I pull, but the jumper hardly gives. Instead I yank Clifford towards me and we both nearly topple sideways. He tips but steadies himself, his weight supported on his arm which is now planted, firmly, between my knees. I stop myself from falling by simply holding on. His bicep is like a giant squash. So hard. He doesn’t automatically straighten himself.

‘Don’t let go,’ he murmurs, into my hair. I am close to his ear. I long to press the cool outline of it against the skin of my forehead. It’s a random urge. Silly. But Clifford has such nice ears. Good ears. Familiar ears.

‘I’ve been reading that Ivan Yefremov novel you bought me for Christmas,’ I say, turning my head away, releasing my grip, delighting – thrilling, even – at my considerable powers of self-control, ‘the sci-fi thing. Andromeda. It’s very good.’

‘That was three Christmases ago,’ he answers, thickly.

‘Pardon?’

‘It’s from three Christmases ago.’

‘Oh. Well it’s very good,’ I repeat.

He suddenly straightens himself and clambers heavily to his feet. He walks to the window and peers out.

‘What did the surveyor say?’ he murmurs, coolly assessing the damage.

I stand up myself. ‘Tiered gardens are all the vogue, apparently.’ I try to make light of it.

‘That bad?’

‘No. No,’ I lie.

‘You’ve still got the sauna,’ he observes. ‘That sauna is indestructible.’

I grab the scissors from the floor and walk over. ‘Although I haven’t seen a single bird on the feeders since it happened.’

‘Strange. You wouldn’t think they’d be that bothered.’

‘They have wings.’ I nod.

I take a hold of his arm, lift it and gently insert the bottom blade under the cuff. As I start to cut something terrible occurs to me.

‘Hang on a second … the landslip – wasn’t that your birthday? You came around here on your birthday? Then you ended up searching for a lost cat half the night?’

(The Bassetts had informed me of these small details the morning after. It had been Clifford who’d bravely ventured into the front kitchen – just as dawn was breaking – at the pathetic sound of mewing.)

Clifford doesn’t volunteer anything further.

‘How’d you find out?’ I wonder.

‘The coastguard.’

‘Ah.’

‘They were thinking of sending out a boat, so I drove over to check things out.’

I nod. At last his first arm is free. He flexes it, gratefully. I commence work on the second.

‘Georgie Hulton said he saw you in tears on the beach the other day. You were out walking Rogue. He said you’d just been talking to your tenant – a Mr Huff.’

‘What a ridiculous name!’ I mutter, cheeks reddening. ‘Mr Huff! I’ll huff and I’ll puff …’

‘Was he bothering you?’ Clifford demands.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snort, ‘it was windy. I got sand in my eyes, that’s all.’

‘Georgie said he called out to you but …’

‘I mustn’t have heard him.’ I shrug.