‘I’ll just have a drink until my date arrives,’ says Sebastian, sitting hunched on a small round stool with no back. He looks like the sort of chap who would prefer to drape himself on a chair.

‘What do you do, Sebastian?’

‘I’m unemployed. I was working for a hedge fund, but sadly it was heavily invested with Madoff’s Ascot.’

‘Oh dear. Was that your idea?’

‘Luckily, no. Can we talk about something else? So you must be married to Sir H.? How is he?’

‘He is recuperating at the villa in Antibes. He’s making slow but steady progress.’

‘Old school. Of the best sort, of course. Pity we weren’t listening. The markets have no fucking logic.’

More drinks arrive. Sebastian, she sees, is a drinker. He has that slightly bemused-spaniel look around the eyes. But then, who’s throwing stones? She and Kimberly are now both pretty much smashed. The evening is beginning to collapse into a sociable sink and she feels that anything is possible. When she goes out with Harry there is a bubble of artificiality around them, a brittleness. People treat them with too much respect. In his charming way, Harry likes deference: it means that only he can dominate a conversation. Kimberly is talking to Sebastian now, who is, after all, eating the small, exquisite but alien offerings. She guesses he would rather be chowing down on spaghetti Bolognese, certainly something less stylishly pointless. The restaurant is now packed; people are even waiting outside. They are briefly revealed in the blue silken Notting Hill evening as the door opens. She hasn’t stood in line for anything for years.

‘His wife left him. Kinda sad,’ says Kimberly as Sebastian gets up to pilot his date from the door through the throng. ‘Julian says he’s a loser. Can’t close a deal. Still, good-looking loser, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, I suppose so. I’m not really in the market.’

‘Come on. Of course you are. Life’s one big market. This, coming towards us with Sebastian, is an old girlfriend called Samantha. Her husband went off with a Thai ladyboy just after Christmas.’

‘You’re joking, I hope.’

‘No, I’m not. These Englishmen are as weird as snakes. So, so weird. They have a whole lot going on we will never understand, believe me.’

‘OK, I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Samantha, hi, this is my mother-in-law, Fleur.’

‘Oh Jesus, Kim, I wish you would stop saying that. Hello, Samantha.’

Samantha looks puzzled and muted. Perhaps she is depressed by her husband’s defection with a ladyboy, as she has every reason to be.

They all squeeze up together. They order more delicate parcels and neatly dissected crustaceans. Fleur is warmly happy: she has a secret that she can’t share; it gives the evening a special subtext. She can feel it in her body, even in her glutes: sensuality – sexuality – has taken possession of her.