‘Is it that bad?’

He didn’t answer and it occurred to her that Luca might not be telling her the whole truth, that as a self-confessed drunk he knew all the same cover-ups she did. ‘How do I know you’ve really stopped?’

‘Because I’ve not had a drink in a fortnight?’

‘You could still be boozing on the sly too; I could be trapped with the Keith Moon of County Kildare here.’

‘I’m not,’ he snapped. ‘Is this Keith Moon fella a family friend or something?’

She was surprised at his sharpness. ‘He was The Who’s drummer.’

He looked blank.

‘You know the song “My Generation”?’ Pax sang a few lines, stopping before the bit about hoping to die before growing old in case he used it as leverage. ‘My brother wanted it played at our father’s funeral, but the grandparents put the boot in, insisting on “Abide With Me”. He drove a Rolls Royce into a swimming pool.’

‘Your father?’

‘Keith Moon. He walked away afterwards. Daddy slammed a Subaru Forester into a horse chestnut on the A46. Not so lucky.’ She read a reply from Muir, who inevitably texted as though writing a telegram: Disembark train 14.45 hrs. ETA bungalow 15.00 hrs. Be advised fish lunch. M&MF.

That’s much later than agreed, she replied. Can you drop Kes off at the stud on your way home?

Negative. K can stay overnight with us if preferred. M&MF

‘Piss off,’ she told the phone, good mood evaporating as she typed: Will be there 3 p.m. sharp. Be advised, NOT happy about this.

‘We might as well go back, Luca,’ she said distractedly. ‘They’re running late.’

She wanted to scream and kick the footwell. They’d be calling Mack now, she guessed. He would log the exchange in his meticulously kept records. Records that would undoubtedly catalogue the many, many times she’d drunk a whole bottle of wine to herself in an evening, sometimes two, not to mention the swigs from the cooking wine box in between, the vodka bottles he’d found hidden behind the recipe books, miniatures in her knicker drawer. The evidence was all there against her. She needed her own to prove that she was changing all that.

Luca hadn’t started the car. He was waiting.

‘Okay, I’ll go with you to a meeting next week.’ She had to work hard not to add ‘you bastard’ as prickles of irritation returned like a plague of ants, adding instead, ‘On one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘You tell your story. Right now. To me.’ That would see the engine started and get them back home in five minutes, she predicted.

The smile was back. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not? Afraid I’ll tell?’

‘It’s not that.’ He glanced across at her warily.

‘You don’t have to talk about yourself to a room of strangers. Just me.’

He brandished the smile again, overpowering in the small space.

She mirrored it, fed up with all the hush and myth surrounding the Horsemaker, with strange incoming calls and multilingual outgoing ones, their International Man of Mystery in breeches. Was he even a drinker at all?