‘Is that so?’ The trousers fitted fine, with a belt. This charity had thrown me. I could not have named the instinct that drove me to Pierce’s house, but I was angry and – now that the profile no longer mattered – had some vague idea of settling my account, of telling Pierce exactly what I thought of him. But I did not know precisely what that was, and his unprompted kindness complicated my feelings even further, spilling in more resentment and self-loathing. I wondered where the soil scraped out from under my neighbours’ houses had gone now – perhaps back east, infill for one of the vast new developments on the river. Returning. Dust to dust.

‘Mistress City,’ I said.

‘Pardon?’ Pierce said.

‘Mistress City,’ I said. ‘It’s on your map, on Pimlico. I saw it there the other day.’

Pierce folded back the map’s hide of notes and clippings. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mistress City. Nickname, because it was where Members of Parliament kept their mistresses, in little rented flats. It’s where politicians get fucked.’

‘It’s certainly where I get fucked,’ I said. ‘Got, anyway. Thank you for the trousers.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Pierce murmured, still staring at the map. ‘Why do you live there, anyway? Why did you?’

‘I used to share a flat there with a girlfriend,’ I said. ‘When that ended, I couldn’t leave – it was as if leaving the area for somewhere more affordable was an admission of failure. Of being downwardly mobile, I suppose. And the irony is, I had to move downwards, literally downwards, in order to stay. I used to be on the first floor, and I went down into the basement flat.’

‘The basement flat of the same house?’

‘Same house, yes.’ I swigged the beer. ‘Another couple live in the flat upstairs. Lived.’

Pierce turned, smiling over his shoulder at me, amused by the story. I could picture him re-telling it, at my expense, for laughs – another little scrap of detail tucked into his vibrant mental city.

‘Are we going to talk about what happened?’ I asked. ‘Last night.’

‘It went well, I thought,’ Pierce said. He had returned to poring over the map, making tiny adjustments here and there, as if planning a military operation. His casual manner, the complacent way he referred to what he had done, needled me.

‘Are you done now?’ I said, not disguising the scorn I felt. ‘Do you have what you need?’

‘Oh, not even slightly,’ Pierce said, very calm. ‘It’s given me an appetite. Thrilling, wasn’t it? I used to feel afraid – this ubiquitous fear that I had stopped noticing, it had become part of me – and I don’t any more. It’s gone.’