Daphne grabbed us as soon as we walked in and dragged us up front. The better to see Smith-Richards’s pore-less skin, I presume. He hasn’t come out yet. Daphne is on the edge of her seat, waiting for him.

I’m feeling too cheerful to harass her about calling home. At least my father seems to be doing better this week. I’ve been checking in. Vera, my old nanny, has agreed to come help with the kids. Her family is in Hampshire, so she won’t stay for good, but maybe she can see him through Daphne’s bout of madness. (I’m very relieved that my father doesn’t need me in Oxford; it’s very important that I stay in London and eat toast in Simon Snow’s bed. On his new striped sheets.)

Simon squeezes my hand. “Do you see Jamie?”

We can’t see anyone without cranking our necks around and calling attention to ourselves. “No.”

“Maybe he’s running late.”

The show is about to begin. You can tell because they’re playing Coldplay over the speakers, and everyone is getting jumpy. Daphne takes my other hand and squeezes it tight. She’s beaming tonight—she looks like she spent the day shopping for dinnerware with her boyfriend at Ikea. (How doomed is my father?) (Maybe he can offer Vera an enormous raise…) (Maybe he can marry her.)

The room erupts when Smith-Richards walks in. He holds up his arms to acknowledge everyone. “Thank you,” he mouths over the applause. Simon lets go of my hand to clap.

Smith-Richards hops onto the stage. (Why step when you can hop.) When he sees Simon, his warm smile gets even more incandescent. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says to Simon, waving. We’re sitting so close to the stage, we can hear him.

He’s looking artfully casual tonight—white painter’s trousers, a blue split-neck shirt, some sort of red and gold bandanna knotted at his throat … It suits him, loath as I am to admit it. It would suit Simon better.

An older man—the same one who was at the door the other night—hands Smith-Richards a microphone. “Hello!” he says into the mic. “Everyone! It’s so good to see you…”

Smith-Richards goes right into his pitch: How much he cares about everyone in the room, how he wants to help them, how he believes he can help them. How they deserve so much more than life has given them so far.

It’s not that he’s wrong about all this, I suppose. It’s just that he’s insufferable.

I look over my shoulder. There are more people here tonight than at the last meeting. Smith-Richards is going to have to find a bigger pub. Maybe he should rent a church; the vibe would be spot-on.