“Where is she now?” I say fearfully. “Is she…dead?”

“Pretty much.” He nods. “Alaska.”

“Alaska’s not dead!” I say indignantly.

“She went to work on an oil rig.” Danny takes a swig of wine. “She’s very successful, actually. I think she runs the whole thing. But before that, she was a gambling addict.”

“So it’s not a tragic story at all,” I say crossly. “She ended up being boss of an oil rig.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like, being boss of an oil rig?” counters Danny. “Have you seen those places?”

I always forget how exasperating Danny is.

“Anyway,” I say, a little sternly. “None of this is the point. The point is—”

“I know what the point is!” Danny cuts me off, sounding triumphant. “I’m, like, ten steps ahead of you. I have fliers, I have leaflets, I have pens, I have T-shirts….”

“T-shirts?” I peer at him.

Danny takes off his biker jacket to reveal a T-shirt printed with an image of Tarquin. It’s a black-and-white picture taken from a fashion shoot which Tarkie did a while ago, and it shows him naked from the waist up, with rope twined round his torso, his eyes staring soulfully into the camera. It’s an amazing shot, but I recoil in dismay. Suze hates that picture. She thinks it makes Tarquin look like some gay supermodel. (Which, to be fair, it does.) She will not be happy to see it reproduced on a T-shirt.

At the bottom is printed FIND ME and Suze’s mobile number.

“I have a whole bunch,” says Danny proudly. “Kasey and Josh are handing out the fliers, all round Caesars Palace.”

“Kasey and Josh?”

“My assistants. See, what we do is, we get his face out there. First rule of finding a missing person. My PR people are trying the news channels; I have someone talking to the milk-carton guys—”

“Wait a sec.” The truth suddenly dawns on me. “They’re handing out pictures of Tarquin right now?”

“They’re going to cover the whole city,” boasts Danny. “We printed ten thousand.”

“But we’ve found him!”

“What?” Danny actually jolts in shock.

“Well, kind of,” I amend. “I mean, we’ve spoken to him. We’re having breakfast at the Bellagio in the morning.”

“The Bellagio?” Danny looks utterly affronted. “Are you serious? I thought he’d been kidnapped. I thought he was being brainwashed.”

“Well, Suze still does. At least, she can’t relax until she actually sees him….Anyway, show me the fliers,” I add hastily. “You’re amazing, Danny. Absolutely brilliant. Suze will be so grateful.”

“I produced three varieties,” says Danny, mollified. “Ulla, the fliers?”

Ulla hastily reaches into her big leather bag and pulls out three leaflets, which she passes over the table. Each has a different, stunning black-and-white picture of Tarkie looking like a moody gay-porn star—all from the same fashion shoot. One reads FIND ME, like the T-shirt, one reads WHERE AM I?, and the third reads I AM LOST, and they all have Suze’s mobile number.