‘Yes. She’s a lovely woman. She doesn’t deserve to be hurt.’

‘You think that’s what this is about? Him, the alpha male? Her, the helpless partner?’

She holds my gaze for a moment, then grins. We know each other far too well to give house room to clichés like this.

‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I’m sure it’s much more complex and much more interesting.’ She reaches for her glass. ‘Here’s to us.’

‘To you,’ I say. ‘You were a star.’

We’re late to bed. In certain moods, especially when she’s relaxed, Evelyn can be very expansive, and this is just such a moment. She’s looking back at the decision to abandon London for East Devon, and when she enumerates the countless blessings that have come her way, I know she means it. Instead of blank faces in the street and the stink of diesel, warm smiles from passing strangers and the incessant growl of the surf. Instead of the lash of editorial deadlines, yet more sunshine behind her parted bedroom curtains and the glorious promise of an unplanned day.

‘This place is full of surprises,’ she says. ‘I thought the problem might be boredom, nothing much to do, but it’s quite the reverse.’

Evelyn has always been a great one for lists and now is no different: the challenge of learning to play croquet, lending a hand at the crafts exhibition, finding decent partners at bridge, attending French conversation classes for beginners, listening to a glorious Haydn string quartet at the mid-summer BMF.

‘BMF?’

‘Budleigh Music Festival. It was in the Temple Methodist Church. This is supposed to be God’s Waiting Room but the players, the quartet, were all so young. The local kids are great, too. London pays youth far too much respect, because it’s probably easier that way. That’s why they’re all so bloody moody and arrogant. Down here, they haven’t forgotten how to smile. It’s a place apart. It’s utterly delightful. I’m a lucky girl.’

A place apart? About London, I can only agree. Malo, I’m thinking, and his casual assumption that a million pounds is a fair price for two bedrooms and a view.

Evelyn is still bubbling about the programme for next week’s literary festival. In her footsteps, luminaries like Robert Harris and Louis de Bernières will be filling St Peter’s Church. Midweek, Hilary Mantel will be in conversation with James Runcie.

‘Hilary lives on the seafront.’ Evelyn smiles. ‘A view like that, no wonder the books are so good. You should stay longer. Wind down a little. A couple of months and we can have Christmas together.’

I tell her it’s a nice thought, but I still have the embers of a career to attend to. In the meantime, Christianne and I will be stepping out together.

‘Tomorrow morning, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he agreed?’