‘It’s your money. You should do whatever it is you want with it. Whether it’s for Kindred Kenya or if you want to pump every penny into relaunching your nu-jazz DJ career.’

‘Cheers to that,’ he holds up his glass. ‘Oh, I’m running low. Top-up?’

‘I’m not sure about that, we’ve established you can’t handle your drink.’

He pouts a little before finishing off what he has.

‘So, what are your plans for when you get back home? Are you thinking about college?’

‘I’m fed up of talking about myself. You talk.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says with a mouthful of cheesy puffs. ‘Like, what’s the best play you’ve seen this year?’

‘Oh, you’re a comedian now?’

‘To be fair, it’s all I know about you. There must be more to your life than walking around hills and buying up all the property.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Well, what happened to your husband?’

‘You say it like an accusation. He moved back to Sweden.’

‘Sweden? I went out with a Swedish girl once. She was hard work. Were you with this Swede when I still lived in London?’

‘No. We met about a year after.’

Kiama clicks his fingers, ‘No, you were with a chef. We ate at his restaurant, it was the first time I ever had a profiterole.’

She rolls back on the bed laughing, ‘Daniel Jordan? I can’t believe you remember him? You were about six.’

‘I’m not saying I remember him, I remember the profiterole. And there was another guy, think he was from up north, he had a sheep dog called Rocko and it used to stink.’

‘What?’ She thinks back but of course she knows who he’s talking about. Another miss, one of the first relationships she thought was serious. ‘Will Britton?’ she covers her face with her hands and laughs into them. ‘Were you taking notes?’

‘Has there been anyone serious? Apart from the Swede? I don’t even know his name.’

‘Ben, his name is Ben. We got married very quickly. It was intense and messy and,’ she sighs, ‘one of those things. But we’ve managed to keep it civil. I still see him once or twice a year. He’s getting remarried this Christmas, he invited me.’

‘Really? Weird.’ Kiama drops some crisps on the bed then dusts them off with his orange fingertips. ‘So Swedish Ben, eh? He was the one?’

She raises an eyebrow at him.

‘The one that did it for you? The Jay-Z to your Beyoncé?’

‘You’re an eighteen-year-old boy, what do you know about “the one”?’

‘Nothing. I’m asking for an education.’

‘No, Ben wasn’t the one. That was a different guy.’ She refills their cups, her own with a measure big enough to get through this conversation. ‘You don’t marry that guy, Kiama.’

‘So, there’s no one right now?’