Francis never spoke of what he had said to me. This silence was consistent with the notion in our group that the events of his father’s visit had become a kind of taboo. It was considered bad taste to mention Lord Soulford at all, not only because we wished to avoid talking about the source of our misfortune, but also perhaps because we feared it would lead us on to unfair recriminations, to arguing over who had done what and blaming each other bitterly for our current state. Without any communication with him I could not puzzle out my growing fantasies and my confusion increased until I even began to doubt whether he remembered what he had said to me at all. He had been drunk, heavily drugged and suffering from mild shock. It was horrible to think that his idea, which had begun to take hold of me so strongly, had coalesced momentarily from the vapours of his intoxication, then blown apart like a shape in the clouds. I actually became frustrated with Francis for not bringing it up. I wanted to be seduced into crime, and the idea lost much of its attraction if I was to be the one to propose it, or even to mention it first. I did not want to bear the responsibility, either legally or morally, if things went wrong.

He caught me at the peak of my silent need. I could not tell if this was chance, or perfect management. It was the last week of the Lent term, and Francis had actually won some money at the dog track. Even at the height of his munificence, this event would have been so rare as to occasion a celebration, and in our current state it had the communal air of a public festival. Jessica got dressed up, and gave one of her rare displays of make-up. Even Lisa shed her trainers in favour of a pair of black kitten heels, and for once released her features from the perennial frown of scrutiny. I think we all looked beautiful to each other when we met at the bar in Tudor Vaults for cocktails. The girls offset one another, Jessica’s paleness and blonde hair being the perfect foil to Lisa’s olive tone and almond eyes, and I hope Francis and I were like that too, both of us towering over the bouncer, his brilliant smile inlaid in his dark jaw like a new moon.

The maître d’ greeted us as old friends. ‘Francis! We’ve missed you, huh? Where have you been?’

The question made me stiffen slightly, but Francis took it in his stride.

‘I’ve been away for a little while,’ he said. ‘But I’m back.’

‘Ha. We thought you had maybe found another favourite place. You made Christophe cry.’