“What about Flick? He looks like he swings.”

“Your type, is he? The Trick. Looks like he’s anyone’s. I’m just in the mood to see Miranda with another chick—been thinking about it all afternoon.”

“I know the feeling. There is supposed to be a young woman. Can’t imagine where she’s got to. She’s gay, I think. Haven’t actually met her but . . . she’s a redhead, I believe.”

“Really? Curious.”

There were footsteps outside and the bell chimed. Fleur whispered, “Probably her now,” and went to the door. Nick downed his cognac and stood up. Zeno wandered into the room through the open sliding glass doors, and from twenty-five feet away watched Fleur open the front door. A slim figure was framed in sunset light, and then the man moved across the room, hungrily, his arm outstretched. In silhouette he saw her put out her hand, after which his vision became fogged, and his legs felt unsteady like the first time his mum had taken him to St Paul’s Cathedral.

Fleur watched Nick take the proffered hand and place it on his crotch.

“I’m Nick,” he said.

There was a second when nothing appeared to happen. Then the girl looked down at her hand held by Nick’s, felt around a bit, and looked up into his eye. “Small to middling,” she said. Fleur, who’d done nothing except open her mouth to ask how many pearls were on her blouse, was still holding the door. For a moment it seemed that the late fairy might walk straight out, but she turned to Fleur with a composed expression and asked, “Is there a bathroom? I need to wash my hand.”

Zeno hadn’t stirred. Watching the little drama at the door, he had a mental picture of cream cascading into dark melted chocolate. Fleur walked ahead to the top of the staircase where it sectioned into a gallery running the width of the room. She switched on a light, and Zeno caught the girl’s profile before she disappeared. He felt his heart accelerate, and put his hand to his chest. It took him a moment to realise he was holding the right side of his chest.

Alone in the bathroom, Phyllis was taking stock of her evening so far. An overly made-up woman had opened the door and invited her in, when a short prematurely balding man with alcohol on his breath had practically put his cock in her hand. Was this the famous glitterati that Julia was looking forward to hearing about? She didn’t know if she felt outraged, ready to fight, or both. And who was the little twerp with the semi-permanent hard-on?

She was still analysing her mood and running her wrists under cold water when the door opened, a woman peeped in and, seeing another female, entered quickly and closed the door. With a brief “Excuse me” she hitched up the few inches of her dress, sat on the pedestal and started to take a pee. Obviously not a great one for briefs, thought Phyllis, noticing the legs.