I’d trained a few of the less heavy wisteria branches around and over the roof of a shepherd’s hut, which was perched at the bottom of the garden, so that right now it dripped with blooms. The hut, painted tasteful pale green, stood at a jaunty angle in the corner. I’d bought it thinking I might work there in the summer, but Michael had been against it, so it had become a garden shed. Unfortunately, it was the only thing I hadn’t got round to sorting out yesterday and my prospective tenant was even now making his way … oh God. I sprang into life and hastened after him. As he opened the door – too late, a large rake sprang out, hitting him squarely on the head.

‘Ooow!’ He bent over in agony, holding his forehead.

‘Oh Lord – I’m so sorry.’ I rushed up, horrified. ‘It is rather full. It was literally the one place – are you all right, Joshua?’

‘Josh!’ he roared, rather unnecessarily, as he straightened up. ‘And I’m fine.’ He glared at me. ‘Do you always set traps for prospective tenants?’

‘Of course not, and it was hardly a trap. How was I to know you’d go in the shed?’

‘Well, call me optimistic, but I thought it might yield something more promising. I thought I might work in there, actually.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes, well, so did I. That’s why I bought it.’

‘So why didn’t you? he asked accusingly. I stared at him. His bespectacled face was quizzical, intense. But not unattractive. If you like that sort of thing. I swallowed. Impossible to tell him, of course, that Michael had wanted me right under his nose, where he could see and hear me, and not making calls or sending emails at the bottom of the garden, so I told him instead that the windows were too small.

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Not enough natural light.’

‘Exactly. And cold in the winter.’

‘But you’ve got a stove in there?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘So how come you’ve got a chimney?’

I felt I was on Any Questions. And he wasn’t playing Just a Minute, either. ‘It came with it,’ I said testily. ‘The stove can be fitted at a later date, if required. If you must know, I liked the look of the chimney. I thought it looked quaint and rural. I saw a picture of David Cameron’s. His had one.’

‘Ah.’ He looked pleased. As if that summed me up, which of course it didn’t. Well, a bit, but not entirely. Not by a long chalk. ‘So it’s purely cosmetic?’ God, he was annoying. We were making our way back to the house now.

‘Until it’s appropriated, converted and therefore operational, yes,’ I said, as if pedantry was clearly required. As we emerged through the French windows Ned glanced up from his phone and took in our faces.

‘What’s up?’