“Didn’t you once get a chant going at a Blind Faith concert?”

“You’ve heard that story?”

“You were up a tree, in the version I heard.”

“It’s true!” She laughed, putting her hand on my arm. “With Francesca Leeto. Is that who you heard it from?”

“Yes.” The Leetos were family friends. “I was collecting anecdotes for a novel about my parents’ world.”

“A novel? How wonderful! Was I in it?”

“There was a character somewhat based on you.”

“Really?”

“Well . . . you were a part of that world. A big part, for a while.”

“I’m flattered! Or were you going to make me into one of those twisted characters no one likes?”

“Of course not—you were highly sympathetic!”

She looked pleased—more pleased than my flippant answer seemed to warrant. Clearing her throat, she asked:

“How did I end up? Happy, I hope, and extremely rich!”

“Oh, I didn’t get that far. But I’m sure you would have.”

Her flecked gray eyes widened for an instant, searching mine. It struck me, as it never had in the past, that she was insecure—that it actually mattered to her how, to what precise purpose, someone who called himself a writer might adapt her existence for the purposes of a story.

“Well, it must be fun to make up stories about real people,” she said, resuming her poised air. “You can make them do whatever you want, can’t you? Fall in love, inherit a fortune, become a Buddhist or a junkie or god knows what . . . I’d like to end up in a nice little cottage in the Cotswolds, if you do write your book, with hollyhocks and plum trees and two or three handsome farmers for lovers, preferably with wives they have to get home to before daybreak.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Ha! And interesting friends like you to come and visit, of course.”

“Of course.”

She gave a contented sigh. I got the sense of an impressionable spirit—more susceptible to things than I’d imagined.

“And what was your role in all this going to be?” she asked. “One of those detached observers like what’s-his-name in the Powell books?”

“Nicholas Jenkins.”

“Yes, Nicholas Jenkins. I always found him rather cold and dull. I hope you weren’t going to portray yourself like that.”

“Actually I think I was.”

“No! It wouldn’t be accurate. You’re a lot more fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so.”

She narrowed her eyes in a look of mock provocation.

“And would I still be able to make you blush?”

I was enjoying the flirtatious tack she’d taken, but even as I laughed and tried to think of a suitably suave reply, something—some confusion, or irritation with myself—flared inside me.