‘Why are you called Pendle?’ I said, snuggling down in the front seat.

‘After a mountain, not far from our house.’

‘I bet it’s hell to climb and covered with snow all the year round,’ I said, admiring his perfect Greek nose. I’d got hiccups quite badly. ‘Not a very good party.’

‘I don’t like cold houses and warm drink,’ said Pendle, ‘but it had its compensation. Where do you live?’

‘On my nerves and on the edge of Battersea Park. My flatmate works in publishing. She’s lovely.’

‘All girls say their flatmates are lovely.’

‘She really is. She’s having an affair with a married man, going home to bed in the lunch hour and all that.’

‘What about you?’ he said.

‘I play the field,’ I said.

It was true. I had plenty of boyfriends at that time, but no one I really cared about. I was poised for the big dive.

The sky was a brooding dappled dun colour; the moon was drifting through the clouds like a distraught hostess. A slight breeze jostled the leaves along pavements and gutters. We were driving along the Embankment now, the river rippling in the moonlight. Such was my euphoria, I didn’t realize we hadn’t crossed Chelsea Bridge towards Battersea until we drew up at a large block of flats.

‘Ou sommes-nous maintenant?’ I said.

‘Mon apartement,’ said Pendle.

‘Oh la la. Where’s that?’

‘Westminster. Very convenient for my chamber in the Temple.’

‘Torture chambers,’ I muttered. ‘I suppose that’s where you dream up devilish plots to confound your poor victims.’

Pendle lent across and opened the door for me.

‘I don’t usually go to men’s flats the first night I meet them,’ I said.

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he said calmly. ‘I hope you don’t usually go to parties like Marcia’s.’