Years ago, before my career was ruined by scandal (escorts, drunkenness, hand paralysis), I met Moira frequently for high tea at the Hotel de Anza, when we were touring together and found ourselves in any European or American town that featured one of this famous chain of luxury hotels, noted for its Jugendstil lobby furniture and its exotic finger sandwiches. In any Hotel de Anza we would meet, snack, waltz (if a ländler were playing), plan films (sci-fi or romance), discuss Orfei scandals (always in danger of resurfacing) and acts we might try out together. False gaiety punctured our afternoons, damaged my equilibrium, thrust me farther into the past than I wished to go . . . 

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