“Can't miss that! Organizing the beach sports as usual. And on the captain's boat. What fun. Toodle-pip, Flora.”

And out he hastened. He paused in the doorway, though, and I saw him glance furtively left and right. Then he tracked left, to the back stairs, no doubt in order to avoid his wife in some other remote corner of this huge house. Rumor had it Roger had a TV in his dressing room and liked to watch reruns of The Simpsons, roaring with laughter at Homer's antics, a packet of cookies on his lap, Truffle, not allowed upstairs under any circumstances, on the bed beside him, sharing. One for you, one for me.

As I went along the corridor to the front hall, I fished my phone out and turned it on. A text on my screen read:

“Too late.”

I stopped dead. Stared at it. Tommy Rochester. Heart pounding, I walked on quickly. Damn it. I mean really damn it, actually. I pushed through the front door and went outside, casting about. Where was he? I went around the side of the house to the terrace.

It was late afternoon now and the sun was casting long, extravagant shadows across the lawn. The huge cedar with its wide horizontal skirts sank a pool of darkness right up to the wide York stone terrace where I'd sometimes seen Tommy reading. I'd glanced at his abandoned book once; philosophy, which had startled me. I'd read the title upside down. Fear and Trembling by Kierkegaard. Lots of torn bits of newspapers sticking out of the top, marking places of interest. But not today. The terrace was deserted. No book, no Tommy. Perhaps everyone was still on the beach? Or actually . . . I turned and nipped back inside.

The green baize door was a godsend, shielding the kitchen, and if Belinda did appear, I could always say I'd left something in the gunroom. I didn't go there, though. Instead, I pushed through another door, without knocking. Just as I thought. Tommy was in situ. Not asleep on the sofa, and not wading through piles of papers, but with his back to me, sitting at the computer. His voice, when it came, made me jump.

“What?” he barked, swinging round in his chair. His face was ashen. It took my breath away. For a moment, I even forgot why I was there.

“Oh. Um . . . I — I just got your text,” I faltered.

He stared at me as if unable to place me: certainly not remembering any text. Then it came to him.

“Oh. Yeah.” He rubbed his face vigorously with both his hands, which I'd seen him do several times of late. A regrouping gesture. “Sorry, Flora. Got your text too late. I already talked to him. He's thinking about it. And I talked to Janey, too, but listen, this is kind of important. Can I catch you later?”