‘How did he come back from Harare?’

‘What? Oh, his mother was killed in a car crash, and since old Lord Soulford had shuffled off the mortal coil there was no impediment to his being taken back into the family. I think his mother’s relatives understandably felt he might have a better life in England. Came back when he was still a toddler. His mother had taken to calling him Nyasha, but his father quite sensibly changed his name back to Francis.’

I listened to this extraordinary biography in silence. I wanted to challenge Michael on its authenticity, just in case he was playing a game with me. I didn’t because I was so desperate to meet the man he had described that I wanted to sustain the illusion of truth, if it was an illusion, for as long as possible.

‘What about the girls?’

‘Which girls?’ he asked, reaching for the salt.

‘There were two women with you in the courtyard.’

‘Oh yes. Jessica and Lisa. Jessica’s rather attractive, if your tastes are obvious. Her father used to be something in property, but he went bust and finished up in Ford open prison. Lisa is quite a human dynamo. No background to speak of. A great organizing force around the university, particularly where there’s money to be made. Jewish of course. She’s always running some scam or other. In fact . . .’ He paused and looked at me critically, wanting me to know that I was being measured for some special privilege. I submitted rather awkwardly to the appraisal, shovelling up mashed potato on my fork. ‘How are your plans for later this evening?’ he said, returning to his plate.

‘Oh . . .’ I said, unwilling to reveal that my plans for the evening revolved exclusively around Chaucer, the ten o’clock news and bed. ‘Nothing I couldn’t cancel. Why?’

‘Well, I thought you might like to meet some of my friends, since you’re so interested. Do you have black tie?’ he asked me.

‘Yes. Yes, I have, back in my room,’ I said, then mentally censured myself for my eagerness. The suit had been a matriculation present from my father.

‘How much money can you get your hands on?’

I baulked a little at this question. I did not wish to reveal how little money I had, but I could not afford the pretence. Michael, who could be quite perceptive when it came to other people’s discomfort, dismissed my hesitation with an airy wave. ‘But what am I thinking? Tonight was to be a thank you. Just meet me by All Saints’ Passage at eleven o’clock. And you might want to take a look at your hair.’