The Fountain wasn’t empty but the few customers there sat around the perimeter of the place, as though lacking the confidence to take a table in the middle of the room. Phyllis did not lack such confidence. She strode in and sat down at a table on which a plump, pretty waitress had just laid a fresh pink tablecloth.

“What can I get you, miss?”

“Cappuccino, please.”

“And you, sir?”

“Do you have herbal teas?”

“I’m afraid we don’t, sir.”

“Okay. A pot of Lapsang and plenty of hot water.”

Zeno looked around the room. There was nobody sitting at the bar, but behind it stood three waitresses elbow to elbow, like back-up singers at a concert. Phyllis slipped off her jacket, revealing arms and shoulders to touch a strong man’s heart. She leaned back in her chair and looked at the bearded lover.

“Why’s he wearing all orange?” she asked.

“He’s a disciple—obeying his guru’s instructions.”

“Why such a bright colour?”

“It’s the colour the monks of old wore in the East. It was thought to help them imbibe the energy of the rising sun. As if it were that easy . . .” The waitress brought their order on a tray. Phyllis drank and Zeno poured.

“If what were that easy?”

“If consciousness could be expanded by growing hair or wearing robes. People have been trying all that tomfoolery forever.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure am.”

Phyllis looked across the room. A Moslem couple sat alongside each other. She was in total purdah, with a grille for a face. He had a turban tied neatly over one eye. He lifted his head to eat, and she pulled her visor aside to pop in the straw of her milkshake. Two nuns sat facing one another like blackbirds, one obscured by a Knickerbocker Glory, the other hunched forward over a large Scotch with ice.

Nobody noticed Phyllis’s stares, save for a gent sitting at the far corner table, which had a ‘Reserved’ sign on it. He was late middle-aged, and also wore a rather quaint outfit. It reminded Phyllis of a costume in a production of Don Giovanni that she had seen at Covent Garden with Imo Sage. The man was smoking a cheroot. He smiled at Phyllis when she looked at him.

“Are you okay?” Zeno asked.

“Fine. Do you want to let your wife know where you are?” Zeno gave her a questioning look, so she added, “These ears don’t miss much.”

Zeno grinned. “I’ll give her a buzz now.” As he made his way to the public telephone, he passed their waitress, who was quietly singing ‘You May Not Be An Angel’ to herself. She sang in tune. Zeno picked up the receiver of the telephone in the lobby above the powder rooms, dialled, and found that he had dialled a crossed line. One voice said, “So she wants to be a pop singer, does she?” The other answered, “Yes, but she hasn’t the backing.”