“Sure as I’m standing here,” said Zeno with a warm smile. “They were shooting around the old Queen’s Theatre in Poplar. We lived over that way, and one of my mates told me they were looking for local colour—crowd, you see. So I went along. Turned out it was a Gary Cooper movie. Eric Portman was the English star.”

“Wow! Did you meet him? What was he like?”

“Coop? Oh, a prince. He was ill at the time—spinal cancer, I believe. Of course nobody knew it then. I made a right fool of myself and asked for his autograph. He was great. Made the stills guy take a snap of us. I still have it.” Zeno chuckled unselfconsciously. “One of my treasures now, of course.”

“Wow! I’d like to see it.” He outed his cigarette.

“I understood something watching Coop. I was only on the set for three days, but it made me realise that the stars—the real stars—well, frankly, the bigger the star, the nicer they are. It’s part of what makes them special. Modesty is beautiful when it’s natural—don’t you think?” Flick was far too comfortable listening, so Zeno went on. “I mean, modesty is a beauty in itself because its action is to veil itself—it veils its own vanity. I find that beautiful.”

“What was Portman like?” asked Flick, getting back onto more familiar ground.

“Portman, he was the opposite. Never spoke to any of us. Sent his dresser to ask me if I’d like to go and see ‘Mr Eric’ in his trailer.”

“Wow! What did you say?”

“Well, I was full of myself at the time.”

“Yeah.”

“About your age, maybe younger. Anyway, I said, “You tell Mr Eric that if he gives me an Austin-Healey I’ll give him a good hiding.”

“You didn’t!”

“I didn’t, no. I mean, I said it, but didn’t do it.”

“Right.” A look of discomfort passed across Flick’s face, and when he spoke, Zeno realised he must have been giving the question serious thought. Actually, he was waiting for the half Valium he’d taken to take effect. When he finally spoke, he asked: “You a Buddhist, Zeno?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’re sort of easy to talk to. I am.”

“That’s terrific, Flick.”

“But you’re not?”

“No.”

“I, er, go to meetings. I chant and that for everything I want.”

“Inner peace?”

Flick’s pained expression returned.

“You chant for inner peace,” Zeno repeated.

“No. New car. Better gear. Stuff like that.”

Zeno allowed this new use of the prophet’s philosophy to sink in before he spoke.

“Great soul, the Buddha. The traditions,” seeing the pain on Flick’s forehead, Zeno added, “the teachings . . .”

“Oh, yeah,” said Flick. “But you’re not a follower.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”