The waitress came with Jimmy’s order. He bit a half-moon from his sandwich and, chewing, took a deep draw of his cigarette. “What about the Prince of Bongo-Bongoland?” he asked thickly. He swallowed hard, blinking from the effort. “Have you made inquiries of His Majesty?” He was smiling now but there was a glitter to his smile and the sharp tip of an eyetooth showed for a second at the side. He was jealous of Patrick Ojukwu; all the men in their circle were jealous of Patrick, nicknamed the Prince. She often wondered, in a troubled and troubling way, about Patrick and April- had they, or had they not? It had all the makings of a juicy scandal, the wild white girl and the polished black man.

“More to the point,” Phoebe said, “what about Mrs. Latimer?”

Jimmy made a show of starting back as if in terror, throwing up a hand. “Hold up!” he cried. “The blackamoor is one thing, but Morgan le Fay is another altogether.” April’s mother had a fearsome reputation among April’s friends.

“I should telephone her, though. She must know where April is.”

Jimmy arched an eyebrow skeptically. “You think so?”

He was right to doubt it, she knew; April had long ago stopped confiding in her mother; in fact, the two were barely on speaking terms.

“What about her brother, then?” she said.

Jimmy laughed at that. “The Grand Gynie of Fitzwilliam Square, plumber to the quality, no pipe too small to probe?”

“Don’t be disgusting, Jimmy.” She took a drink of her tea, but it was cold. “Although I know April doesn’t like him.”

“Doesn’t like? Try loathes.”

“Then what should I do?” she asked.

He sipped his ginger beer and grimaced and said plaintively: “Why you can’t meet in a pub like any normal person, I don’t know.” He seemed already to have lost interest in the topic of April’s whereabouts. They spoke desultorily of other things for a while, then he took up his cigarettes and matches and fished his raincoat from under his chair and said he had to go. Phoebe signaled to the waitress to bring the bill- she knew she would have to pay, Jimmy was always broke- and presently they were climbing to the street up the damp, slimed steps. At the top, Jimmy put a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “About April, I mean. She’ll turn up.”