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‘They went as far as their love would take them,’ James said, tapping the tabletop and making a silver heart on a chain appear out of his sleeve. He held it out to her as she gave a little gasp of excitement. ‘I like to believe they flew as high as the moon.’

‘But not back?’ Charlotte couldn’t help but smile as he leaned forward and clipped the chain around her neck. She didn’t know jewellery as well as she knew shoes, but it looked like solid silver, expensive.

‘I believe when the power of their love extinguishes, they might return, but when that can be … who can tell?’

‘That’s lovely,’ Charlotte said, although, even for someone like herself, who believed in pretty much anything, it seemed a fanciful tale. ‘So you grew up alone?’

‘An orphan,’ James said. ‘Raised by a wicked stepmother. It’s the same story you can read in any Grimm fairytale. I used magic as a means of escaping the horrors of my life, creating an illusion of the world in which I wanted to live. That dream is what made me what I am today.’

‘That’s nice,’ Charlotte said, as the waiter returned, putting down a bottle of champagne so vintage it looked like it had been dug up in a field, with sods of earth around the base of the bottle and a tray to catch it. Charlotte was sure she saw a worm, but in the dim glow cast by the ornate standing lamps on the corners of the courtyard, she couldn’t be sure. She hoped it was just a flicker of shadow.

‘And your own story?’ James said, as the waiter poured two glasses of champagne. Charlotte looked for her mineral water, but there was none to be seen.

‘Oh, well, I grew up without my parents too—’

‘How incredible that we came from such similar backgrounds,’ James said. ‘It’s like we were born to be together.’ He reached into his jacket, pulled out two pieces of rope about the length of his hand, gave them a quick twist and the two ropes reappeared as one. The waiter, still pouring the champagne, gave a startled gasp.

‘Two lost souls, united,’ James said. ‘Two threads, come together at last.’

‘Right,’ Charlotte said. ‘So, um, how is it travelling the world, doing what you do?’

James proceeded to tell her about life on the road. She had to admit that it was fascinating, hearing about tours of South America, filming television specials, putting on shows all over the world. Once, he had made the pyramids disappear. Another time, he had made a cargo ship fly over the top of the Sydney Opera House.

By the time dessert arrived, a desperately small piece of tiramisu in the centre of the largest of plates, he had begun to talk about his shows in Brentwell, which would culminate in an outdoor performance at the Sycamore Park Christmas festival—which Charlotte really hoped would be nice and snowy this year, after a couple of years of rain—what he called a homecoming of sorts.

‘I was brought up in Brentwell, even if I wasn’t born there,’ James said, eating his dessert in tiny scoops which made Charlotte feel guilty about finishing hers off in two bites. ‘By that wicked stepmother I mentioned? This is kind of a way to exercise my demons, if you will. To show the world how much I’ve grown from that shy little orphan boy.’

‘Oh, right, I suppose it would be,’ Charlotte said.

James lifted a hand and clicked his fingers. A little flame appeared. ‘Garçon,’ he called, in a way that fused patronising with flamboyance. ‘Aperitifs, if you will.’

‘And at Christmas,’ Charlotte continued. ‘What a nice time of year for a magic show.’

‘Christmas,’ James mused, rubbing his chin. ‘The greatest illusion of all. One that has fooled so many for so long.’

‘Oh, but there’s Father Christmas,’ Charlotte said. Then, remembering what he had said at their first meeting, she chuckled and said, ‘You’re going to make him appear in Brentwell, aren’t you?’

James’s smile dropped. ‘Yes, yes. Yes, that’s the plan. And perhaps for the grand finale at this year’s show, I might make the old fraud disappear right after.’