Tessa came over. She must have been getting on for forty but she was still vibrantly attractive, with her long fair hair and bright blue eyes, and she still had that breathless way of speaking that made one think that she'd been waiting anxiously to see you again. 'I thought maybe you'd been sent to the bloody moon, poppet,' she said, giving me an uncharacteristically coy kiss. 'I've missed you, darling.'

I confess to a frisson as she kissed me: I'd never noticed before how much like Fiona she could look. Tonight especially so. Perhaps it was just an accident of her dress or make-up. Perhaps it was something to do with Tessa getting older; or Fiona getting older; or me getting older. Whatever it was, for a moment it made me stare at her, deprived of words until she said, 'Fuck! Is my lipstick smudged or something?'

'No, Tessa. You're looking more lovely than ever. Just stunning.'

'Well that's really something coming from you, Bernard. All we girls know that being noticed by Bernard Samson is the ultimate accolade.'

The old fellow – whom I heard Daphne address as 'Jenkins' – came round with a big silver tray of champagne. Tessa selected one unhurriedly and held her glass up to the light as if silently offering a toast but I knew she was trying to identify the champagne from its colour and the bubbles. It was one of her party tricks. Her mastering it must have cost George a fortune.

Having approved of what she saw, but without naming it, she drank some. 'Did you ever see such a darling butler?' said Tessa as Jenkins moved away. 'How sweet of Daphne to find an evening's work for some poor old pensioner.'

I wondered how I was going to persuade Tessa to return Fiona's fur coat. What was I going to use as an excuse? And where was I going to put the damn thing without having to go into a lot of discussion about it with Gloria?

'I was thinking about Fiona's fur coat,' I began.

'Oh, yes, darling. Do tell.'

'I thought perhaps I should put it with all the other things.'

'All what other things?' She swung her hair back from her face.

'Some bits and pieces that Fiona liked especially.'

'It's a beautiful bit of fur, you know. Daddy paid the absolute earth for it.'

'Yes, it's something of a responsibility for you.'

'I'm not wearing it, poppet, if that's what you're on about.'

'No, I'm sure you're not, Tessa, and it's kind of you to look after the damned thing all this time. I just thought that…'

'No trouble at all, darling. It's with my own furs and when summer comes… if it ever comes, they'll all go into refrigerated storage together.'

'Well, you see, Tessa…' I started. She tilted her head as if very interested in what I was going to say but let her fair hair fall forward, so that she could hide behind it. At that moment we were interrupted by an old acquaintance of mine: Posh Harry, a CIA troubleshooter from Washington. A short thickset man of vaguely oriental appearance, he was of that mixed Hawaiian and Caucasian ancestry that in his birthplace is called hapa haoli. He was in his middle thirties, always carefully groomed and of pleasing appearance. It would be easy to imagine him, suitably costumed, singing baritone in Madame Butterfly, or more credibly perhaps South Pacific.

'And who is this glorious young lady you're talking to, Bernard?' said Harry.

Tessa put an arm through his and said, 'Have you forgotten so soon, Harry? I'm mortified.' Posh Harry smiled, and before he could start an explanation the sonorous voice of Jenkins announced, 'Ladies and gentlemen. Dinner is served.' I caught Tessa's eye and she smiled sardonically.

Tessa's husband was talking to Gloria. He was fortyish. Born in London 's East End of impoverished Polish parents, he had become rich selling cars and, later, property. I had the impression that George put himself in the hands of the most expensive tailors, shirtmakers, outfitters and hairdressers he could find. So he was to be seen in a succession of dinner suits cut to ever changing fashions.

This evening George seemed to notice Gloria for the first time, for he fell deep in conversation with her soon after we arrived. I was somewhat surprised by this, for George had always seemed ill at ease with women, except the ones he knew well. Sometimes I wondered how he ever came to get married to Tessa; and why. Fiona used to say that it was Tessa's inexhaustible infidelities that had driven George to making so much money, but George was on the way to riches long before Tessa married him.

George was a man of irreproachable integrity, something I wouldn't have thought of as a prime asset in the second-hand car business. Once I'd said this to him. Characteristically George had given me a short lecture upon the probity and good will of his profession.

George and Gloria were talking when dinner was announced. Because George was very short, she had perched herself on one arm of a sofa so he didn't have to look up to her. George liked her, I could see that in his face, and when others came to join them in conversation he was determined to keep her attention. Jenkins now repeated his announcement in a louder voice. They all looked up.

After a couple of false starts, Jenkins heaved open the doors of the dark, candlelit dining room to reveal the long polished table set with flowers and gleaming tableware. The assembled company paused for a moment to gaze at this spectacle. This I felt was the beginning of a new age of Cruyerdom, a bid for the better life, a home background that would suit a man destined to rub shoulders with the mighty, brilliantly administer the secret dimension of political affairs, and retire with that coveted K. The only question that remained was why had I been invited.

'Daphne! How picturesque!' called Tessa as we moved in. 'Un véritable coup de théâtre, darling!'

'Shush!' I heard George say to her as we circled around to find our name cards. He said it in a quiet impersonal way, as a member of a theatre audience might react to a latecomer without interrupting the action on the stage. As we sat down, George, with his enviable memory, recalled a meeting with Posh Harry a few years previously when Harry visited George's used motorcar emporium in one of the less salubrious parts of Southwark, south London.

Posh Harry smiled without either confirming or denying it. That was his way. Harry could be inscrutable. He was dressed in a remarkable shiny black dinner suit with a lace-trimmed shirt that Beau Brummel might have worn except that it was a bit too frilly. Harry was always a fancy dresser, and it had to be admitted that he could carry it off. With him, and wearing a strapless satin gown cut very very low, was the same American woman I'd seen him with in Southwark. She was in her middle thirties and would have been pretty except for the rather plump features which gave her a look of unremitting petulance. This impression was heightened by the strident candied-yams and black-eyed peas accent she affected. At dinner she was sitting next to me. Her name turned out to be Jo-Jo.

I was interested to watch the inter-action between Posh Harry and our host. I wondered when it was that they first met, and I wondered if Harry's presence in London signalled some CIA development that I should find out about. I knew that there was a new Station Chief in London: maybe Harry was his trouble-shooter.

'What's your new boss like?' Dicky casually asked Posh Harry once we were all seated and the wine was being poured.

Harry, who sat across the table from me, replied, 'Say Dicky, what does die neue Sachlkhkeit really mean?'

Dicky said, 'The new realism. It means realistic painting. Isn't that right, Bernard?'

Constitutionally incapable of answering such a question in any way but fully, I said, 'And poetry. It's nineteen twenties jargon… a reaction against Impressionism. Also against beauty in favour of functionalism.'