Celia and Edward were sharing a moment when I came downstairs. I popped my head out of the French windows into the garden. Eyes were locked, cheeks were pink, hands were clasped across the table. He was playing with her fingers: making up little stories about what they were up to in a this-little-piggy sort of way — and who hasn't found themselves succumbing to such inanities in their time? I popped my head smartly back inside and wondered where else I could make myself scarce. Celia had seen me, though, and was inside in a trice, principally to seize a bottle of wine from the fridge, but also to turn the radio on to cover our voices as she informed me of my duties.

"It was the text I sent," she whispered. “Dumping him. The one about meeting Ted and not needing him any more. It made him super jealous and he realizes now how much he loves me and doesn't want to let me go. He's beetled all the way down here just to see me, can you believe it?" She had the bottle between her legs and, with an old-fashioned corkscrew, was manically attempting to uncork a screw-top lid. I took it from her, untwisted it and handed it back.

"No. I mean — yes. Of course I can believe it."

“So listen." She came closer, much closer, clutching her bottle. "He's horny, OK, which, as you know, is rare. Really rare. And I badly need a bath. So this is the plan. You go out into the garden and sit, and chat, and have a glass of wine, till I come back. But not too much wine, OK? We might lose it otherwise, right?"

"Lose what?"

“The stiffy."

"Oh. Right."

“So keep it chatty and light. Nothing deep, got it? And don't ask him about his plays." She shoved the bottle into my hands.

"Right. So . . . what should I . . . you know . . . chat about?" I asked nervously.

"Oh — anything! Make it up. The London social scene, the weather, whatever. But don't flirt," she hissed, her face very close to mine. "Or maybe a tiny bit," she said, eyes sliding away, considering. “To keep it there, till I get back."

“Sorry — Celia, am I sitting in the garden helping a man maintain an erection?"

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous." She dithered a moment. "Yes. OK. A bit." She took two glasses from the cupboard and thrust them into my hands. "Just don't cock it up, all right?"

I muttered something about this being an unfortunate analogy under the circumstances, but she was already away. Taking the stairs two at a time in her PJs, wild curls springing from her head, her face aglow, eyes shining, something I hadn't seen since — ah. Yes. That first day. Painting on the cliff, with Ted below on the beach. Right. Quite a responsibility. No pressure, Flora. Nervously, and with much trepidation, I went gingerly out into the garden.