‘My mum’d have a fit,’ he says, but instantly regrets it. He doesn’t want Imogen to think his family prudish, so adds, ‘Though Uncle Robert and Howard would love it,’ and then regrets that too.

‘Who’s Howard?’

William feels the rise of a flush to his face. ‘Part of the family business.’

‘And a good friend of your uncle’s?’ She smiles in a way that makes him even more uncomfortable.

‘Yes,’ he says.

Imogen’s wiping under his eyes with cotton wool drenched in something chemical and cold. ‘You know that sort of thing doesn’t bother us, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ he says, as casually as he can.

‘Did Martin tell you Dad’s firm worked on the Lady Chatterley trial last year?’ William remembers how one of the boys rented his dog-eared copy out for a daily rate. Martin boasted that if it wasn’t for his father, the book would still be banned and he didn’t need to pay to read it, thank you very much, they had a copy at home. ‘His motto,’ Imogen continues, mercifully ignoring William’s high colour, ‘is anything goes, as long as it goes with kindness.’

‘For a kind woman, Mum’s not always kind to them,’ he says, disarmed by the sentiment.

‘Look up,’ she says, coming at him again with the mascara wand, ‘and don’t blink.’ She’s leaning into his face again. ‘Would she rather Howard wasn’t part of the family business?’

‘Perhaps,’ he says, finding it easier to talk to the ceiling than her creamy face. ‘She’d also prefer that Robert didn’t remind her so much of my dad.’ He glances back at her, so close he can see the downy hairs above her top lip. ‘They were identical twins too.’

‘Yeah, Martin told me.’

‘And,’ he continues, pleased to know Martin talks about him to his family, ‘it could be she thinks the two of them will lure me into the family business.’

‘Would you want that?’ She is still focusing on his eyes with fierce concentration.

‘I want to do something with my voice. So does she.’

‘I don’t know why I’m bothering with this mascara, your eyelashes are incredibly thick.’ Imogen stands back for a moment and takes a stubby-looking pencil out of her make-up bag. ‘Martin adores your mum. He says she’s stylish and beautiful and worships you.’ She rummages in the bag and finds a sharpener for the eye pencil. ‘It must have been horrid for her, after your dad died.’

‘Yep,’ he says, stunned at what an intimate conversation he finds himself in, ‘really horrid.’