Millar sighed, shook his head. He might have been sincere when he said, ‘After the child it would appear that he felt that he had to atone for the wickedness of his act. He appeared always to blame himself for, shall we say, past demeanours? Quite absurd of course, nothing to do with his sexual frivolities in the past. But he sought punishment again, very modestly. It seemed to ease him to feel that he was guilty and could atone. I can’t explain why. I didn’t really try to understand. He spent most of that time with others. I stayed away. Not very much I could do stuck in a chair. Maddening. But I always was a good audience. I didn’t have to perform, I did not crave the limelight in that direction, I get it through my books. My work. I am sure you will understand that?’

‘Yes. But why would James start to write a book? For that is what those Agendas all amount to, don’t they? A rather wearying pornographic book.’

‘In one. That’s what they are. Ready, almost, for the typist. So clearly written, don’t you agree? Detailed? Good construction.’

‘If you like that sort of stuff.’

‘Lots of people do. You have to be very clever to write like that. You must have a tremendous amount of imagination.’

‘But you bought them? Right? You surely must have felt that they had some kind of promise?’

There was a silence: Jojo laid down his magazine, Millar looked at the back of his hands, and then up at me. He was smiling gently.

‘You have heard of blackmail?’ he said.

Chapter 11

I drove back to Bargemon in the evening sunlight. The lodge was firmly shuttered. No dog. An elderly man, his bike leaning against the carless shed, nodded to me to wait, tied in the last sweet-pea, came across the little garden to open the gates. Madame, he said, was in Sainte-Brigitte.

At the hotel, a scatter of people sitting about at the tin tables on the terrace, children running with a balloon, parasols with ‘CINZANO’ on their frills flapping in the soft breeze. A ball was thrown, a dog barked, camera clicked, someone dropped a saucer.

Sunday. Shortly they’d leave, the day was almost over. I had lost track of time, day, hours. Everything. I had only one urgent desire and that was for a drink. I hadn’t lost track of my way to the bar.

In the hall Madame Mazine greeted me pleasantly, gave me an envelope. ‘Madame Annette left this. Half an hour ago. Will you be dining in the hotel?’ I said I would and went through to get my Scotch; I was as dry as an oat-cake.

The bar was full, laughter, the till ringing, the pintable clattering. On the television, high up in the corner, Johnny Halliday writhed in copious sweat hitting a guitar.