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gone for the salmon: good choice. At least the salmon hadn’t been raped. I put the ear in and waited. Rising voices of some kind of choral music competed with the din in the restaurant.
    â€˜ Spem in Alium ,’ said the man. ‘Thomas Tallis.’
    I pulled the ear out. ‘That’s lovely. Thanks. I hope you enjoyed the salmon.’
    He looked disappointed.
    I overheard Jasper ordering the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu. ‘And a cloudy lemonade for the child,’ he said, nodding to Samuel.
    Jasper and Freddie laughed.
    A woman was waiting at reception with a girl, aged about thirteen.
    â€˜Marge Perez,’ she said. She was American. Her hair was red and spiralled in massive whorls around her head.
    The girl looked like a ballerina. Her hair was done up in a chignon. She yawned: ‘Mommy, but I’m not hungry.’
    â€˜Quiet, honey,’ said Marge. ‘I’m sorry the sitter got sick, but you know Auntie Steph will be so pleased to see you.’
    I led them to table eight.
    Auntie Steph appeared. Auntie Steph was in fact Stephanie Haight.
    I was speechless.
    She was wearing a long duffel coat and, beneath that, grey tracksuit bottoms. I led her to table eight. I couldn’t walk away. I wanted to tell her all about my botched sex with Vic the war criminal. I wanted to ask her how I could put that in a social and political context. But instead I said: ‘Why are men such fucking bastards?’
    The ballerina looked at me with contempt. So did her mother. Stephanie didn’t seem abashed at all. After a moment she smiled. Her eyes remained sad. Her face seemed burdened with wisdom. She was undeniably beautiful.
    Stephanie and I continued to stare at each other.
    I felt an acute sense of recognition. Maybe this was the coup de foudre ?
    Finally she said: ‘It’s not the men’s fault. It’s The Symbolic.’
    â€˜Capital S,’ said Marge, with bitterness.
    The scent of Madeline’s perfume engulfed me from behind and I had to leave.
    â€˜Kill the pig! Kill the pig!’
    Freddie and Jasper were banging their forks on the table. Russian linen serviettes were tucked into their collars. The restaurant’s signature dish sat at the centre. It was plagiarised from St John: a whole pig’s head, sawn in half and braised, the brain transformed into beige glue. The pig grinned.
    Samuel was trying to talk: ‘Yeah cos there are five ways of saying getting money from your parents in Williamsburg because it’s like an informal economy. Because it’s based on love not money.’
    â€˜Do you mean privilege?’ said Freddie.
    â€˜It’s a privilege to be loved,’ said Samuel, confused.
    â€˜I’m not sure you know what your value system is,’ said Jasper, slurping up the head cheese. A gland spilled down his shirt. ‘I know what mine is. Do you know what yours is, Fred?’
    â€˜Naturally,’ said Freddie. ‘It’s zero. Zero degree. Start from nothing. Nihilism.’
    â€˜You know,’ said Jasper, his mouth full. ‘Baudrillard said dandyism is an aesthetic form of nihilism. That must be why you’re such an effortless dandy, Fred.’
    Freddie put down his knife and fork. ‘Jasp. Dandies are painful.’
    Samuel was ticking the terms off on his fingers. He wasn’t eating the pig. ‘Getting the cush, picking the berries, waxing Oedipal, getting the patrimony, changing the diaper.’ He paused. ‘I’m not sure about the last one because surely it’s like your parents are changing your diaper if you’re getting their money?’
    The pop star was still crying when I was called upon to get her out of the restaurant via the kitchen slave exit. She wanted to avoid the cameras.
    â€˜They are monsters ,’ said her boyfriend’s mother.
    I was reminded of one of the pop star’s early videos, in which she had cried non-stop for the