Of course, I was taller than Ian, too, but this didn’t seem such a personal affront. I was an incidental, floating presence; a friend of his eldest daughter, Joanna. Whenever I went to the Mortons’ house as a child he would ask a couple of questions about school and then say, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ as though Joanna and I were about to conduct business more important than venturing outside to pull buds off the neighbour’s camellia trees.

This was why I was surprised when he called me. We had no rapport, at least not one I knew about.

‘Susie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Ian Morton.’

A pause.

‘Jo tells me you’re looking for work.’

Joanna was about to embark on a semester-long exchange. But right now, before it began, she was on a skiing holiday Ian had paid for. It was somewhere whose name was at once familiar and foreign to me: St Moritz, Aspen, Courchevel. In my mind these were all the one place, twinkling and brittle beneath the pale gaze of the sun.

‘I guess so,’ I said. I had recently quit my job at a market-research call centre because every night they had me working on a survey where I was supposed to find women aged over thirty-five to answer twenty minutes of questions about incontinence. ‘And when you experience urine loss,’ I’d say, ‘do you lose a teaspoon? A tablespoon? Or the whole bladder?’

‘I might have an opportunity for you,’ Ian said. ‘If you’re interested.’

‘Okay.’

‘You don’t sound interested,’ he said. There was a breathy little laugh, and I had the sense I was on thin ice. I pictured Ian Morton as I’d last seen him: his too-big shirt tucked into his too-big jeans, his belt on the very last hole, its tail curling halfway around his waist. Supportive sneakers. Longish hair, round glasses. An elfish, ill-at-ease figure.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No, I am interested. Really.’

He cleared his throat. ‘As you know, Joanna won’t be back for several months. I thought you might fill in for her. As my dining companion.’

This, I realise, requires some explanation. Ian’s wealth came from his company, which supplied mystery shoppers and mystery diners to businesses hoping to gather intelligence on their staff. I remember Joanna telling me that the people who worked for him – the shoppers, the diners – were willing to work for almost nothing. A free sandwich. A pair of socks. A cinema ticket. This was the genius of his enterprise.

‘They don’t get paid?’ I’d asked.

‘They take what they can get,’ Joanna said.

But there were some jobs Ian liked to do himself. Primarily, they were in the category he called Platinum Dining.

‘So,’ said Ian. ‘Do you have any nice dresses?’