Patrick leaned forward and checked his pupils in the mirror. They had definitely dilated. His heartbeat had accelerated. He felt invigorated, he felt refreshed, in fact he felt rather aggressive. It was as if he had never taken a drink or a drug, he was back in complete control, the lighthouse beams of speed cutting through the thick night of the Quaaludes and the alcohol and the jet lag.

‘And,’ he said, clasping his lapels with mayoral solemnity, ‘last but not least, through the dark shadow, if I might put it thus, of our grief for the passing away of David Melrose.’

How long had he been in the bathroom? It seemed like a lifetime. The fire brigade would probably be forcing the door down soon. Patrick started to clear up hastily. He didn’t want to put the shell of the Black Beauty into the waste-paper basket (paranoia!) and so he forced the two halves of the empty capsule down the basin plughole. How was he going to explain his reanimated state to Anne? He splashed some cold water on his face and left it ostentatiously dripping. There was only one thing left to do: that authentic-sounding flush with which every junkie leaves a bathroom, hoping to deceive the audience that crowds his imagination.

‘For God’s sake,’ said Anne when he got back to the drawing room, ‘why don’t you dry your face?’

‘I was just reviving myself with a little cold water.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Anne. ‘What kind of water was that?’

‘Very refreshing water,’ he said, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers as he sat down. ‘Which reminds me,’ he said, getting up immediately, ‘I’d love another drink if I may.’

‘Sure,’ said Anne resignedly. ‘By the way, I forgot to ask, how is Debbie?’

The question filled Patrick with the horror which assailed him when he was asked to consider another person’s feelings. How was Debbie? How the fuck should he know? It was hard enough to rescue himself from the avalanche of his own feelings, without allowing the gloomy St Bernard of his attention to wander into other fields. On the other hand the amphetamines had given him an urgent desire to talk and he couldn’t ignore the question entirely.

‘Well,’ he said from the other side of the room, ‘she’s following in her mother’s footsteps, and writing an article about great hostesses. Teresa Hickmann’s footsteps, invisible to most people, glow in the dark for her dutiful daughter. Still, we should be grateful that she hasn’t modelled her conversational style on her father’s.’