Downstairs, Steph was going into autopilot. Marcelline had laid the big table where they would all have dinner together. They did have lots of little tables people could sit at, but most guests seemed to prefer it this way; they said it was convivial and fun, like a house party. Dinner was at seven thirty, but people often drifted down much earlier and were sent with a drink (which they paid for) into the lounge.

David was busy advising the noisy LeBruns on some more outings. It was good to get guests out from under your feet during the day. They didn’t actually make them go out, like Blackpool boarding houses were famous for doing, but there was plenty to see in the area and very few stayed around.

Meredith came down at seven twenty-five, looking glamorous in pale grey silk. All the other guests turned to look at her and she smiled graciously.

‘Goodness,’ she couldn’t help commenting, ‘is this where we all sit?’

‘Come on, Meredith,’ David replied cheerily, ‘meet Mr and Mrs LeBrun. They’re from Belgium.’ This could have been a conversation stopper, but Meredith, veteran of many a gathering of foreign businessmen and women, plunged in with aplomb.

The food was delicious and every mouthful seemed to disappear, as if the guests were hungry lions rather than upmarket tourists. Better than people not appreciating it, Meredith supposed.

By the time Marcelline cleared the last plates, it was almost ten o’clock.

‘Right, everyone,’ David announced. ‘Coffee and liqueurs in the lounge. And of course, fresh mint tea,’ he added in the tempting tones of a carpet seller in Marrakech. ‘Chamomile tisane and all manner of interesting potions. You can make it yourself from our array of exotic teabags.’

Steph led Meredith into the sparkling kitchen with its large catering oven and vast fridge-freezer. ‘What would you like? Un petit cognac, as the French always call it no matter how huge the measure? More wine?’ She smiled, looking suddenly less careworn. ‘I know, we could finish the champagne in your room. Your sofa’s more comfortable than it looks.’

Meredith laughed, recalling the spindly-legged, gilded Louis XIV-style love seat that looked as if it would be more at home in Versailles. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

David came in to get some glasses. ‘You go off with Meredith,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll look after the guests.’

Steph’s response took Meredith by surprise. ‘David,’ she replied sharply. ‘You did remember to put out the coffee cups, didn’t you?’

‘For God’s sake, Steph,’ was his weary reply. ‘Yes. I always remember to put out the coffee cups. And the sugar.’

‘And the warmed milk as well?’

‘Yes.’ Again the weary tone, this time with a thin veneer of irritation. ‘Of course I did. Just the way you like it. I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’

‘Sorry.’ Steph rubbed one eye. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’