts? Jesus, no. That's not what I want. You should have seen me when I had hair, man. I was the hero, the love interest, the parts? Jesus, no. That's not what I want. You should have seen me when I had hair, man. I was the hero, the love interest, the lead lead. Now all they want me for is, like, villains and stuff.'

'And that's no good to you, huh?'

'No, man, it's not. I don't have a villainous nature.'

'I thought you said you were an actor.'

'I am am. But I don't like to play against type.'

'So get plugs, then. Why don't'cha get plugs?...Hey, hey, don't kick me. That hurts. Jesus Christ, ain't my life bad enough?'

I stare at the actor and the b.u.m. Michael stares at them too, his face broken wide open by a smile.

'Well, there he is, Claire, that's Huey.'

'That man man?'

'Yeah.'

'With the head like a hard-boiled egg.'

'Yep.'

'Kicking that homeless guy in the shins?'

'What did I tell you? There's no one quite like Huey. That Huey, he's a real one off.'

Huey, to his credit, is quickly overcome with something approaching guilt. He apologises for losing his temper with the b.u.m, and offers him a compensatory cheque for fifty dollars on the condition that the b.u.m doesn't sue him for a.s.sault. The b.u.m wants to know what he's meant to do with a cheque. Huey says some people are never grateful. The b.u.m says he'd prefer cash. Or a bottle of Thunderbird. Or a vegetarian happy meal with extra fries. Huey wants to know how long the b.u.m's been vegetarian. The b.u.m says he likes to keep up with his daily quota of fruit and vegetables. Huey says the b.u.m should think about going organic. The b.u.m says organic produce is way overpriced.

It seems like this argument could go on all evening, and it would have, I'm almost sure, if Huey hadn't turned round, suddenly and spotted us.

'Michael. Wow, man. How are are you? I can't believe you're finally here. How long has it been, now? How long have I been trying to get you to come out here?' you? I can't believe you're finally here. How long has it been, now? How long have I been trying to get you to come out here?'

'Too long, Huey. Too long.'

The two of them embrace.

'Well, you finally made it. You look great, really great. And I'm sorry, you know...for the argument here, but I've had kind of a stressful day already. I mislaid my favourite hat this morning.'

's.h.i.t, that's rough, man. I'm sorry.'

'Pure alpaca wool. Blue. A real nice blue. You couldn't find another hat like that if you tried.'

I loiter on the pavement with our bags, wondering if either of them are ever going to acknowledge to me. It seems that they're not, so I cough. Loudly.

'G.o.d, sorry sorry. Huey, this is Claire...the woman I told you about.'

Huey holds out his arms, insists that I give him a hug.

'Claire, it's great to meet you. I heard all about your problems. You're the girl with the runaway brother, right?'

I nod.

'That's rough. That's totally rough. Here's me all worked up about my missing hat and you've lost a member of your actual family. You must be feeling what I'm feeling times a hundred. A thousand. A million million even.' even.'

I don't know what to say to the egg-headed man who's comparing my missing brother to a hat. I have no idea how to respond. Are you on drugs? That's what I should say. But instead I just smile politely.

'I know what you're thinking,' he says, picking up my bags. 'You're thinking why does he need a hat in this heat, right? What does a guy who lives in Miami need with an alpaca woollen hat?'

I don't say anything.

'Thing is, Claireand Michael can vouch for thisI feel the cold really badly. Ever since I lost all my hair.'

'Uh...when did you lose it? If you don't mind me asking?'

'Three years ago,' he says, gravely. 'A month after I starred in my first feature. I woke up one morning sort of achy in the head, and all my hair had fallen out onto the pillow. Just like that. Every single strand. Doc said it was stress related, that it'd all grow back. But...it never did.'

'Right...well. That's a shame.'

