‘Not really. It belongs to my stepbrother. He’s in New York just now, investment banker, works for Goldman Sachs. If we nicked the place, put it in our pockets and did a runner, I’m not sure he’d even notice.’ He looks at Christianne. ‘Four properties? Including the house in Twickenham? Have I got that right?’

‘Five. You always forget the apartment down in Malaga.’

‘You’re right.’ He nods. ‘Maybe it’s time for a swap.’

They exchange glances, say nothing. Christianne has at last found glasses for the champagne. None of them match, and one of them is quite badly chipped, but it doesn’t seem to matter. McFaul pops the cork and I propose a toast.

‘To your brilliant neighbour.’ I raise my glass. ‘I just hope Budleigh recognizes what a talent they’ve got on their hands.’

To my surprise, the latter comment triggers a nod – which I take to be agreement – from McFaul.

‘It took guts to do something like that,’ he grunts. He tips his glass, the one with the chip, to his mouth and takes a pull at the champagne. He’s looking at Christianne. ‘Are they all as good as her? At that festival of theirs?’

‘I’ve no idea. We never go.’

‘Then maybe we should.’

‘Avec plaisir.’ She shoots McFaul a look. ‘You mind if I write that down?’

Without waiting for an answer, she glances at her watch and stoops to open the oven door. I can see a glass casserole inside, loosely covered with foil. She must have put it in earlier because the kitchen suddenly smells wonderful.

‘I hope you meant it about spicy food.’ She’s struggling to bend. ‘I’ve done a big pot of dhal. If you want to know our secret, we live on the stuff.’

‘She means it’s cheap.’ This from McFaul.

‘He means it’s delicious.’ Christianne is looking at me. ‘Andy loves it. I meant to get roti, but I forgot. Will plain bread be OK, or shall I toast it?’

I shrug. I don’t care. A bowl of whatever’s in that casserole dish sounds fine to me. Christianne nods. She’s still gazing into the oven. For whatever reason, she seems uncertain what to do next. McFaul empties his glass, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then gets up. He circles the table until he’s standing behind Christianne, before helping her to stand upright. In the close confines of the kitchen I can’t help remembering the scene in the garden last night, McFaul trying to coach Christianne to sink a putt or two, or just make contact with the ball, and this strange pas de deux in front of the oven has the same feel.

‘OK?’ he mutters. ‘You want me to get it out?’ Christianne nods, says nothing. ‘Serve it? Sort the toast?’ Another nod.