He'd done very well, I thought as he mock-cuffed her hair: he was clearly very successful. He had that expensive, American look and had grown into quite an attractive, rangy man, albeit very much in the preppy Brooks Brothers mould, swaggering off in his predictable Ralph Lauren shorts and polo shirt to the beach. Not much he could do about his foul mouth, bad temper and red hair, though. I watched them disappear from view.

No Hugo, I realized. He must be working. Poor Hugo, he worked so hard, always had done. He was so conscientious, which was why it was deeply unfair for some outsider to criticize him, I thought, bristling with fury. What did he know about long office hours and City life? The intolerable conferences, the all-nighters sometimes. Peter told me they even had pods in the office now, so they could leave a meeting at two a.m., grab a few hours’ sleep, then start again at seven. Oh, they were well paid for a reason. It certainly wasn't as relaxing as looking for plastic bottle tops in your shorts on the beach and getting all hot under the collar about — hello. Talk of the devil. Ted Fleming himself was approaching from the same direction the others had disappeared in, walking up from the beach to the house. But not in shorts or waders this time. He was wearing pale biscuit chinos, a blue shirt and had a leather folder under his arm. Ah, right. Clearly he was taking Hugo up on his offer of a meeting, which was interesting.

A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. Belinda was out, I'd seen her car leave as I arrived. I waited for Hugo's footsteps down the hall from the study. Roger's, even. The doorbell went again, so after some hesitation I walked slowly down the hall hoping someone would beat me to it. No such luck. As I opened the door, the surprise was on him, which at least gave me an advantage. I smiled, but didn't say anything, which I could tell wrong-footed him.

"Oh — er . . . I came to see Hugo."

"Come in." I stood aside. "I'll see if he's in."

"Right. Thanks." He looked awkward and it occurred to me to wonder if he thought he'd offended the hired help yesterday, now in scruffy work clothes on door duty, and not some posh totty galloping through the surf.

"Oil see if Mr Bellingdon's about," I said, giving it my best yokel brogue. "If you'll jaast wait here . .”

"Yes. Yes, of course.” He reddened, astonished. He'd heard me speak yesterday, and I could tell he was confused.