“Don't forget, you're in the driving seat here," he told me, eyeing me beadily as I busied myself, getting my easel in position, changing from one window with the drive behind to the other, which put him sideways on and still gave me enough light. It was a better composition. I dragged up an old table for my paints which I was pretty sure wasn't precious; everything in here belonged to Roger. “This is all your idea, savvy? You forced me. Dragged me in here kicking and screaming."

I grinned. “Don't you worry, Roger. I'll protect you."

He wriggled happily in his seat and winked. “That's my girl."

I set about screwing my canvas to my easel, angling it slightly more to the right, then moving it again, then again, and always glancing back to my subject to check the shadows, the light, the effect. Roger sat stiffly and self-consciously at first, head erect, an ironic smile he'd no doubt practiced in the mirror playing on his lips, but he was bored now. Realizing I'd be ages preparing, he took to settling back in his chair and staring dreamily at the sea, to the sailing boats beyond, the occasional speedboat whizzing by on the horizon.

As the sun caught his eyes and his handsome face relaxed, the effect was terrific. Oh, it wasn't hard to see what Babs saw in him. Roger was a very good-looking man. Tall, athletic — he'd played cricket for Cornwall in his youth and sailed tall ships in Australia — he was twinkly, naughty, and great fun. Years ago he'd been considered a huge catch and the fact that he'd married Belinda Chamberlain had been a source of great astonishment to the county. There'd been that lovely Fiona Driver, not to mention Coco H-B. But Belinda had been very, very determined, Mum told me. And Roger was biddable and open to flattery, and a tiny bit lazy, if she was honest. Fi and Coco played fast and loose and were up and down to London the whole time, and Roger hated London. They also played hard to get, although they definitely didn't mean it, and Belinda was — well, just there. Available.

Roger had quietly leaned across and unlocked the cabinet whilst I was squeezing Prussian Blue on to my palette, and was even now fondling a smooth, mahogany stock and gazing admiringly at it. Unless you're the sort of painter who gets off on a sour, uncomfortable subject, this was definitely what one wanted in a sitter's eyes: love. And this was surely the closest I was going to get to it, short of having Babs in here, and then I knew I'd get raucous laughter, tears streaming down faces, and that unmistakable spark of lust which they'd snap off in an instant in public and save for later. I'd seen it in the past and I didn't imagine much had changed. No, I was happy with the gun.