Christophe was the chef. This made us all smile, and he showed us to our usual table. It was at the back of the restaurant, a glass circular disc mounted on legs like metal bones. Seeing that we were four, not our usual five, the waiter removed one of the heavy metal chairs without comment. We pretended not to notice, and I realized that we were willing to do almost anything to preserve our fragile happiness against the sudden buffets of a happier past. The Vaults got its name from the low-hanging ceilings that curved upwards into little domes above the bar and dining room. The designer had embraced the dungeon theme with low menacing lighting and a series of unsettling paintings and photographs around the walls. In each of the rooms there stood a man-sized sculpture in black wrought iron, skeletal figures in attitudes of pain or supplication. These had a tendency to snag your clothing, and I think Jessica found them a little frightening, because the way she hung her coat and handbag on the crouching demon nearest our table always seemed a little too deliberate, as if she was trying to laugh at a joke that was painfully true. The table at the back was the best in the house, as the restaurant was badly laid out and almost every other seat ran the risk of bumps from waiters heading to the kitchen, or patrons heading for the toilets. Francis ordered enough food for an army, and for the duration of dinner our forgetfulness became effortless, and we genuinely escaped our problems. We found a doorway back into the past, and slipped through.

‘I miss this,’ Jessica said, as we sat smoking before a heap of ruined puddings. ‘I miss this so much. I miss us being together, and not worrying.’

‘We’re still together,’ Francis said, and put his hand on her shoulder, his thumb stroking her clavicle. Although there was genuine affection in his voice, there was something else looking out from his eyes, as if part of him was making a dispassionate assessment of his friend.

‘I know we are, but . . . how much was dinner?’

‘Two hundred or so. We drank quite a lot.’

‘And how much do you have left?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘Four-fifty. A little over.’

‘And have you paid your rent yet?’

Francis was silent. Jessica leant back in her chair, putting herself out of reach of his hand, and tilted her head back, exposing her white throat to the table.

‘I’m gonna cover half of dinner,’ Lisa said, and it made me laugh.

‘There is another way,’ Francis said carefully, and Jessica brought her head back down, levelling her gaze at him. As soon as he had spoken I felt an unbearable rush of impatience. I was on the point of interrupting his sly look and adumbrating the scheme myself, but Jessica interjected.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘A way we could be rich. And not just me. I mean all of us. So rich we’d never have to work again.’