Only once has she observed Keene doing anything that seemed to be genuine, in the sense of proceeding from some interior self, briefly revealed. It was at a Witness winter party full of families, rambling and ramshackle and immensely enjoyable as it spread itself across a Beatles-inspired showpiece entertainment suite in Park Lane. A little boy in a blue cape and cowl was standing despondent and alone by one wall, caught halfway between the children’s den where movies were showing, and the clusters of adults lounging on orange plastic furniture and white Egg chairs. As she watched, the first twitch of despair curled the boy’s mouth, preparatory to a flood of tears.