Gabe has a really nice pad, even if it couldn’t be more different from my glass-heavy penthouse in a mixed-use, Sullivan-constructed building overlooking the Thames in Battersea. He took over one of Mum and Dad’s properties—a big Georgian redbrick house in Manchester Square in the middle of town—but his interior designer has done a great job on it. With its warm neutral palette and no-expense-spared finishings, it hits exactly the right notes between the serenity this former priest still values and the opulence he’s probably still adjusting to.

‘They’ll be a few minutes late,’ he tells me, handing me a bottle of Peroni.

‘Not a problem.’ Our parents and Mairead live out near Newmarket, where we were brought up, right in the middle of the horse racing folks. It’s like a really boring version of a Jilly Cooper novel out there. As far as I can tell, all the action happens at my sister’s stud farm.

‘Before they get here, I want a word about Marlowe,’ Athena says, moving closer. Oh, boy. Here we go. She looks like she means business. She’s in a long, green silky dress that has a lot of buttons and does a stellar job of showcasing the curves that corrupted my very willing brother. I find myself thinking that she’s curvier than Marlowe, whose body is more athletic.

‘Does Marlowe like sports?’ I blurt out, and she stops in her tracks.

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I dunno.’ I scratch at the corner of my Peroni label with my fingernail. ‘She looks sporty.’

‘She likes running, for some unearthly reason. And she’s bloody brilliant at tennis.’

That perks me up. ‘Really? Huh. Interesting.’ I’m a member of a very high-end racquets club near our office. Maybe I can lure her there for the odd game of tennis or padel.

‘Anyway. I wanted to thank you for giving her the job.’ Her tone is clipped, and there is no doubt in my mind that her thanks is an opener to her main agenda.

‘You’re welcome. She earned it.’

I try to keep my voice neutral, I really do. I want Athena to know that I didn’t do her a favour, that Marlowe got the position on her own—very compelling—merits, but the words sound sleazy as soon as they’re out of my mouth, and she frowns.

‘I don’t want to know.’ She leans in and lowers her voice. ‘Just remember. She’s your employee, not your toy. She’s a human being. Treat her with respect.’

‘Jesus. I’m not a total prick. I know all that. She’s lovely, and I’m not about to fuck her up. That said, I’m paying her a fuck-load of money for this job, and we’re both adults. Maybe give us both the chance to work our relationship out for ourselves?’