‘I’ve brought wine.’ He held the bottle towards her so she could read the label. A 1910 Merlot. Where had he got that from? It couldn’t have been cheap. She’d chilled ale, thinking it was what he’d prefer; she was glad she hadn’t set it out.

‘How thoughtful. Will you come through? I’ll get the glasses.’

She wondered what he must think of the place. She was still aware that it was modest in comparison to her family home or the Owenses London house, but to him it must still seem grand. Ostentatious? She looked at everything afresh, as though through his eyes. There were numerous cupboards, sideboards and tables; a man like him must be wondering how it could possibly be the case that someone owned so much stuff that needed to be put somewhere out of sight. There was plenty in view too: a large number of photographs of Mabel were strewn about, as well as numerous china bowls of potpourri and lavender. The wallpaper was busy – animals, birds, wreaths of flowers recurred in none too accurate patterns all over the walls; skirting boards, halls and passages were painted dark olive. There were signs that the place wasn’t quite as prized as it had been: the leather chairs were worn, the decor was Victorian and hadn’t been updated. Would he notice? Was he inwardly laughing at the fact that a taxidermist must have been kept on staff at some point, judging from the numerous foxes, rabbits, pheasants and deer that littered the room, petrified under glass or on the walls. Vivian wished she’d spent the day removing the clutter.

‘It’s very nice,’ he commented politely.

‘No, it isn’t. It’s ghastly,’ she replied irritably. She reached for a packet of cigarettes and offered him one. She didn’t smoke herself; she’d bought them especially.

He took one and admitted, ‘Perhaps a bit crowded.’

‘Claustrophobic,’ she confirmed, cutting across the usual niceties. ‘I try to be outside as much as possible.’ He looked surprised. Would he take it as a compliment, her honesty, or would he think she had decided he was not worth social pleasantries? She looked around for a lighter but couldn’t see one; she hadn’t thought of it. How was it possible that in amongst all this stuff she didn’t have the one thing he needed? He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a box of matches.

‘A drink?’ She didn’t know the etiquette. Her mother would offer cocktails or spirits pre-dinner, but she wasn’t going to serve dinner as such. There were pickled onions on Cook’s tray; how could that ever be dinner? But was it too early to open the wine? It crossed her mind that this was the first time in her life that she had ever entertained without help. Even when Enid or Ava visited, Mrs Rosebend would guide the evening by having the maids set, if not serve. ‘Maybe the wine?’

‘You should open it, let it breathe.’ She tried not to look surprised. ‘Whisky, if you have it.’ She was delighted to be given instruction and busied herself over the tray of dusty bottles and sticky decanters set by the piano. The maid couldn’t manage everything as she ought. Vivian didn’t know how much to pour. Aubrey drank gin and tonic; she knew all about that. Whisky, he’d said. Did that go with anything? Ginger ale, perhaps? Yes, she was sure her mother used to drink it that way, but was that a feminine tipple? Did one add water? Nervous, she filled the glasses to the top, took them over to him and handed one over.