"I don't think she will either, but there's kind of a professional integrity, Flora. If she knows stuff, she's duty bound to report. Otherwise her boss will say, ‘What, a local bigwig attempts suicide because his cover-up of his corrupt water business goes sideways? And he's still leaking sewage and pollution over the Cornish coast? Why on earth didn't you report?’."

"I need to speak to her. Because suppose she hears through someone else?"

"Well, quite. The Bellingdons’ cleaner was on the scene soon after apparently, following a trail of sausages. The news leaked out on to the beach last night."

“Oh no! I'll ring her."

I did. Shona listened. She was quiet for a long moment. "No, I didn't know. Poor Hugo. He must have been desperate. And yes, Ted's right, I should do a story, but I can sit on it for a bit. Pretend I don't know. But Flora, it's only a matter of time before someone on my team does know, and they won't have the same qualms. There's nothing I can do about that."

"No."

"But don't worry, we're not complete sharks. Suicide attempts are not generally reported. A previous prime minister's daughter had a go and, believe it or not, even the London mob left them in peace. The water's a different matter, though. That's in the public interest."

"I know."

"But I promise I won't let anything go on air without letting you know, how's that?"

“Thank you, Shona."

"And you look after yourself, my love. This is his tragedy, not yours. Thank goodness.”

We said goodbye. I sank back on my pillows. Through my open window I could hear Celia and Edward having breakfast in the garden below. The air had cooled slightly after the storm, but it was still warm and soft, the sky blue, the earth steamy after rain. In the distance I could see the arching spires of the orange crocosmia by the back gate, flattened by the rain, but already perking up and staging a comeback. The voices below were ostentatiously hushed as if aware of my open window, keen not to be heard. I strained my ears for a bit but eventually decided I could lurk up here no longer. Throwing on some clothes I went downstairs. They stopped talking immediately when they saw me and adopted bright smiles. Then Edward diplomatically withdrew, saying he'd make some fresh coffee. I thanked him and sat down opposite Celia.

She squeezed my hand across the table. "Poor Hugo."

"I know."

“But Flora, it's not your—"

“Tragedy. No, I know."

She nodded, surprised at my sensible tone. No sobbing, no hysterics. I'd tell her the reason for that later, I determined. In London, in our studio, not here.

"How's Peter?"

"He's OK. More than OK, actually. Remarkably calm and phlegmatic."

"Good."