‘When? Oh, I don’t rightly recall. Not right off. A while back.’ He brushed his hand across his naked chest, smiled again, white teeth. ‘Time I went to fetch Mr Millar. He said to give him a moment just so he could freshen up. You be all right?’ He uncoiled himself, crossed the white carpet soundlessly, as smoothly as an oiled snake, pressed a button somewhere and Mozart, very softly, drifted in among the flowers, chairs and glass-topped tables. ‘I’ll be a second. See you.’

Sunlight faded through the row of big oeil-de-boeuf windows which, now that I saw them, I remembered seeing on the hideous façade left and right of the great clock at the top of the house. Obviously Mr Millar had created a private, and quiet, place for himself among the old attics. It was elegant, understated, cool. As indeed was the voice which turned me in my chair and brought me to my feet.

‘I deplore unpunctuality more than I can say. And I am the culprit. Do forgive me.’

Brent Millar sat bolt upright in his wheelchair, a cashmere rug thrown lightly across his knees, hands folded in his lap. Joseph stood easily behind him. Smiling lightly.

‘Do sit. I, as you see, am already sitting.’ He indicated the chairs with one hand and manoeuvred his chair towards them and me. ‘You see, I hope, why you had to come to me rather than I to you. It is less of a hassle. I manage this thing very well really; it moves like a Rolls, and Jojo here gets me up and down steps and things … we get through. But it is wildly frustrating. Huddled in a bloody wheelchair long before my time. Really very frustrating.’

‘One can only hope it’s a temporary frustration?’

‘One would be a bloody fool if one did. It’s for life. Horse fell on me. The supreme moment of exhilaration, the rush of wind through one’s hair, the pounding of hoofs – do they “pound” in mud? One must suppose so – and then up! That heart-stopping leap soaring into the winter sky, the fence cleared.’ He shook his head. ‘Ah no … Then the fall.’

‘Oh Christ …’

‘Had nothing whatsoever to do with me that day, chum, nothing. He was very occupied keeping his eyes on his sparrows. Wire. We didn’t see the wire.’

‘I’m sorry. Futile remark. One makes a noise.’

‘One does. However, I can move my arms, my neck, I can still write. And after all, a writer spends half his life sitting on his ass so what do I complain about? I am grateful I wasn’t something dashing, like a climber, a runner, played baseball, danced, you know? Small mercies.’

‘I had no idea. I never heard about it.’

He motioned to Jojo (for that is clearly who he was, I now gathered) and was instantly handed a glass of wine.