The billiard room was in darkness except for the long light over the smooth green cloth. It was warm, but it smelt of dust and disuse. Helen smiled to herself, imagining how the room must have been when it was full of over-fed Edwardian gentlemen, puffing on cigars and placing bets with each other. She wandered down the length of the table, running her finger along the polished mahogany and thinking how pretty the rolling, clicking coloured balls looked against the green.

The billiard room felt a long way from the rest of the house, and so somehow safe.

Tom had taken off his jacket and was meditatively chalking his cue between shots. Oliver poured brandy and balanced his glass on the corner of the table.

‘Do you play, Pansy?’ He held out a cue.

Pansy slipped off her velvet jacket at once and took the cue from him. Frowning, she walked around the table and then her face cleared as she saw her shot. She leaned forward and her fingers expertly formed a bridge for the cue. The polished wood snaked to and fro once or twice as she measured the shot. Then click, the balls ricocheted and scattered. The pink rolled and plopped softly into a pocket.

‘Not bad.’ Oliver and Tom both nodded their approval.

‘I play with my father sometimes. Kim won’t, she thinks it’s frightfully unfeminine. Anyway, she’s no good.’

‘Helen?’ Oliver turned to her.

‘I’ve no idea what to do.’

‘Look. Like this.’

He guided her to the table and put the shiny cue into her hand. Then he lifted her arms into the position she had seen Pansy adopt so nonchalantly. His body bent over hers, heavy along the length of her back, and his hands closed over her own.

‘Brace your left hand like this. Then look along the cue …’ His face was against her hair. Helen struggled with herself, trying to ignore the effect of his closeness. But it was an impossible effort to breathe evenly, and her fingers felt like melting wax.

‘Relax,’ he murmured, and for a moment the flood of memories threatened to engulf everything else.

Dazed, she drew back her arm and stabbed the cue at the nearest ball. It spun sideways and the cue leapt and then juddered against the green cloth.

Helen dropped it as though it was red hot.

At once Oliver straightened up. Helen had to clench her fists to stop herself reaching after him. She turned her head away and so didn’t see him running his fingers over the baize. The other two leaned forward anxiously.

‘Okay,’ he said casually. ‘No damage. But I think you’d make a better spectator. Here, have a drink.’