"You see what this is about, don't you? Not just a genuine mistake, but a seething great jealousy and resentment for people like the Bellingdons. And yet here you are, backing him up, but very happy to lap up their hospitality!"

I glared at her across the breakfast bar. There was a silence. Celia was sensible, though, and knew what this was about. Hugo and Peter were tangled up somewhere in the defensive armor I'd pulled on for the occasion.

"It's complicated," she conceded eventually. "But you must admit, there's a certain arrogance—"

"Iris is not arrogant."

"Belinda is."

"Yes, Belinda is," I agreed. “Since we're going off piste and including non-riders here, to support the argument."

"Roger?"

"Oh no, why stop there – and actually, no, not at all. Roger does masses for the community. Chairs the local lifeboat charity, fundraises and what have you. Belinda too – in fact, she probably does more."

Celia sniffed. "Noblesse oblige."

"Yes, OK, but you'd be mad if they didn't, wouldn't you? If they sat in their ivory tower and didn't get involved in raising money for the new classroom at the local junior school, but it's riding horses – galloping horses – across a beach where students have gathered that ticks people off. It reeks of privilege."

"Because of the horses."

"Exactly."

"If they'd been bikes . . ."

I shrugged. "Well, he'd have stopped us."

“Motorbikes?"

"Illegal. But thuggish, more than arrogant."

"Quite. Not sure where this is going."

"Neither am I."

“Drink?"

"Please."

She poured me one and let me calm down. I perched at the bar and took a long glug of cold Chardonnay, watching as she drained the noodles, the steam rising in billowing clouds from the sink.

"Attractive, though, isn't he?" she said at length, still with her back to me.

"No, not at all. I don't go for that overgrown beach-boy look."

"He's a professor."

“So I've been told." Who told me? I couldn't remember.

"Lovely eyes."

"If you don't mind the craggy outreaches around them."

"I don't."

"He's spent too long outside. You could practically see the salt in those wrinkles."

"A salty dog," she purred, turning and sipping her wine.

She smacked her lips and stared dreamily into space. Then she absently spooned our supper on to plates.

"Blimey, at this rate you'll be sailing away in a beautiful pea green boat. How's Edward?" I asked pointedly.

"Edward." She sighed. Lowered her spoon. Her shoulders slumped too and I really wished I hadn't asked. She adopted her own defensive tone, similar to the one I'd just put on for the Bellingdons. "He's fine, actually. But we've decided we need some space."

"Oh, OK." I nodded. "When did you decide that?"

Edward, I knew, had decided it months ago, and had kept her dangling, and very much at his beck and call and imminent disposal, ever since.

"You mean when did I join in with his decision?" She gave me a knowing look as she resumed spooning the veg.