He poured wine into glasses on his crowded side table, where no one had noticed them among the silver sundae dishes and engraved sugar bowls and other franchise leftovers. All of these Lucky’s creation. All of these saved from the second great fire. He took what he could from the final restaurant, and he went home. At home, many boring and lonely nights passed, as occurred for all humankind: he thought of such community in his solitude. Today it was time to resolve that anomaly. Lucky, his face a picture of anxious concentration, brought drinks to his guests. He told Sophia and Jamie that yesterday and the day before he’d performed as a contestant on Wheel of Fortune.

‘I wanted the money to start a restaurant,’ he said, before they could ask him about the result. ‘I wanted another chance. I wanted to do something the right way, without any horrible flaws. And I wanted you to manage the place, Sophia. But that’s not going to happen now.’

‘I’m too old for hospitality,’ said Sophia.

‘I tried to save Penelope. I tried to save my marriage. I tried my best with the franchise. I tried to stop gambling.’

He held up his glass and they drank, and Lucky, who’d tried also to keep his flat cool and dark all day, opened the curtains to provide more sunlight for Louis II. The sky was the blue of a computer screen and Jamie brought his pet into a warm spot near the door. The afternoon felt quiet for a moment: the snake hardly moving; Jamie taking in the books and knickknacks on the shelves and sideboards; Sophia finishing her wine. Emily gazed at a postcard Lucky handed her, a souvenir given to customers at Lucky’s franchises in the early 1970s. Here it was, the photographic model from which Ian Asquith had painted his suicide picture. She’d looked at her father’s painting thousands of times: his image was better than the postcard; he’d improved upon the composition; she saw the tells of pride.

‘We should make this a regular thing,’ said Lucky. ‘Come visit Louis II, and I cook your favourite dishes. On Sundays, like family.’

Sophia held out her empty glass, which Lucky promptly refilled.

‘What’s this box?’ said Jamie, holding up a clarinet case he found slotted between the wall and a bookshelf. ‘Is it snake-related?’

‘It’s a clarinet.’

‘I want to learn that instrument!’ said Jamie. ‘You could give me lessons.’

‘I can’t pay for lessons right now,’ said Sophia.

Emily put down the postcard, stopping herself before she fell too far into Asquith-thought again. Maybe she knew all she would know about her father. They waited for Lucky in silence, with a close attention that he interpreted as doubtful confidence. Sophia waved her hands for Lucky to go ahead, hurry up, play.