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brass and gold and black-and-white-tiled institution that has given him exquisite attention and frozen yoghurt butrejected his card. Smokey’s still working on his phone.
    Eloise has gone, I realise. She’s silently ducked out behind the grey yachtsmen, like an actor stealing an exit from the stage the instant the focus is elsewhere. Andie is motionless at the counter, the lack of expression on her face more deeply embedded than ever.
    Nati lifts and then drops his arms in a half-question half-shrug, a mime to get Smokey’s attention.
    â€˜He’s workin’ on it,’ Smokey tells him. ‘Chill LyDell. It’ll be cool.’ A text message pings through. His thumb slides up and down. ‘Okay, so there’s a certain limit, like ten K…Probably a security thing.’ Nati goes to talk, but Smokey doesn’t stop. ‘Not about you. He’s going to see what he can do. Now, I got my cards…’
    Nati’s right hand clenches into a fist and he leans forward, then rocks back and taps the fistagainst his thigh. He has a glare fixed on Smokey, which Smokey is matching with a smile as close to beatific as he can make it.
    â€˜Gentlemen,’ Eloise says as she crab-walks past the purse trolley and the yachtsmen and into view. ‘Drinks?’ She’s holding a tray carrying a shapely crystal jug of green turbid liquid and three high-ball glasses, each with an inch of crushed ice in it. ‘Some refreshments while we get everything finalised. Kale, ginger, celery and green apple.’
    Nati Boi is a juicer. He’s talked about that. She’s done her homework.
    She sets the tray on the counter next to the yoghurt and starts pouring. The three of us follow dumbly, Nati working his way down from punchiness, Smokey going for the safety of silence, me processing and so far coming up short. There are agendas here, and I don’t know them yet.
    â€˜This is good,’ Nati says, sipping from the first glass poured. ‘You know I like this shit.’
    â€˜I do,’ she says, rather than ‘yes’. Nati Boi would say ‘I do’, as would Smokey, but it’s not mimicry. It’s the chess game these celeb shopping sprees must become when they hit a snag, and unanticipated prickliness.
    When I reach for my glass, I notice Nati’s credit card is next to it on the counter. Smokey has put it down to keep his phone in one hand and glass in the other. It’s a simple card, blue rather than gold or platinum, the kind anyone might have.
    â€˜So, your credit card’s still in L L Luttrell?’ My recorder’s still humming in my hand.
    â€˜Yeah.’ There’s a tone to it that’s bordering on surly—I’ve seen something that wasn’t my business, I’ve put into play a name that he’s outgrown. Then he changes his mind and smiles. ‘I ain’t done the paperwork yet. I beenbusy. There’s forms and shit. Smokey can fill them in for me, or Aaron, but I got to sign.’ His free hand does a squiggle in the air. ‘That’s prolly the limit thing, too. I could get a different card with a concierge and shit, but I got to slow down enough to sign the form one day.’ He nods. He likes the sound of what he’s said. It might even be true. ‘One of those black cards’d be nice. Amex Centurion, like the King of Monaco. They ain’t even shiny. That’d be cool.’
    He is picturing a deluxe life, private jets, a card with powers as strong and mysterious as the Matrix. I read an article on black credit cards and Prince Albert once, and my guess is the card’s about half as good as Nati’s imagining. That’s still a deluxe life though.
    â€˜Or you could do what Martin Sheen does. He works as Martin Sheen but he still lives as Ramon Estevez. Passport, credit cards, all that.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ He takes another sip of his drink.The light green foam touches his