‘Come and see the house. And the kids, if you like that sort of thing.’ Stephen led Chloe away, and Beatrice seemed deliberately not to watch him go. Helen wondered how much she knew about her husband and whether she was speculating about the svelte girl beside him. There was no sign in Beatrice’s calm face and the hand resting on her child’s head was quite relaxed.

‘How old’s Sebastian now?’ Helen asked, wanting to break the silence.

‘Five. Getting quite civilised, really. Oh good, here’s Tom.’ She pushed the wings of hair back behind her ears like a schoolgirl.

Tom came across the hall. He was wearing a bright blue sweater, and a pale grey flannel shirt and trousers that were worlds away from his actors’ uniform of faded denim. To Helen, he looked very elegant and assured. He smiled at Beatrice and held out his hands for the jug of Buck’s Fizz.

‘Let me do that.’

‘Tom, will you? I’ve still got things to finish in the kitchen. No good asking Stephen.’

‘Leave it to me.’

They like each other, Helen thought at once. Odd, really, when Stephen and Tom so obviously have no time at all for one another.

When Beatrice had gone, Tom poured another measure of Buck’s Fizz into Helen’s glass and smiled quickly at her.

‘Good to see you back. Is everything okay at home?’

Helen nodded, not wanting to talk about it. It would be difficult enough to say what she had to say to Oliver.

‘Where is everyone?’ she asked conversationally, looking round the empty hall.

‘Depends who you mean by everyone.’ The underlying humorousness in Tom’s face suddenly broke through and he laughed. ‘Pansy and Oliver are outside, playing football with Stephen’s kids and their friends. Want to come?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Not yet, Helen thought. Not until after lunch, when I’ve got my courage up. Dutch courage, if necessary. ‘I’m going to see if I can help Beatrice.’

Stephen’s wife was in the sunny kitchen with a red and white striped apron wound round her waist. Helen sniffed appreciatively. There were warm, rich smells of garlic and roasting meat. Gratefully Beatrice handed over her knife and Helen sat down at the scrubbed pine table to prepare the ingredients for salade frisée. Beatrice stood over the bright red Aga, slightly flushed with its heat, stirring something in a heavy iron pan.