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Her name was Casey Fernandez. She was 34, shoulder-length hair the colour and sheen of a horse-chestnut fresh from its case, deep dark eyes, high cheek bones, a mouth that promised much and (as I discovered) delivered more. We were not exactly living together all the time, which explains how it came about that we had been fucking several times a week for more than three months before she told me about the soirées at Lady T's.

Fernandez was a name she had acquired from a husband who was no longer relevant. "A mistake," she said with a grimace as though she had stepped in something nasty in the street. As for Casey - that had been imposed on her parents at the whim of baseball-loving grandparents who had been hoping for a boy.

I first saw her one morning when she came into my gallery with her father. Daddy had long ago made his first million out of real estate and multiplied it shrewdly when Wall Street could still be trusted. Then he started signing cheques with lots of noughts in favour of the party that dined out with Wall Street. In time that led to his appointment to the Court of St James. Daddy liked the perks that went with the posting: white tie dinners at Buckingham Palace, centre court seats at Wimbledon, a Covent Garden box for the ballet (but not the opera, which sent him to sleep by singing in a language he didn't understand). These and more he enjoyed to the full. But now regime change in Washington had led to musical chairs in Grosvenor Square. ...

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