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‘Possibly,’ said the maître d’, ‘but if theSunday TimesRich List is to be believed, Mr W. T. Hackensack III is the nineteenth richest man in America.’

‘Is he indeed?’ said Christina, returning his smile. She waited for a few moments before she stood up and slowly made her way across the crowded dance floor. The gentleman rose from his place while she was still a few paces away and waited for her to be seated before he sat back down.

‘Hi, I’m Wilbur,’ he said with an accent that wouldn’t have left anyone in any doubt which continent he hailed from.

‘Christina Faulkner,’ she replied, offering her hand.

‘Can I get you a drink, Christina?’ he asked, but the maître d’ had already anticipated that.

‘Do you live in London, Wilbur, or are you just visiting our shores?’ she asked, setting out on a fishing expedition.

‘Visiting,’ he said, as their two glasses touched. ‘I’m about to go on what your countrymen used to call the European tour.’

‘All alone?’ she said hopefully.

‘I’m afraid so. My wife and I planned this trip to coincide with my retirement, but sadly Irene died of cancer a few months back but, as everything had been booked, I decided to go ahead with the trip.’

‘How sad,’ said Christina. ‘No children to join you?’ she asked, still fishing.

‘Two sons who now run the business but couldn’t get away. In fact, I was beginning to think I might as well return to Columbus earlier than planned.’

‘I’ve never been to Ohio,’ she said, hoping to impress.

‘You should – it’s full of magnificent parks, theatres, and galleries.’

‘I sit on the board of a gallery,’ said Christina, waiting for him to ask.

‘Which one?’

‘The Fitzmolean,’ said Christina.

‘Packed with Dutch masterpieces, I’m told. It’s on my must do list.’

‘I’d be delighted to show you around, Wilbur, if you’re in town for a few more days.’

‘I’m here until the end of the week.’

‘And staying nearby?’

‘Just up the road at the Ritz.’

‘My favourite hostelry,’ she assured him. At least this time she was telling the truth.

‘Then perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch later in the week? That is if you’re not too—’

‘I’ve just got back from the south of France in time for the season,’ said Christina. ‘I do so enjoy Royal Ascot. But of course, you have a famous racetrack in Columbus,’ she said, hoping they did.

‘Beulah Park,’ said Wilbur, ‘where I’ve spent many happy hours watching my horses fail to be led into the winners’ enclosure.’

Christina laughed and raised her glass. ‘So, are you in the horse-breeding business, Wilbur?’ she asked, casting another fly.

‘Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid. I’m in refuse.’

‘Refuse?’ she repeated, as if it was a word she was unacquainted with.

‘My company collects waste, burns and recycles everything people no longer want, and thanks to my great-grandpa,’ he raised his glass once again, ‘who founded the company over a hundred years ago, we’ve led a comfortable existence ever since, and will continue to do so for as long as there are politicians needing to raise funds to fight the next election.’

‘Where do the politicians come in?’ Christina asked, genuinely puzzled.