I am early for a party at the corner of Rathbone and Percy Streets, a stone’s throw from the Center Point. Looking around, I decide for Northumberland Arms at the corner of Charlotte and Goodge Streets and order half-a-pint of Guinness. A fellow in his mid-sixties sitting at the bar strikes up a conversation with me. “Mike Milnes,” he introduces himself. He lives on Scala Street, a block away. “What do you do, Mike?” I ask. “I paint,” he says. “One of my paintings is behind the bar,” he adds. I cannot see it at first. “The green-and-blue one,” he says. When I spot it, I am quite surprised. “Hey!” I nod approvingly. “That is something from the British Museum,” he explains. “One of the marbles?” “Indeed!” He examines me a bit more carefully. “The background is unusual,” I say quietly, gazing at a three-dimensional niche behind the sculpture. “Francis Bacon comes to mind…” He just stares at me. “Heard of him?” I raise my eyebrows. “I am simply stunned by what you just said,” he says at last. “We were friends,” he mumbles dreamily. “While I used to live in Morocco, he would occasionally come with one boyfriend or another and stay for a few weeks.” Mike rolls his eyes at the word “boyfriend.” “Well,” he pauses again, “I just cannot believe it…”