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hidden opulence in the classical frieze on the facade. Wolfram gave me a quick who’s who but, frankly, when you’ve seen one languishing maiden, you’ve seen them all. I can’t even remember whether it’s art deco or art nouveau. But, before you choke on your collected Aubrey Beardsley, just remember where I grew up.
    I have never lived anywhere with so much space: two bedrooms (so, should you need a refuge from Dotheboys Hall 14 …); a drawing-room (which, in deference to the Mitford 15 connection, not to mention Fliss, I shall never again call a lounge); a panelled hall which cries out for a buxom maid with a feather duster (the tenant wouldn’t say no either); an old-fashioned bathroom straight out of a murder mystery. The corridors are hung with prints of Old Masters. My favourites are a Filippo Lippi Annunciation with a peacock-plumed Gabriel; a Rembrandt bathing-beauty Bathsheba; and the most incongruously serene Holy Family by Il Sodoma. Fliss said that it makes her think of you – for the serenity, of course.
    We had the best time when she was out here last week. She seems so much more relaxed now she’s finished with Cambridge. Anonymity suits her – not necessarily the most reassuring thing to say about someone preparing to star in a film. She’s jealous of my prior involvement. I told her that it’d be the other way round come June. Like one of those night-shift marriages, I’ll be finishing work just as she starts. She promised to ring you when she got back to London. Did she? Is it allowed? I envisage Old Wackford (I hope I’ve got that right. The trouble with being away from home is that you can’t cite with confidence) standing over you with a stopwatch. ‘We’re not running a charity, Mr Arditti. You must be sure to make up the time.’ On second thoughts, I’ll stick to the post.
    You were right to tell me to hold out for my own flat. No, don’t worry: no ‘number threes’. I can’t decide whether to feel flattered that you believe that everyone is after my body or humiliated that you consider me incapable of looking after myself. No means nein in anyone’s language. The truth is that Wolfram’s place is such a sty that I’d have been driven mad within the hour. I know; I know. I’m sure that you and Fliss are right and it says something deeply sinister about my character (though I still don’t see why arranging my LPs alphabetically is such a crime), but I need order. Perhaps it’s because I’m an artist. Maybe the more reckless you are in your imagination, the more regular you have to be in your routines?
    Well, that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. Though I admit it falls apart with Wolfram. He has a vast, five-storey house (also in the bunker/banker style). Lord knows how he can afford it. He appears to be on his uppers – financially as well as pharmaceutically (I’ll dish the dirt later). When they bought it ten years ago, the group was, at least nominally, a commune. According to Dorit, one of the founders (do you remember that advert where a woman metamorphosed into a tiger? Think Dorit), it was the sortof commune that the French aristocracy lived in at Versailles. No prizes for guessing who played Louis. He still holds court today, although to a largely new selection of favourites. Marriage, betrayal and exile have taken their toll. The current maîtresse en titre is Mohammed, whose antagonism towards me seems to stem from a suspicion that I have designs on the king. I want to tell him to lighten up. My intentions are entirely literary. But, when I talked it over with Renate, she told me not to waste my breath. All Arabs believe that all Englishmen are gay. Do you suppose it’s a hangover from T. E. Lawrence?
    You must have met Renate in Edinburgh, the evening we all went for drinks at the Caledonian. She certainly remembers a very charming, good-looking Englishman (I rest my case) … although it’s true that her description could equally fit Brian. She lives