The Rose’s trained eye spotted a curiosity, for though the hands were well cared for and manicured, the nails of both middle fingers were cut short. The shape of her body left only details to the imagination. The Rose could detect no line of underwear, and deduced that, if she wasn’t wearing a g-string, she must be naked. With a dress this short, it showed a brazenness he had not come across before. She made a profound visual impact on him. He thought she was perfect, save perhaps for a feverishness about the eyes.

He realised that his appreciation of the woman was being quietly observed by the man, who had emptied his glass and moved across to the tables bearing food. The Rose could tell by the aromas that wafted across him that the man was lifting the various tureens, but all the same the Rose knew he was being watched. When the surgeon turned to him, he appeared to be savouring the smell of Fleur’s summer curry, waving the fumes on to his nose. The Rose looked away, having already discerned the man’s considerable power. He felt drawn, wanting to step close, yet not daring to; one infringed the territory of such a man at one’s peril.

A gravelly but cultured voice said, “Those girls are never going to stop gassing. I’m Nicholas.”

“Sorry, darling,” said Miranda almost immediately. “I’ve been hogging Fleur—girls’ talk, you know.”

Her voice was also well-to-do, but the Rose sensed an undertone, as though her delivery was a learned pronunciation. Nick was reaching for the Rose’s extended hand.

“My friends call me the Rose,” he said, looking into dark eyes which lowered to inspect his grip. He’s going to make me work to know him, the Rose thought.

The bell chimed once again, and Fleur received the Rose’s friend. And although he was well turned out in an obvious sort of way the Rose was made ill at ease by his appearance—not that he was ashamed of him in any way, but the man he had just shaken hands with would know much about him by his choice.

The Rose’s date had been asked to guess how many pearls were sewn into Fleur’s blouse (an obligatory game question, prize to be announced later), he had made a meal of answering, and was duly escorted into the open with his glass of fizz. Fleur introduced him as Flick.

Trick, Nick said to himself, and grinned as he shook hands. Strong boy. A young Steve Reeves; the last of the non-steroidal Mr Universes. Like all bodybuilders, better viewed without clothes than with. Bet that jacket’ll be off and sleeves rolled up before he sits down to eat. Actually, it happened sooner than Nick had guessed. Flick had only downed half his glass when the coat was festooned across the back of a chair. The short sleeves were pre-rolled. Miranda slid past Nick with Fleur in tow. Fleur was saying, “Did you see his, too?”