'You have no idea,' he says, raising his eyebrows. 'No idea. And the worst thing about it is, the toughest thing of all, is that it left me feeling permanently cold. As if ruining my movie career wasn't bad enough, now I have to be chilly all the time, too. I thought moving down south from New York would do the trick. Those Brooklyn winters were rough, let me tell you. But I still get the shivers, even now. Even on a hot day like this. A person loses thirty per cent of his body heat through his head. Did you know that?' idea. And the worst thing about it is, the toughest thing of all, is that it left me feeling permanently cold. As if ruining my movie career wasn't bad enough, now I have to be chilly all the time, too. I thought moving down south from New York would do the trick. Those Brooklyn winters were rough, let me tell you. But I still get the shivers, even now. Even on a hot day like this. A person loses thirty per cent of his body heat through his head. Did you know that?'

'No...no, I didn't know that.'

'Well, there you go, then. That's a fact.'

Huey unlocks a flaky wooden door and leads us up three flights of narrow stairs to his apartment. It's shabby, run down, dreary, but clean and comfortable enough. Two closet-sized bedrooms, a tiny kitchen and a shower room, and enough bongs, pipes, Rizla papers and smoking paraphernalia to open up a small market stall in Camden Town. In the centre of the living room is a worn red sofa, shaped like a pair of smiling lips. A pet.i.te bug-eyed woman with beads tied in her hair is sat on it, cross legged, watching TV. She gives us a little wave as we come in but she doesn't look up from the screen. She's watching a programme called Extreme Makeovers Extreme Makeovers.

'I love this bit, don't you love this bit?' she says. 'When they finally get them up there on the table. It's like magic, what they do to them. They take these fat, ugly people and transform them, make them all thin and good-looking.'

'That's Tess.' says Huey, gruffly. 'Don't mind her, she's just leaving.'

'Yeah. Don't mind me, I'm just leaving.'

Tess doesn't look like she's going anywhere. She has no shoes on her feet, a gla.s.s of wine in her hand and she's eating stuffed olives from a tin; picking out the tiny pieces of pimento with her elaborately painted fingernails and depositing them neatly back into the oil.

'Olive?'

'No. No thank you.'

'Sure,' says Michael. 'I'll take one.'

'Smoke?'

'Joint? Yeah, why not.'

'Can you roll? My fingers are oily.'

Michael sits down next to Tess, and we stare at the TV while he rolls. A pretty young womana primary school teacheris having her left breast sliced open by a plastic surgeon. Tess is visibly moved.

'Go girl, pump it up. Get that saline in in. G.o.d, I am desperate for a b.o.o.b job. Do you think I need a b.o.o.b job, uh...?'

'Michael.'

'Right, Michael. Do you think I'd look better with bigger b.r.e.a.s.t.s?'

Tess lifts up her tank top so Michael can have a closer inspection. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s are high and tannedas good as perfectsupported by a skimpy, see-through bra.

'I'm saving up for the operation,' she says, weighing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in each hand. 'I want to go from a B cup, to double D. I'm gonna get a nose job, some lipo and a chin implant at the same time. I have enough money for the b.o.o.b job already, but my surgeon thinks it's better if I get it all done in one go.'

'Put them away, Tess. Come on now, be nice. Can't you see, we've got guests.'

'But I'm just getting Michael's opinion.'

'Give the guy a break, he just got off a plane. I'm sure he's not interested in your t.i.ts.'

'What about you...uh, miss?'

'Claire. My name is Claire.'

'Right. Well, what about you, Claire? What do you think?'

'I wouldn't have plastic surgery.'

'Really?' she says, astonished. 'Why not?'

'Well, you seem to have a nice body already. I don't see why you'd want to change it.'

'I'm a singer,' she says, as if that explains it. 'I'm trying to get a record deal. I'm managed by a friend of Lenny Kravitz's hairdresser.'

'I see.'

'My manager says I need to get bigger t.i.ts. Bigger t.i.ts, bigger deal, that's what he says.'

'Right. Well. That makes sense, then.'

Tess lowers her tank top, takes the freshly rolled joint from Michael and the two of them set about smoking it. Amid the puffs and the giggles and scratch of the surgeon's scalpel I notice another noise in the room; something fast, repet.i.tive and twitchy, like a bird hitting its beak on a branch. It's a couple of minutes before I work out what it is, it's the sound of Huey's teeth chattering.

'So, what do you do for a living, Claire?' says Tess, offering me the joint. 'Are you in entertainment, too?'