The Rose looked across at Miranda. “What does your old man do for a living?”

“He puts his hand to many things.”

Nick finally passed the joint to Zeno. “Right. Everybody game?” asked Nick, splashing some claret into his glass.

Zeno was about to pass the joint to Miranda when he saw Phyllis watching him. “Don’t you smoke either?” were her first words to him.

“Not now, no—tried everything though.”

“And now?”

Zeno shrugged, but the unwavering eyes held his. “Surely you don’t begrudge a little weed the chance of becoming a hip, laidback chap like yourself?” Not feeling up to explaining, and wanting to impress, he gave a resigned smile, inhaled fully like an old head, and pointedly passed the smoking stub across to her.

Nick’s assessment of the marijuana being homegrown was probably accurate—if not Flick’s own window box, then some other local horticulturist’s, but certainly a stranger to the longitude of Thailand. Phyllis, accustomed only to nicotine—and missing it—inhaled deeply, and found the effect unexpected. As the smoke entered the bloodstream, its molecules bonded with the brain receptors which triggered the hypothalamus, giving rise to a momentary blackout. She didn’t actually faint; in fact, there was no outward effect at all. Yet inwardly, a second passed when she was aware of . . . nothing. A sensation too intense to be registered.

She was facing Zeno and, in the moment which preceded the absence, she saw not Zeno’s face, but another. Then . . . blank. And then Zeno again, turning slightly to his left, apparently unaware he had been away. Phyllis was still staring at what the surgeon next to her would have termed the non-hair-bearing area in front of Zeno’s ear when the Rose took the butt of the joint from her fingers and passed it to Fleur.

“Thank you,” she said absently to the Rose, and half turning towards him, “another non-indulger?”

“Can’t,” he replied apologetically, “I’m an alcoholic addict.”

She looked directly at the Rose to make sure he wasn’t pulling her leg, and by the time she turned back to face Zeno, his chair was empty.

Fleur passed behind her, lighting the candles on the table, which burned straight up in the still evening air. Phyllis found herself watching them. Then a worrying feeling began nagging at her, followed by a jolt of nausea, and she guessed she was experiencing the predicament of the man who had left the table.

Fleur, on her way back to her seat, was conferring with the Rose, everyone else was busy calculating on the back of their place-cards. Phyllis located her bag, stood up, and left the garden unnoticed.

She was making her way to the bathroom she had used earlier when something prompted her to turn right, into a short passage with two mahogany doors. She opened the first door and found herself in an elegant masculine bathroom, all polished wood, brass and marble—even a fireplace with a small club fender. Zeno was slumped against a wall, his long hair looking silver in the overhead lights. Although visibly distressed, he managed a smile when he saw her.