‘Well, I decided you were right. If I’m determined to work here, rather than in the study, I’ve got to get a grip. It is, after all, the engine room.’

Michael and I had, historically, both worked either side of a large table in the study, me writing my novels, and Michael his critiques. In the old days it had been pleasant. But as tensions rose, and as his career hit the skids, a mutual tacit agreement had forced him in here. It had certainly helped both work and general relations, but it caused chaos domestically. I smiled and sipped my wine, noting the desk in the corner which he’d tidied into neat piles.

‘Sometimes I think it would be better if I was the one in here,’ I commented. ‘After all, I spend so much time here, or in the garden. And you always loved the study.’

‘No, no, your need is greater.’

It was true, but magnanimous of him. A rare admission. I needed a proper desk. My books might not sell many copies, or bring in much money, but I was prolific. Relentless, some might say, still writing a book a year. As a result, my publisher in Bloomsbury was able to give me a small regular advance each time. In the early days, I’d had a reasonably successful run, but the murder mystery market had been swamped recently by sophisticated psycho-noir thrillers. My gentle Midsomer Murders style, with my feisty detective, Susie Sharpe, at the helm, had rather fallen out of favour. Still, Frankie, my lovely editor who’d become a true friend, nevertheless did everything she could to usher Susie forwards; and sometimes, to our mutual delight, she appeared not just in a back room at WHSmith, but in the supermarkets too, where my more mature readership found her convenient to pick up with their Ovaltine. Recently, I wondered if my heroine’s level of forensic ability had begun to reflect the cosiness of the demographic I attracted. The other day, I’d heard her say airily: ‘Oh, I think the body can keep. Pop it in the freezer overnight and I’ll get the pathologist to look in the morning.’ That would never have happened in the old days. Susie Sharpe – who in real terms was probably about a hundred and four – was in danger of becoming Susie Blunt. Nevertheless, she forged on, hopefully brightening the days of retired gentlefolk, who were often kind enough to write and tell me as much. And what little my books continued to bring in still eclipsed Michael’s meagre salary. It was nice of him to acknowledge this.

‘How were the aged Ps?’ he asked sympathetically, reaching into the freezer for a bag of frozen peas.

‘Oh, predictably in denial. Lots of assurances they were fine and everything was going swimmingly. But it really is the seven ages of man down there.’

‘Sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything,’ he quoted.