The Quanjude Beijing Duck restaurant stood on Qianmen Dajie just south of Tiananmen Square. This was a busy commercial centre, bustling with all manner of shops still open for business. The streets were thick with early evening shoppers, and workers nipping in on their way home for sit-in or carry-out meals in the dozens of Western and Chinese fast-food joints. Off the main street ran a jumble of hutongs, choking with market stands and food stalls hanging with red lanterns, neon-lit Chinese characters projecting from every shopfront. Their BMW edged its way through the traffic, past the fast-food section of the Quanjude—duck-burgers a speciality—and turned into a tunnel lined by glass-framed poster-sized photographs of world leaders stuffing their faces with roast duck. In the carpark, Bob stood anxiously underneath the lanterns at the door, glancing at his watch. He took Margaret’s arm as she emerged from the back of the BMW and guided her hastily in through the revolving door.

“You’re late,” he hissed.

“Well, that’s hardly my fault. The car picks me up, the car drops me off.”

“Okay, okay.” He glanced around self-consciously. The ground floor of the restaurant was packed, dozens of tables stretching off to infinity, steaming roast ducks on trolleys being wheeled to tables for carving by chefs in tall hats. “Now, listen, before we go up, there’s a few things you should know.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are.” Although still tired, she was getting her second wind now, and the vodka was having its effect.

He ignored her tone and steered her away from the door. “You’ll be placed on the right hand of your host—that’s Professor Jiang. Don’t sit until he indicates where. He’ll propose a toast welcoming you to Beijing. You reply with a toast thanking the generosity of your host.” Margaret felt like a naughty child being admonished for earlier indiscretions and briefed to prevent further faux pas. Her attention wandered to a panoramic window giving on to the kitchens, where dripping ducks hung roasting inside great wood-burning ovens. “The meal usually comes in four courses. You let him serve you the first couple times then tell him you can manage fine from now on. You can use chopsticks, can’t you?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Good. Well, turn them round and use the other end to serve yourself from communal plates. Oh, and it’s not considered good form for women to drink too much. So just take a sip for the toasts and then leave the rest, okay?”

Margaret nodded, but she wasn’t really listening. She was looking in a large glass case mounted on the wall at a signed photograph of George Bush with a mouthful of duck. Asked for his autograph, he had obviously scrawled his name and as an afterthought reckoned he should make some polite comment about the restaurant. “A superb meal. Many thanks,” he had written. Inspirational as always, Margaret thought.