He refused to drop any further hints about our destination. We had dessert and black coffee. I didn’t usually drink coffee, but he told me I needed to keep myself awake for the evening’s entertainment, that it didn’t do to let dinner set in too early. When the bill came he scrutinized it with a heavy frown, as if expecting to be cheated. He pulled out a gold moneyclip, and paid cash, so that I saw four twenties going between the card sides of the folder before he closed it. I steeled myself to avoid an excessive show of thanks, one that would betray how seldom I ate a dinner that expensive. As we rose to leave I asked myself why Michael would want to invite me to something private and special. He had more than discharged any obligation of gratitude with dinner, and we had no history of friendship that might require such a favour. At the time, I could think of nothing but the fact that I intrigued him in some way, and he wanted to know me better. In retrospect, I think he was simply carried away with the joy of total superiority. I think he wanted to show me around his social set like the owner of a stately home issuing an invitation to a penniless relative, leading me down beautiful corridors, pointing out the priceless and the unique, before ejecting me back into the everyday world with a polite wave and an empty promise of future contact. He was not a malicious man, and I do not think for a moment that he was motivated by a desire to hurt; he was simply addicted to the idea of being better than others, and would go to extraordinary lengths to satisfy his need. He was compelled to make others aware of their low status in relation to his own, and in their forced acknowledgement that his life was better than theirs was lodged the kernel of his self-respect. He never foresaw that I might make myself at home in his world, and he never quite forgave me for making his friends my own. He saw it as a betrayal of his hospitality.

4

AT THE APPOINTED time I waited by All Saints’ Passage, standing in the shadow of the trees in the market square. Rival groups of students and townies were prowling the streets after closing time, each laying their claim to the city, and raucous laughter echoed down the cobbled road. I felt vulnerable in my evening wear, as if I had declared my allegiance in disputed territory. The Tudor gatehouse stood as a guardian across the forecourt, and it was a comfort to glimpse the porters moving through the tiny square of light in the red-brick flank. When a group of men strolled by in the deserted street, I turned inwards and pretended to be studying something beyond the railings. The last week had flushed out the remaining traces of summer. The night air was freezing, and my breath came in clouds. There was no wind, allowing the cold to distil the city to a crystal clarity.