"Celia, I thought I might go back home today. I don't need Roger any more for the portrait, so I can take it back to London. Work on it there with my photos."

She looked at me carefully. "Yes, OK. I get that. Leave the Bellingdon clan to it. And Peter will probably follow suit."

"Exactly."

"But . . . Ted? I thought . . .”

"Aah no." I gave a wan smile. "Not to be. Too principled for me, I'm afraid. Not frayed enough at the edges."

She nodded thoughtfully. Sipped her coffee. "Well, you are quite tatty."

"Aren't I just?”

She put her cup down carefully. Gazed into it. "Well, we might stay on. Ed and I. I know this probably isn't the moment to say it, but this is the best my life has ever been."

She was trying hard not to show her shiny eyes above her coffee cup: to reveal that not only was her painting going well but that her love affair with Edward had rekindled beyond belief under the Cornish sun and in this coastal cottage.

I smiled. "I'm glad."

"In fact, Ed and I," she went on, emboldened now, and I knew she was unable to stop herself, sort of bursting, "are thinking of maybe relocating down here. You know, for good. We love it so much."

"Oh, Cele." My turn to reach out and squeeze her hand.

"Would you be jealous?" She looked anxious; stricken, even.

"Why?" I said in surprise.

"Well, it's your home. Where you were brought up and I've found lasting happiness here, love, too and — oh. No." She stopped suddenly. Saw my astonished face. "I forgot. You're not like me."

I smiled. Reached for her coffee cup and took a sip while Edward brewed me some more. "No. Not like you. I wouldn't be jealous. I'd come and stay with you, lots, that would be fun. I'll miss you in London, though." I looked wistfully over her shoulder.

"I was thinking Mimi Hargreaves, or Jack Bolton," she said quickly, clearly having given it some thought. “They're both desperate for studio space."

I smiled and nodded, trying not to show that actually, she would be a huge loss. Celia was beside me all day. She was sort of part of me. Half of me, even. At least, the working me. We were a double act, in a strange way. Morecambe and Wise, Tess and Claudia, Celia and Flora. I narrowed my eyes quizzically as if genuinely giving it some thought, not wanting to upset her.

“Mimi, I think, don't you? Last time I saw Jack he was suffering from the most spectacular narcissism. No less than twenty-two self-portraits.”

"And he smashes his canvases if they upset him."

"Puts his head through them, so I've heard."

"Could get annoying?"

“Mimi it is."