“I’m my own man. I have a problem with translations. Jesus, Buddha—all these guys have been translated. The Buddha only spoke the Maghadi language, yet his teachings were translated into Pali or Sanskrit, which must have been done many years later. And I can’t put my life on the line on the strength of some translator who, odds are, never ever sat with the man.”

Fortunately for Flick, the hostess summoned them to the table before Zeno could get started on the misrepresentation of the Naz and the flaws in Christianity.

Flick had done her placement giving a clue to her bourgeois spirit; Captain Toby and Fleur sat at either end; Zeno, his back to the sunset, with Nick on his right and Miranda to his left.

He knew he had been sounding off a bit with Flick. He only realised why when he sat down opposite Phyllis and became fully aware of the effect the girl was having on him. It was the feeling that every man trying to hold a marriage together both dreads and longs for. He felt uncommonly hot, and feared that his ears were shining red—something that had not happened since he had first become interested in girls.

Zeno had held the rush in check by gossiping to Flick, yet sitting across from her, he felt like a schoolboy at his first dance, unexpectedly paired with the class beauty. The sexpot on his left was demanding his attention, and when he didn’t respond sufficiently, she read his name aloud, picked up his napkin and draped it across his lap, her hand somehow brushing his groin in the process.

Fleur served the starter herself—a chilled cherry soup—and announced it was everyone for themselves from here on in. The white wine on the table was something amusing she had discovered in Alsace. Nicholas raised his glass and said, “Cheers.”

Captain Toby extracted what looked like a propelling pencil from his blazer pocket, and dispensed a saccharine into the wine with a “Tally ho.”

Miranda, who apparently now remembered Zeno, enquired after his wife, and asked why she wasn’t here.

“She’s at home with our daughter.”

“So you’re a father. How old is she?”

“She’s nine.”

“Quite mature then?”

“Some of her is—part is still very much a little girl.”

“Been married some time?”

“Afraid so,” said Zeno, doing his old-codger voice.

Miranda, missing the attempt to lighten up, or ignoring it, pressed on. “Still fancy her, do you, or are you feeling the strain a bit?”

Fleur was explaining to the Rose how they served curry at room temperature in classical Indian cuisine when she remembered Zeno was a vegetarian. “I’m sorry, Zeno,” she said across Miranda. “It completely slipped my mind.”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty of . . .”

He was getting to his feet to go and look when Miranda said, “So you’re a vegetarian—for how long?”

“Must be fifteen years now.”