‘You know,’ Stephen’s eyes travelled over her face, from her eyes to her mouth, ‘I envy you. Having put whatever, whoever it is behind you, to come here, you’re starting afresh. Make sure you enjoy it, won’t you?’

Was he challenging her? They were looking intently at each other as Chloe whispered, ‘Yes, I will,’ and it was a long moment before either of them spoke again. In the end it was Chloe who broke the silence. She reached forward to the silver pots. ‘More coffee?’

Stephen shook himself slightly. For both of them, it was the signal to slow down just a little. Chloe always thought that the anticipation was half the fun, and she didn’t want whatever was going to happen with Stephen Spurring to unfold too quickly. She was delighted to find that Stephen’s understanding matched her perfectly.

‘Thank you. Well,’ he said, in quite a different, polite voice, ‘what does bring you here? Thirst for learning, or something more necessary?’

He was an easy audience, Chloe found. She made the edited version of why she had decided to come to Oxford sound as amusing as she could, and she gave him a quick, vivid sketch of her London advertising life. Stephen laughed with her, admiring her animated face as she talked. The morning’s good humour consolidated itself inside him. At length, he made himself look at his watch.

‘Oh God, I’m due to watch some auditions at twelve. I must go.’

‘With the young Apollo and his business manager?’

Stephen laughed. ‘Exactly. I’d forgotten you were there.’

‘Who are they?’

‘The tall fair one is Lord Oliver Mortimore.’

Chloe saw again the aquiline good looks and the unmistakable hauteur in Oliver’s bearing as he stood back to watch the world go by. Just as if it was there for his benefit alone, she thought, and her heart sank for Helen’s sake. Helen’s eyes had been just too bright when she talked about him, and her bewildered eagerness had been just too obvious. Chloe sighed. A mismatch, she thought, if ever there was one, and the only person likely to be damaged by that was Helen herself. Well, perhaps it would come to nothing anyway.

‘Do you know him, then?’ Stephen was asking.

‘No. It’s just that a friend of mine does. And who was the other, the business manager?’

‘You’re quite close to the truth, as it happens. Tom Hart, son of Greg Hart and heir to just about the entire New York theatre business.’

‘What can he be doing here?’ Chloe asked, interested. Hart was a famous name.