“Take a seat,” Cy commanded. “How about this table, huh? I got it from a monastery last time I was in Europe. And the candlesticks. They had them in the chapel but I think they look better here.” He sat at one end of the table, Mrs. Goldman at the other. Place cards indicated where the rest of us should sit. Stella was in the middle with Craig facing her. I was on one side of him, Belinda on the other. Charlie Chaplin and Mummy were on either side of Mr. Goldman. Ronnie on the other side of me. He had been sent to fetch Juan, who sat, silent and glowering, next to Mrs. Goldman.

“Okay, Maria, you can serve now,” Mr. Goldman called and a pleasant-looking Mexican woman came in carrying a tray of oysters to the table. She was just about to offer them to Mr. Goldman when Mrs. Goldman let out a yell. “What were you thinking, Cyrus? There’s thirteen at dinner. Don’t you know how unlucky that is?”

“I don’t believe in luck, personally. Besides, people have arrived who weren’t in my final count. People you brought, Helen. You brought the bad luck, not me.”

Mrs. Goldman glared and fell silent. The dinner was simple by our English standards but very tasty. After the oysters there was a spicy soup with vegetables and crunchy bits, then quail, then big slabs of prime rib, served very rare. The meal finished with ice cream with fruit. I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t sensed the clear atmosphere of tension around me. Mr. and Mrs. Goldman exchanged barbs the full length of the table. Charlie was flirting across the table with my mother, who was not exactly repelling his advances. Belinda monopolized Craig. I turned to Ronnie. “Is it always like this here?” I asked.

Ronnie smiled. “You should know by now, Mr. Goldman feeds off drama. There has to be high stress around him. And Mrs. Goldman—she’s hardly ever here, especially not when he’s got guests like this. And between ourselves she’s not exactly the gracious hostess.”

He looked past me to where Belinda was now hanging on Craig’s every word.

“I see I’ve been discarded,” I whispered to Ronnie.

“Your friend is practically throwing herself at him,” Ronnie agreed. He smirked. “I wonder if she’d be so eager if she knew.”

“Knew what?”

He leaned closer. “I was going to tell you yesterday, to save you from getting the wrong idea and further embarrassment.” He paused then muttered, “Craig Hart is . . . well, you know. He is not exactly interested in the female sex, if you know what I mean.”

“Crikey. One of the leading heartthrobs in the world and he’s a fairy?” I whispered.