Her mum’s wasn’t. “The sitter can’t make it, Zeno,” she said.

“Christ, she left it a bit late.”

“It wasn’t a she. It was Danny the Nanny from the hairdresser’s.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Zeno, glancing down at his Afghan goatskin boots and getting himself together.

“Mum, I’ve got eleven fingers;” repeated Zen.

“You’ll have to go on your own,” Prudence said, ignoring Zen and chewing the inside of her cheek.

“Can’t we get that German kid?”

“Ya, ya, goot. I like her,” chimed in Zen.

“It’s too late. I don’t mind. I wasn’t really looking forward to the games anyway.”

“Just put Space Draculas on the video and lock me in,” said Zen, sliding her arms up over her dad’s shoulders and jumping into a piggyback position, as if to enforce her point.

“Come on, Pru, at least try to get someone. You haven’t been out for months. And she serves great food.”

“She always forgets we don’t eat meat.” Prudence dropped her head into her chest. Her hair, which she had hennaed only that afternoon, looked harsh. The submissive posture reminded Zen of a friend’s king poodle.

“Please go on your own. They’re not interested in me. It’s not nice, all that smoking and drinking.”

He shrugged. Her ‘please’ was plaintive. “It takes all sorts, Pru,” he said.

“Oh, Zeno . . .” She actually wrung her hands, just like her mother did.

The sun was right in front of the window, causing a low-level bank of cloud to give the impression that London had gained a range of hills to the west whose tops were as red as coral. But in the middle of it all—the chimney; the eyesore that infected every sunset.

“That bloody chimney,” Zeno said in a rare display of pique. “One of the biggest stacks in London, and it has to be in our view.”

Zen, still riding piggyback, said, “Looks okay to me.” He unclasped and slid her around in front of him. Her presence cooled him, like looking at a sweet pea on a hot day. “Dad.” Zen gave him a nudge with a small elbow. “You okay, Dad?”

Zeno felt guilty that she had witnessed his show of temper. He smiled. “Sure, sausage.” Turning to his wife, he said, “Okay. This chapter is entitled ‘Zeno Braves Fleur’s Den Alone’. Is the shirt to my blue outfit clean?”

“It’s clean, but it’s not ironed.”

Zeno had pioneered a look in the Sixties, when he was still touring. Figuring that fans would expect their pop idols slightly larger than life, he had addressed the problem by putting together a series of monochromate outfits. He had kept these costumes for a long time and sometimes wore one when he felt in need of a boost. But charity auctions increasingly delved their ubiquitous fingers into his wardrobe, and of the original six outfits only the midnight blue was still in his possession.

He shuffled off to dress, returning in a few minutes with the first unlined linen jacket he ever owned over a tee-shirt. ‘My Dirty Harry look,’ he announced, clasping both girls to him. “Wish me luck,” he said to his wife. And to his daughter, “Don’t forget to sit quietly before getting into bed.”