“She’s not well,” I said.

“Are you saying she’s mad?” she asked.

I looked appropriately stricken. “Oh,” said Simone. “Poor thing, poor you. I don’t suppose we can go back.”

I realized that people were watching us from inside the KFC. Perhaps they thought we were street theater.

“And I was so looking forward to hearing your dad play,” she said.

“There’ll be other gigs,” I said. “Let me offer you an evening’s entertainment chez Peter.”

“Not the chaise longue again,” she said. “I’ve still got a crick in my back.”

“I laid in some cake.”

“That’s suspicious,” she said. “Almost as if you were expecting company after the gig. Who were you planning to take home?”

I kept my arm around her shoulders and guided her down the road toward Camden Town. “I don’t care for your tone, young lady,” I said.

“Where did you get the cake?” she asked. “Tesco?”

“Marks & Spencer,” I said.

She sighed and her arm tightened around my waist. “You know me so well.”

I hailed a black cab to take us back to the Folly. It seemed the safest thing to do.

When we got back to the coach house she took a moment to fix her face in my emergency shaving mirror.

“Do I look frightful?” she said. “I simply can’t tell with this teeny-weeny mirror.”

I said she looked beautiful, which she did. The imprint of my mother’s hand, which had still been a livid red on her cheek in the cab, was beginning to fade and she’d reapplied her lipstick. There was enough left of the transparent top she was wearing to make me want to tear off the rest and my desire was making me hot and queasy. I concentrated on queueing up the right playlist on my iPod and making sure that it was plugged into the speakers.

“I promised you cake,” I said as she advanced on me.

Simone wasn’t to be distracted that easily. “Cake later,” she said and slipped her arms around my waist, one hand sliding under my shirt. I reached out and pressed play on the iPod.

“What’s this?” she asked as the music began to play.

“Coleman Hawkins,” I said. “ ‘Body and Soul.’ ” It was the wrong first track. It was supposed to be Billie Holiday.

“Is it?” she asked. “You see, it just doesn’t sound real when it’s recorded.”

I slipped my hand under her jacket and pulled her against me. The skin of her back felt feverish under my palm. “This is better,” she said and then she leaned forward and bit the top button right off the front of my shirt.

“Hey,” I said.

“Fair’s fair,” she said.

“Did you ever hear him play?” I asked. “Coleman?”