‘Surely not,’ said Deb. ‘Shall we get that man to bring us more wine?’

We’d already drunk a carafe between us, so I said, ‘Yes.’ Deb was looking very fetching, with her astonishing hair and a rosy, frilly blouse – Jamal would find her tip-top. They could go riding together in an English mist.

When our glasses were full, she asked, ‘Do you think Minna would go in for a bit on the side?’

‘Surely not.’

Music was playing, a lush, traditional tune, vaguely fascist. We drank more delicious wine. I studied Deb – her abrupt flaring into beauty. ‘Deb!’ I said. ‘Do I know him?’

She began to giggle. ‘We went to see a film. And afterwards we had quite a lot of whisky and things just sort of went on from there.’

I should have seen it at once. Deb looked starry and intrepid. She looked like a plant that had been watered after a drought. ‘Oh, God!’ I said. ‘It’s Nick, isn’t it?’ I wanted it to be Nick. I longed to punish Minna. I didn’t want it to be Nick.

‘That grammar-school Marxist?’ Deb giggled some more.

The media were reporting that across the Channel the Royal Gynaecologist had examined the Royal Bride-to-Be and declared her Fit to Fuck Royalty. I realised that I’d been wrong about Deb’s hair. It wasn’t a flower but a declaration that she was fucking royally. It stood up around her head like the spokes of a crown.

The April holidays were coming up. Minna told me that she’d be going to Sardinia with Nick. She had an introduction to a woman who lived there, an old acquaintance of Minna’s mother. The woman was John Berger’s mistress, and Minna wanted to visit her because she had urgent questions for John Berger. ‘With any luck, he’ll be there too. Nick worships him. And if he’s not there, we’ll get his address from her and go to see him.’

Two days before Minna and Nick were to set off, everything changed. Nick’s aunt died, and Nick had to fly home. Minna didn’t want to postpone her trip, upsetting the arrangements that had been made, so she invited me to take Nick’s place.

Nick was to have driven the Goddess to Italy, but Minna and I would have to take the train. Minna said that she’d get our tickets. That evening, having seen Nick off on the airport bus, she met me in a red velveteen brasserie for dinner. I asked how much my ticket had cost.

‘Nothing. You’re doing me a favour.’

Part of me – the frightened part that was always adding up sums – wanted to thank her and hang onto the money. I took out my chequebook and pen. ‘How much?’

A list of beers was printed on the big mirror that hung on the wall beside us. Between the florid golden lettering, Minna’s profile struck me as furtive – it was more expressive than her face across the table. I asked, ‘Did you get first class?’