“There’s a place round the corner,” he said, his smile, impossibly, broadening at the prospect of an evening involving both Sophie and Thai food, “where the chili blows the roof of your mouth all the way through the top of your skull.”

“James Roderick MacNichol,” she announced, “you are my kind of man.”

As they walked down the dark London street, she slid her hand through his arm.

“Are you warm enough in that?” he asked, plucking at her black cloth jacket: Sophie rarely wore as many clothes as other people. “You can borrow my coat if you want, it’s bloody cold.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m half Bostonian, and we’re pretty hardcore.”

“Well, it looks like we’re getting some Boston weather to celebrate Thanksgiving,” he said. “I’m looking forward to that, by the way. I’ve never had a Thanksgiving dinner. What do you eat besides turkey?”

“Lots of things,” she said. “But let’s not talk about food till we get to the restaurant, because I’m seriously hungry, and the thought only makes it worse. I’m going to order that spicy mixed-seafood thing. Do they have it there? Hope they do, because my mouth’s all ready and sort of tingling for it.”

“Thought you didn’t want to talk about food,” he said. “Hey, how did it go with the naughty-waughty boydie? Did he say anything interesting?”

“Actually, he did,” she said. “He said some really good and useful stuff, and I want to talk to you about it when we get to the restaurant. But I can’t talk till I’ve got some food in me. I’ve just realized I forgot to have lunch.”

He tapped her on the head with his knuckles. “Well, you were a wally-ette, then, weren’t you?” he said.

* * *

The spicy mixed seafood, when it arrived, was both substantial and fiery.

“Delicious,” pronounced Sophie, forking a hefty mouthful. “The most seriously delicious food that anyone has ever tasted in the history of the world, and I’m not exaggerating. Jamie, I need to talk to you about Hughie Brown.”

She paused, marshaling her thoughts and feeling suddenly anxious. But there was no need to, she told herself then. Jamie would understand. Jamie always understood.

“We had quite a long talk,” she said. “And he said some really interesting things.”

But that was odd, she thought. She felt very anxious indeed, more anxious, now that she thought of it, than she had ever been in her life. Her heart was racing, and the inside of her mouth felt what could only be called strange.

“He said—” she began, but she never finished the sentence. Instead, she felt her throat close up and the table rush towards her, and caught a brief glimpse of Jamie’s terrified face before she fainted.

When Lulu arrived at the hospital, Jamie was in the waiting room, looking relieved.

“They’ve taken her away,” he said. “But it turns out it’s nothing serious, just an allergic reaction.”

Actors, thought Lulu irritatedly. Their heads so far up in the clouds they could talk to the man on the moon.