"Hi Monica. Don't worry. We're on your side." The young woman sharing the table with Matt looks up. Elegantly dressed in a trim gray linen suit and silk shirt, her hair coifed into a buoyant style, she seems as lost in this environment as I am. Focusing on her caf� latt�, she takes a sip. "Matt's a colleague, Monica. He's helping you. I'm helping Martin here. Martin, sign a copy of your book for Monica. A friend in need. With love. While I dial."
She jabs a long string of numbers into her mobile as I inscribe the book.
"Martin's an intimate of an astonishing woman," Ginger lies. "You know Madonna? The singer? She's a fellow devotee. This woman helps Madonna, she helps Martin here, she can help you. You're lucky. Normally she's silent, but speaks on the phone a few hours a week. Germany? Is that Mother Meera's home?"
The moment's silence seems as loud as Ginger's voice.
"Put Mother Meera on the phone, lovie. I've a call from New York for her. We'll hold. But hurry. It's an emergency."
She passes the phone to Monica. Ginger plays me the recording later, so I can hear both sides.
"Hello."
"Hello."
"What is your name, please?"
"Monica."
"And why are you calling? What is your question for Mother"
"I'm not. I don't have one. I mean, I don't know."
"You are in trouble?"
"In trouble? No. Yes. I don't know."
"Mother says remember the Divine. Mother will help."
The line goes dead. A brief conversation, it still needs a little make-over.
"Give her the book, Martin." Ginger holds the newly inscribed copy so that the cover faces the restaurant, and steps back while I obey her.
"Now pick up her bill." The check lies on a saucer. I pick it up.
"What are you doing?" Monica asks.
"I'm paying your bill."