‘Eden!’ he shouted and went through into the en-suite bathroom.

It was empty.

He looked at his watch again. Then was tempted to check the result of the Grand Prix, but didn’t want to waste any precious time. Sod Eden, whatever her stupid game was, he thought, stripping off his sweaty top and shorts, going through into the bathroom and dumping them in the laundry basket. He washed his face, slapped cold water on his chest, slathered himself in his favourite aftershave, then put on a fresh T-shirt and shorts and his cycling socks and shoes.

Next, he bunged his phone, a shirt, slacks and shoes into a rucksack – he would change into them later before his airport pickup – and wriggled it onto his back, hurrying downstairs as he did so. Grabbing his front-door keys, he went out to the storage container, checked the bike’s tyres were hard enough – thank God, they were – and clipped on his helmet.

Moments later, after locking up, he stood on the driveway, looking up and down the pavement for any sign of Eden. The sky was darkening, but he didn’t care if he got wet. He pushed off, mounted and pedalled hard. If she wanted to play games, that was fine by him. No doubt she would be home by the time he’d done his airport pickup and got back to Brighton.

7

Sunday 1 September

‘God,’ Cleo said. ‘The poor man – he gave up the throne for the woman he loved and the Royal Family back then really treated him like shit, didn’t they? Do you think he deserved that?’

‘Darling, I don’t think you can trust a single word on that show – I’m sorry, but it makes me angry. If you’re going to make a historical drama, you’ve a duty to your audience to make it accurate, don’t you think?’ Roy Grace said.

Stuffed from their barbecue, which they’d just finished before the rain started, they were snuggled up on the sofa with an equally stuffed Humphrey between them, who seemed as absorbed in the television programme as they were. After months of showing signs of pain, he had managed to jump up on the sofa for the first time in ages, so the massage treatment he’d been having was seemingly getting him back to normal and helping his condition. Roy had a small glass of rosé and Cleo, pregnant, a glass of water and a bowl of spicy nuts – her latest craving – beside her. The boys were up in their rooms, Noah fast asleep and Bruno no doubt gaming.

Hugging Humphrey, Cleo said, ‘I hate to say it, but you were right, Roy. Humphrey wasn’t really getting angry with the kids – he was actually in pain. Now look at him after his massages. It’s amazing, he’s back to soppy Humphrey.’

‘Yep.’ Roy stroked him. ‘Good boy, very, very good boy!’

They’d finally got round to watching The Crown. It was 1953. The Duke of Windsor, having refused to attend the coronation of his niece, Queen Elizabeth II, without his wife, Wallis, the Duchess of Windsor – who had pointedly not been invited – was watching the coronation on a tiny television at their French chateau, with Wallis and a group of their friends. He was standing, cigarette in hand, giving a running commentary on the proceedings, clearly wistful at all that might have been for him. And very bitter at how he had been treated.