Half an hour later, we’re back home. Evelyn has been whisked away for a celebratory meal in a local hotel and when I pause outside Evelyn’s front gate, Christianne invites me next door for supper. McFaul looks briefly appalled. This is a man who either won’t or can’t bother to hide his feelings, but Christianne doesn’t seem to care. It will, she says, be something light and she gives me a clue or two about what to expect. I tell her I have no problem with spicy food, news that puts a smile on her face, and promise to join them as soon as I’ve dumped my coat. I’ve bought a bottle of champagne and stored it in Evelyn’s fridge for a little celebration of our own, but I hoist it out and take it next door. The evening has been revelatory, even for me, and a glass or two of Moët seems deeply appropriate.

The bungalow is a muddle inside. Nothing fits. Nothing matches. The lounge has become a dumping ground for random bits of furniture and sundry other items. Most of it probably came from car-boot sales, and some of the furniture is falling apart. A sagging chest of drawers beneath the window should really belong in a bedroom, or be consigned to the local tip, while the one decent armchair, almost intact, is occupied by an ancient cat I initially mistake for a cushion. It eyes me warily as I stand by the door, gives one paw a lick or two, and then goes back to sleep.

Christianne calls me into the kitchen, which seems bigger than Evelyn’s, but here too there’s been no effort to make the room interesting or even presentable. A day’s washing-up is lying in the sink. The waste bin is brimming with potato peelings. The table where McFaul and Christianne evidently eat their meals is still cluttered with the remains of lunch. This comes as something of a surprise. On the evidence of the garden, and McFaul’s many talents, I expected something very different. Does this bit of the kingdom belong to Christianne? Is my new friend from Amiens a slut?

While Christianne hunts for glasses for the champagne, I settle at the table. McFaul has the Moët and his thumbs have found the lip of the cork. On the way home, we’ve all agreed that Evelyn has been a star, and I’ve done my best to explain the concept of the novella to McFaul, but the atmosphere is a little tense – probably my fault for saying yes to Christianne’s invitation – and conversation has died.

‘So, is this your place?’ I say brightly, gesturing round. ‘You own it?’

‘God forbid,’ says McFaul.

‘You’re renting?’