‘How’s Francis?’ I asked, trying not to show how much the question meant to me.

‘He’s lost all his money,’ she said. It was a bald statement of fact, unseasoned by emotion. As she came closer I saw that she wore her tan like a mask, and underneath looked deathly pale.

‘How could he? You know Francis, it’s deliberate melodrama.’

‘No, no, he’s telling the truth. I was there, at least for the end of things. Not that he would let me help him. I think he just wanted a witness.’

‘How can you lose a million pounds in three months?’ I asked, still unwilling to believe her.

‘Oh James,’ she said, with a tired smile showing a brief flash of amusement at my naivety, ‘believe me, it’s easy if you know the right people.’

I baulked at her condescension, but kept my focus. ‘Where did you pick him up? What people?’

‘What does it matter?’ she said, and closed her eyes.

In that moment, I perceived a terrible thing. She had invested too much of herself in the risky enterprise of Francis Manley, and now that the creditors were clamouring at the door she had no exit strategy. She must have realized it some time before, as her lack of resistance spoke of resignation. There was not even hope to leaven her love, for something in her manner showed that the delicate strings that had kept her image of Francis afloat, performing his charming antics for her with the promise of redemption inherent to all life, had been cut one at a time by disappointment, until the body lay wooden and motionless on the floor, revealing the vital movement to have been an illusion all along. I had felt the same bitter disappointment at the way he had abandoned me to my normal life. Caring for him had become an empty ritual – she was like a priestess lighting candles for a god she knew to be dead, performing a service that had lost the excuse of purpose. But at least she had the excuse of time; she had come to know and love him when he was at his zenith, before his true nature had begun to protrude, a hard seam of self-destruction that endured long after the passion and zest through which it ran had worn away. I had bound myself to him in his failing moments. I had wilfully entered a falling building, blinded by the beauty of the architecture. I felt the double pain of having my friendship abused, and having sanctioned the abuse.

I dismissed these thoughts with a shake of the head. They were mostly born out of anger for the way I had been ignored over the summer. Jessica was no more in despair than I was a fool, or Francis a doomed soul. Her resignation was just tiredness. This was the melodrama of unsatisfied grievance. I was sure that Jessica was exaggerating.