“Sorry. Can't say that these days. Back then you could, and get a smarter remark back. They'd whip you every time. Ha! One girl, Lauren, used to perch on my desk in a very tight skirt and stare at me for ages. Frightfully disconcerting. ‘What are you doing?’ I'd say. ‘Roger, honey, one day, guys like you will be extinct. I'm getting an eyeful of an endangered species while I can.’”

“Ha!" He barked. “Splendid! Ah look — she's off."

Janey was popping her phone in her basket and sauntering on again. She suddenly saw us and waved. Came across to the open window.

"Look at you, for goodness sake. Creating, while the rest of us can only gape in wonder. Am I disturbing?"

"Not at all, we've nearly finished." I smiled. "Roger's got ants in his pants."

"Oh really?" She looked at him sternly in her bikini. She had a very full bosom and she folded her arms under it to swelling effect. His eyes shone. "Well, you sit tight, Roger the Dodger. You're the one who's commissioning this portrait, right? How's Flora supposed to paint you if you're jumping around all over the shop? Ten more minutes," she told him firmly, wagging her finger at him. “Then I'll beat you again at tennis." She gave him an enormous wink and sauntered off.

Roger sank back weakly in his chair, defeated. “She's a goddess," he whispered. "I'm putty in her hands. But I'll beat her, don't you worry. Only lost by one game yesterday." He gazed dreamily into space, a slight smile on his lips. I made the most of his haze.

We both came to at the same moment. The study door opened down the passageway. Muffled voices could be heard coming down the corridor. Roger stiffened. He sat up straight and cocked an ear, alert as a pointer.

“Blasted know-it-all," he seethed. "Coming up here and telling us how to run the show."

"He's only trying to save the planet, Roger," I said, playing devil's advocate.

"Oh, I'm aware of that. And I'm as environmentally conscious as they come. Scratch me and I'm very green. Why d’you think I maintain and replant all the hedgerows? Pick up litter on the beach — most mornings I'm down there bagging the stuff. And remember the tar? Remember that terrible oil spillage? The tanker? That Bulgarian weasel, illegally washing out his fuel tank at sea, releasing all that oil then steaming on to avoid charges in port?"

"I do."

"Who was it who took a sample from the oil, eh? Got it analyzed and traced it back to the country of origin. Even found out which tanker was responsible, not that they did anything about it."

I nodded. There was a more furious light to his eyes now, but a light nonetheless. I worked with it.

“Remember down on the beach that night, after Alvern Tremain had come running up to tell us? Woke us all up?"