I step back into the kitchen, glad of Evelyn’s offer of coffee. Presley, it appears, is yet another of Budleigh’s blessings, a local carpenter recommended by Christianne. Evelyn has used him a couple of times already and has been delighted with the results. Just now, he’s making her a couple of bespoke shelves for books she’s yet to reclaim from the Exeter warehouse where she’s still storing bits and pieces from her London flat.

‘Christianne says he’s a genius,’ she murmurs, ‘and I think she might be right.’

Right or otherwise, Presley is certainly a gentleman because he willingly surrenders the first of the bacon sarnies to little me. Under his approving smile, I add a scribble of brown sauce. Too much Armagnac, I tell him, does that to a girl.

‘On the hard stuff again?’ He’s looking at Evelyn. ‘That’s the problem with you DFL guys. Before it was simple. Beer or beer. Now we’re spoiled for bloody choice.’

‘DFL?’ I’m lost.

‘Down From London. Is it the money I’m complaining about? Christ, no. Do either of you lovely ladies bother me? Absolutely not. This was a sleepy old place in my dad’s day. Thank God for DFLs.’

Evelyn and I take that as a compliment. Two more rashers of streaky go into the frying pan while I mind the toaster. The second sarnie is coming along nicely when Christianne appears at the front door. It’s already half past ten. The sight of me in Evelyn’s borrowed dressing gown, way too small, delights her.

‘You’re going walking in that?’ she says.

We set out an hour or so later. As we leave, we pass Presley, who’s digging around in the back of his van. Christianne catches his eye.

‘How’s it going?’ she asks.

‘Fine.’ He grins. ‘Am I allowed to say you’ll love it?’

Love what? She doesn’t answer, just blows him a kiss, and as we turn to head down to the town I can’t help wondering whether McFaul might have been watching. