‘Haven’t we met before?’ she asked, giving him a sociable look.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Funny, I was sure I recognised you. You’re a writer, Silvi was saying.’

‘She’s being generous. I have written one book.’

‘I’m all athrob. Has it been bought for the movies? What’s it about?’

‘The indigenous tribes of the lower Amazon basin.’

She gazed at him as if at an empty fuel gauge.

‘Now it’s coming back to me … ‘Her eyes flicked down to her lap. ‘You’re the one who’s lived in South America.’

‘Do you like South American writers?’ to help her out.

She lifted her head. She pretended she was studying the paintings. She looked at the wall and its dreadful potential.

‘I’ve not really read them.’

She was more a people person. She had met everyone. David Beckham. David Cameron. Charles Worthington. ‘Sorry, I have to get this. It might be my bed for the night.’

Her face went dead as she read her texts.

Raising her eyes back above the table, it took Jocasta a second or two to remember where she had mislaid their conversation.

‘What’s South America like? I’ve always sort of wanted to go there.’

Dyer opened his mouth and then closed it.

She looked at him encouragingly. Her charms were trying to come out, her coral lips, her glinting eyes.