Am I a charlatan, Jonathan? she asked me at the departure terminal. She was that kind of woman: she liked goodbyes, at bus stops and metro platforms, train stations and airports.
No, I told her, you’re a croupier and card reader and the best of friends.
There was a crush of panic around the security gates, with every conceivable form of luggage: bulging plastic sacks, cases wrapped in twine, army-surplus bags. Three-generation families, dark Roma hair, babies in papoose scarves.
Maybe I should go back, she said. To Monte Carlo. Wear a black necktie and a formal waistcoat and a very short skirt.
It might be better than here. But, I told her, they have casinos in London.
London?
And in Brighton. And in Blackpool. And probably in Weston-super-Mare.
London, she said. Séance on a Wet Afternoon.
You liked that one?
That Richard was in it. Hard to pronounce.
Attenborough, I said.
Say hello to London, she said. And to your wife. A pity I never got to meet her. And you must kiss little Phoebe before you go.
I kissed her first. Her make-up was perfect that evening, all of the lines masked in a film of foundation, the lips etched perfectly with the thin pencil, the eyes shaded with powder blue.
Then I kissed the Pomeranian, and lost myself in the gypsy crowd.