Nick slipped out of his shoes and silk socks, and paddled his feet one at a time. He watched his wife and Fleur fooling around at the shallow end. They had caught the tattooed wonder’s eye, and even the stoic Captain was showing interest now that his spliff was fired up.

“I don’t live my life as a rehearsal,” Nick said finally. “Some people do, and that’s their privilege—good luck to them. But all I know is, I’m here once and that’s now. I think it’s too precious to spend pissing down my own leg. Can I get you a glass of Badoit, pilgrim? I need one myself.”

“Aren’t you worried about keeping an eye on that exquisite creature of yours?”

“I was leaving that to you, squire,” said Nick with a wink.

They had left Mr Woo’s bus at the bottom of Regent Street and taken the shortcut through Man in the Moon Passage, past the secret bottle banks to Vine Street. Opposite the police station a builder’s skip had been parked, a solid five-foot-high affair, with its contents accounting for another eighteen inches. Some local gentry must have used the occasion to dump the contents of an old wardrobe or two—as they passed by it they could hear whoops of excitement coming from inside its metal walls. Zeno drew Phyllis across to the far side of the road and they watched the show from the steps of the station. Two bag-ladies, up to their waists in rubble, could be seen pulling on and off old clothes and parading for each other with more flair than models on a catwalk.

As they crossed Piccadilly, the ornate clock on the front of the building struck ten-thirty, and Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason made a brief appearance. The street was enjoying a moment of quiet, which was fortunate for the driver of the Jaguar who came joyriding up Jermyn Street against the advice of a one-way sign, and powerslid around the corner into Duke Street St James as Phyllis and Zeno were about to enter the Soda Fountain. The car’s headlights flashed onto the glass of the doors, momentarily transforming them into a mirror. In the reflection, Phyllis thought she saw a dark exotic woman and a flaming-haired youth. The brakes of the Jaguar squealed, and the car slid onto the pavement, narrowly avoiding a Range Rover that had filtered right from Piccadilly. As the Rover passed, Zeno, seeing the driver’s white face and Toad of Toad Hall eyes, said, “She looks like she needs a coffee more than we do.”

“If her roots weren’t grey this morning, they’ll need a touch-up tomorrow,” Phyllis added. She opened the outer door of the Fountain and stood aside for Zeno to enter, as a young woman dressed completely in orange exited backwards between them. She passed, waving as she went. Inside, a man with long hair and a beard, in a similar orange outfit, was returning the goodbye by holding his hand in front of his heart and blowing on it as if to cool his passion.