The Bartons were the last to arrive at the Cadver and Olivia was beginning to feel annoyed. Joanna had always been a problem. It was Marcus’s fault of course. He had spoilt her because she was pretty. Jeremy, born ten years later, had been much more her child. Olivia was not entirely satisfied with the result – there was a weakness which displeased her – but at least he knew how to conduct himself. He knew that appearances mattered. Joanna had made life difficult for them all.

It made no difference to Olivia that tonight the only stranger to be impressed was Eve Theobald. Still, there was something shameful about Joanna and Simon being late and causing this awkwardness as they stood in the drawing room, holding drinks, waiting to go in to dine. Perhaps Eve was the only person not to notice it. She seemed perfectly at ease, talking to Jeremy, making him laugh out loud. She was quite unsuitable, Olivia had seen at once, dressed in a short black dress which scarcely covered her buttocks, over tight black leggings and shoes of the sort Olivia had worn on the moor when she went grouse shooting as a girl. At the same time there was something about her. She could see why Jeremy had been attracted to her. She had strength, confidence, the personality he lacked. Olivia had decided from the beginning that the girl was dangerous. All the more reason, then, she thought, to present the image of a united, impenetrable family. Let the girl see what she was taking on.

Marcus Grenville stood in front of the fire, looking at them. He was large, thick-lipped, soft.

‘Where’s Joanna?’ he asked of nobody in particular. ‘ Where’s my little girl?’

Olivia ignored the question and looked sideways towards Eve. What could she think of such an inappropriate description of a woman approaching middle age? Again, Eve seemed not to notice and it was Jeremy, standing closest to the window, who said he had heard a car.

‘That’s it, then,’ Olivia said with satisfaction, almost to herself. ‘Simon and Joanna are here.’

Because the others had been waiting for them, the entrance of the Bartons had a dramatic, theatrical quality. Eve could imagine them outside, touching up greasepaint, straightening costumes before facing their audience. And the effect, she had to admit, was quite stunning. She felt suddenly heavy, graceless, badly dressed. She had never before seen a woman as beautiful as Joanna Barton. She was thin and fine and was dressed in a lacy dress in 1920s style. She wore beads and long earrings. She came into the room and smiled and apologised that they were so late. It was Simon, she said. Now that he was working for himself he never knew when to stop. She went up to her mother and moved her mouth towards the older woman’s cheek, taking care, Eve saw, that there was no actual contact between them.