‘She came into our lives just before the fall. She came as a temporary typist-secretary when Myrna, his regular girl, suddenly quit. Millie, even though on occasion she looks like a drowned vole, is exceedingly resilient. She is brilliant, not just at her job, coping with his dictation, his manuscripts and so on, but at arranging his life, caring for him. She took him over completely after the accident, cool, calm, controlled, fast at her work, correct. Causes no ripples, asks no questions and adores her cripple. She is rare. He married her. Men do marry their nurses, you know? And it’s convenient. She knows that. She doesn’t in the least mind “wearing the beard” for her man, part of the deal. In return she is unmolested, lives in comfort, travels the world – she is passionate about renaissance churches, wouldn’t you know? – and wears the beard socially, types the manuscripts privately. She packs the suitcases, sacks the staff, orders the meals, and does for him everything that Jojo does not do. Do I make myself abundantly clear, William?’

‘Abundantly.’

‘I have talked myself to a stop.’

‘My fault. I am the questioner. I apologize.’

She got up, and stood with her hands on her hips, the empty glass clutched in a fist. ‘In a frock – I mean a perfectly ordinary girl’s frock, floral, with puff sleeves and a Peter Pan collar, you know? – In a frock, a little bit of make-up, and standing defiantly, proudly, beside that ruin of a man, you know she doesn’t look a bit odd. Just valiant.’

The Dalmatian heaved himself up suddenly, shook himself into a wild scatter of tail and legs, yawned, ambled slowly into the room, then slumped heavily on to the rush matting at my feet.

‘Exhausted, you see? It’s getting cool. It does up here when the sun has gone.’

‘Can you bear another question?’

‘Shoot.’

‘Daniel Jacquet? Where does he fit.’

She took my glass, went across to the table with the lamp, took up the Jack Daniels bottle. ‘In all the nooks and crannies.’ She was grinning. ‘Not gay. Absolutely not. Obliging, shall I say? Apart from that, he gardens. Well. Trims the cypresses, prunes the olives in season, does the lawns; he is very clever with machines. I nearly said, God forgive me, with his hands. My apologies.’ She handed me my replenished glass, settled herself into the swaddle of cushions.

‘So he is pretty useful?’

‘And pretty. Obviously.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s another. A little older. Martin. He’s pretty too. Millie only picks the pretty ones, which, of course, enrages Jojo, who is as jealous as a scorned woman. If he had a brain he’d be dangerous.’

‘The accident was a decade ago? He was writing then surely?’