We had come to a high wall topped with barbed wire that we followed until we arrived at a big gate. Karen wound down the window and spoke into a grille beside the gate, which, when it rolled slowly open, revealed a country house.

In the yard outside was standing Mustaq’s boyfriend, Alan, not quite on both feet but successfully holding a joint and a glass of wine. He was giggling to himself and examining a large black iron cobweb with an iron spider—painted red—in the middle of it. “I made that sculpture!” he shouted. “That’s art, that is! Hi, guys! Welcome! Enjoy!”

Moments later Karen was in his arms. Soon, in the living room, Alan was opening a bottle, before asking a member of the staff—who I recognised from London—to show me to my room in the converted barn, which was where the guests stayed. Barn, of course, gave no clue to the luxury Mustaq could afford and liked to show his guests.

Karen and I had arrived early; we’d both wanted to get away from London. As I’d hoped, this gave me time to tramp across the fields which surrounded Mustaq’s house. He’d told me, when he came in to meet us, “As far as you can see, I own it. Everything else belongs to Madonna. My fields are rented to local organic farmers, but please feel free to trudge through them as you wish.”

After two hours in the fields I returned to the house, where I looked at the luxuriant garden. This was Alan’s domain: he did everything himself—flowers, herbs, grasses, ponds—and then put his iron sculptures out, dotted about the place like huge paperclips. He had become an artist; in London he would have a show in a major gallery; everyone would come, including Ron Wood of the Rolling Stones.

Mustaq had suggested I might like a swim after my walk. I had already noticed the pool, enclosed in a glass building to the side of the main house. Now, as I walked towards it, something I saw through the glass doors made me stop.

I had spotted a head above water, wearing a black swimming cap. I watched the woman climb from the pool and put on a dressing gown and flip-flops. For a moment she was looking towards me. Whether it was shortsightedness or because she didn’t recognise me—so old or changed was I—she stared in my direction and I stared back. Neither of us made a gesture.

Not wanting her to think I’d turned away—if, indeed she had recognised me, which I doubted—I stood there, gazing at her indistinct outline through the thick glass beaded with moisture. Eventually she went down the steps towards the showers and changing rooms under the house. There it went, the body I had loved and wanted more than any other.

I was aware that Mustaq would want to have intense and fervent discussions. I needed to talk to him too. But I had not even guessed that the weekend was going to include Ajita. The moment I’d waited for had arrived. Soon we would be able to say everything we had yearned to say. But where would we begin, and where would the talk take us?

Nothing, now, would be as simple as it had been during those years when all I had to do was miss her.

I went to my room and sat at the window. In the courtyard, one of Mustaq’s staff was brushing the tyres of his employer’s Mustang. In the distance were fields bounded by a motorway, beyond which was the outline of the town. The clothes I’d driven down in, which I’d flung on the floor as I did at home, had been folded on a chair. The contents of my holdall had been hung up in closets, and my old trainers, not the most pristine, had been cleaned.

In an attempt to calm myself, to stop pacing, I lay down for a while, only to be woken by a loud, disembodied voice. It wasn’t paranoia: Mustaq had had speakers installed in the rooms, and I was being called to supper.

I showered and changed, thinking of Ajita’s eyes on me at last. Regarding myself in the mirror—and the lines and flaws I had become indifferent to: now when I looked at myself, I saw nothing of interest—I wondered what she would see.

Crossing from the barn to the main house with Karen, who had been napping in the next room to me, I saw that the forecourt now resembled a car showroom. We were passing Alan’s sculpture and I was beginning to tell Karen that one of Freud’s disciples, Karl Abraham, had written a paper on the spider as symbol of the female genitalia: it represented the woman with a penis and therefore the possibility of castration. Naturally Karen didn’t show much interest in this.

She did perk up when she noticed that the iron gates were closing once more. In the yard, two self-regarding stars were now getting out of a sports car, looking around as though trying to make out where they were and how they’d got there. Karen slapped both hands to her face to make a “Beatle scream.”

