We reconvened at Dieter’s place on the sixth of January for the Fête des Rois. Deb was there, and Pascal as well. Still festive from the Christmas break, we knocked back champagne and talked over each other, exchanging news about our holidays around mirror-polished oak. A bowl of mandarins stood on the marble ledge above the radiator, their scent filling the room.

Nick and Minna were the last to arrive. I saw with amazement that her hair was now a dark, cherry red – the most beautiful colour. She sat next to me and asked about my Christmas in Paris. After a while, I spoke to her softly. ‘Last year – I thought your hair really was that colour.’

She wrinkled her nose at me.

‘So what colour is it really?’

‘Who can remember?’

Pascal had brought a galette des rois: the round pastry stuffed with frangipane paste baked for the Feast of Kings. Another cork popped, and the galette was sliced up. Deb’s fork clinked. Her portion held the fève, a little china king. She had to don a golden paper crown and promise to buy next year’s galette. The champagne was making me woozy, and Minna’s smooth head shone like a lamp – there were violet depths in her hair. Why had I taken her for a work of nature? It should have been obvious that she was a work of art.

The party broke up soon afterwards. We clustered on the pavement to say goodnight to Deb. Astride her moped, she said, ‘Did you hear? They’ve got the Yorkshire Ripper.’ She began to laugh. Deb’s laugh was the gurgly kind – it sounded as if a cocktail were being shaken up inside her. ‘So, mes amis, that’s one murdering bastard behind bars.’

Things slanted and shifted with the new year. Minna had a warmer coat, a thick tangerine parka that shouted against her hair. ‘The uglification campaign continues,’ said Nick. The slippery nylon of the coat made a faint hissing sound when touched – simple actions, Nick placing his arm across her shoulders, Minna putting her hand in her pocket, were accompanied by those whispers.

It was ridiculous, but I kept thinking about her hair – why had Minna never mentioned that she dyed it? That she hadn’t revealed she came from money was understandable. But this was such a trivial thing. When she wore makeup she flaunted it, her eyelids painted red or black, smudgy kohl around her eyes, a clownish triangle of blusher on her cheeks. But her bright hair had looked natural. I scolded myself for affronted vanity – the illusion that I knew everything about Minna had now been dispelled twice. All the same, it felt as if something like trust was over.

As if sensing a withdrawal, Minna offered me a secret. Nick had run into difficulty with his novel, she confided. He’d planned out the whole thing, his characters were alive to him, he’d envisaged every twist of their various fates. And now when he sat down to write, he was overtaken by enormous boredom. He knew everything that was going to happen and couldn’t bring himself to write it down.