She put her head on one side and dried her fingers with her napkin. Took a moment. "Why do you ask?"

"You have."

She made a non-committal face. “The water's always been dodgy down here, you know that. They should nationalize it. Privatization, makes me puke."

"But the Bellingdons, specifically?" I insisted, ignoring her polemic and already knowing her politics.

"Well, they run it, Flora. This patch, anyway. Can't get more specific than that."

“So you have," I said anxiously. "It's just that – well, I know it's hugely contentious at the moment, but Hugo is so hard-working and dedicated and—"

"Oh, Hugo." She threw down her napkin, exasperated. "I thought we were forgetting about him?"

"Well, it concerns Peter, too," I said defensively. "By extension."

"Only if he goes into the family firm, which I hope he doesn't. Do I need to have a word?"

I shook my head. "No, he doesn't want to. He's sure about that. Actually, I think he'd make a good journalist. So maybe you should?"

"I'd be happy to. Send him my way."

I smiled wryly. "Although I'm told the BBC is none too keen on public schoolboys these days. Reverse discrimination and all that?"

She shot me a sharp look. “They can take it."

"Well, quite," I said quickly.

"But you're right, legend has it Frank Gardner was deemed too posh to be a newsreader so he became a foreign correspondent, then got shot, poor guy. Everyone's got an opinion. I had complaints in Manchester about my accent being too West Country – I'm Cornish, what do they expect!" She glanced suddenly at her watch. "I've got to run. Got a production meeting in literally three minutes — heck.” She stuck up a hand and waved extravagantly for the bill. "Oh Flora, I'm so sorry!" she wailed, eyeballing a waiter and scribbling in the air. "Forty-five minutes, we've had — this blasted job!"

"I'll do it, Shona, you go."

"Certainly not, you're the impoverished artist. I'd never have suggested coming here and letting you pay, and anyway, I've got a work account. I'm interviewing you about your important new commission." She winked.

The waiter hurried across and she quickly signed the card he gave her.

"Look at you," I said admiringly as she got to her feet and shrugged on a jacket. "Quite the high-flying exec."

She made a face. “Sorry. Not trying to show off, but it's pretty much the works caff. The office is next door. And let's not get ahead of ourselves, it is only Truro."