“Who is that?” I whispered. I learned that it was the Asian actor Karim Amir, fresh from a rehab near Richmond. I said, “Isn’t that Stephen Hero, getting out of the car after him?”

“Not Stephen Hero, for fuck’s sake,” Karen said, striking me on the arm. “Who the hell’s that? It’s Charlie Hero. Charlie. He’s a Charlie, and don’t you forget it, this evening or ever!”

I was delighted to see Karen had retained her integrity and was still capable of being impressed by the famous. Years ago she had, of course, been wildly impressed by anyone famous—indeed, by anyone who knew anyone famous—and still the celebrated had not disappointed her.

Karen led me into the kitchen for a glass of champagne and a cigarette.

“What’s wrong? Are you nervous?” she said, brushing down my jacket.

“Terrified,” I said. “I don’t know why. You’re the one who’s good on these occasions.”

She was giggling. “Are my breasts too on show?”

“You are virtually topless and indeed,” I said, looking her over, “virtually bottomless. The heels are great. Make the most of it, I say.”

“That’s what I thought. Jamal, I’m glad you like it. A lot of the other men here will be shortsighted.” She held up a bottle. “Let’s not waste all this fucking drink—there’s buckets of the juice here.”

“Pour me another.”

“Get it down you.” She was looking around the big kitchen. “It is true, the rich are different. They don’t have any clutter. They have people to throw things away for them, ruthlessly. I always thought I’d be rich,” she said. “I took it for granted in the 80s. Didn’t you?”

I said, “I was too foolish to understand the real pleasure of money. You’ve done okay, though.”

“That’s not enough. We’ve both let ourselves down, Jamal.”

We watched Mustaq’s staff moving about quickly and silently, up and down the stairs, in their smart but casual uniforms. Not only did they not look at the guests, they lowered their heads as we passed.

Fifteen minutes later Karen and I entered the dining room together. At the end of the room was a grand piano; on the wall hung gold discs, photographs and guitars. Karen spotted Charlie and Karim immediately and went over to sit with them.

I was holding back, hesitating until I knew for certain—until I could see it was true. Ajita was at supper.

She wore a black dress; her arms were bare, apart from a silver bracelet. I looked for her wedding ring but was too far away to see. She’d always worn expensive clothes and still seemed to, with a hint of ostentation, looking like a woman you’d glance twice at in a Milan restaurant. Her hair was shining, black; it was unchanged, but her head was half-turned away from me, and she was laughing.

Karen was gesturing at me to come and sit down. I had my own excitement to deal with and stood where I was, wanting this moment to last, waiting for Ajita to look at me, knowing quite well that, when she did, there would certainly be trouble. Of which kind, I had no idea, but how could the world not trip a little, after such a sight?

When she did glance over, I saw her start suddenly and then take me in, her lips parting and her eyes widening. She watched me looking at her. I could feel the readjustment of perspective between us, as fantasy and reality crashed together and began to realign. Neither of us were students now; we were more than middle-aged.

She began to smile, and so did I. She got up then. One of us had to do something. We were kissing and embracing, and swinging one another around until we were embarrassed.

When we were done her brother, not the only one watching but the most attentive, came and stood behind us, leaning down on both our shoulders as we dabbed at our eyes.

“My darling sweety sweets, I’m sorry I didn’t tell either of you that you might meet tonight. I was afraid that one of you would change your mind. Was that wrong of me?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think we’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” said Ajita. She turned to me with a determined smile. “So, how have you been? What’s been going on?”

“Quite a lot, actually,” I said. “There’s years of it.”

“And with me too,” she said. “Years of it.” We picked up our glasses and touched them together. She laughed. “You always said actually. I’m so glad you haven’t changed.”

“How have you changed?”

“I guess you’ll find out soon enough,” she replied, leaning over and kissing me on the cheek.