‘Co-op white, I’m afraid.’ Christianne sits down with a fist full of cutlery. ‘I thought there might be a croissant left but I’m wrong.’

It doesn’t matter. The dhal is brilliant, warm and earthy with layer after layer of careful spicing. On closer inspection, I find tiny florets of cauliflower, curls of Brussels sprout, shavings of carrot, and tiny dark green fingers of bird’s eye chilli, sliced open to free the seeds. I cooked this way after my marriage collapsed, alone in Holland Park after my husband had departed, taking my son with him. My career was also in trouble, and money was suddenly tight, and peasant food like this became a lifeline. Not simply because it was cheap to make but because it was so comforting. Convalescence in a bowl, I remember thinking. And if you fed the saucepan with more veggies, day after day, that kind of solace could last forever.

‘Lovely.’ I lick my spoon. ‘And I mean it.’

When McFaul offers a refill, I shake my head. I’ve seen what little remains in the casserole and I’ve realized what should have been obvious all along: this couple are poor. Money is tight. And that must matter in a town where a kilo of decent vine tomatoes will cost you the earth.

‘You grow your own veg?’ I ask Andy.

‘Yeah. I’ve got half shares on an allotment up by the croquet club. Most of the stuff comes from there. The weed I grow in the greenhouse.’

Weed? This comes as a surprise. The bungalow is full of smells, but not once have I scented cannabis. Christianne, it seems, can read my mind.

‘I won’t let him smoke indoors.’ Her hand suddenly reaches for McFaul’s. ‘But I’ve got the feeling that may change.’

There’s a moment of silence between them while I watch McFaul’s hand tighten around hers, then comes the growl of a car pulling up outside. Evelyn, I think, back from her triumph.

I get to my feet and thank them both for the meal. Christianne looks disappointed. She wants me to stay. I feel guilty at leaving so abruptly but this is Evelyn’s evening, not ours, and when Christianne suggests we might take a walk tomorrow, just the two of us, I’m very happy to say yes. McFaul accompanies me to the door. He’s looking grim again.

‘I’m sorry about all that.’ He nods back towards the kitchen.

‘All what?’

‘The pics. Angola. It’s ancient history. Who cares any more?’

He has the door open by now and the car has gone. This is my cue to leave but McFaul has asked a question and I tell myself it’s only polite to offer some kind of reply.

‘I’m guessing you do,’ I say quietly. ‘Might I be right?’

Evelyn insists we treat ourselves to a nightcap. Watching her pour two large measures of Armagnac, she reminds me of a schoolgirl returning with the end-of-term report of her dreams. She’s passed her exams in the finest style, and her hosts in the restaurant had spoiled her to death. The festival proper is due to start next week, but everyone, she says shyly, seemed to agree that she’d set the bar high.