Kookie Kombuis’s eyes did their famous ping-pong ball routine for the second time that day. “Miranda Maracona, if you are thinking what I’m thinking, you are one terrific, talented and one helluva twisted transvestite!”

Miranda gave a carefree shake of her black locks. “Thank you, dear, but this sees yet another change in our plans. And tout de suite!”

She picked up the phone again and dialed furiously, giving a visible sigh of relief when it was immediately answered. “Mike, thank God I caught you! A change in the plan, dear one. Apologies galore, but the Ritz has been cancelled – yes, in the last few minutes – but can you meet me and Kookie tomorrow evening instead?” She waved a muscular arm at an about-to-protest Kookie, her bracelets jangling furiously. “No, no! Not the Ritz this time, Mike, dear, but Borscht ’n’ Tears in Knightsbridge, Beauchamp Place. Will the same time suit? Lovely!’ She gave a knowing smile and nodded her head slowly. “That’s right, dear, it’s very Russian and very much – I hope – a hint of things to come!”

“Miz K is now seriously, seriously lost, Miz M.”

“Well then, dear partner in crime-to-be, let me enlighten you, but only after another vodka, and this time, and only this time, let’s have our vodka straight!” The two triumphantly threw back several shots of iced vodka from a fresh bottle which Kookie had hurriedly collected from the fridge. Dabbing her lips delicately with Mike’s No Shit! note, Miranda leant back in her chair. “This is what we are going to do.”

It was only five minutes later that Kookie Kombuis was heard to shriek in her deep contralto, “Miranda Maracona, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, you never fail to amaze me but this time you truly take the biscuit!”

“Which reminds me of dinner and is our cue to get ready.”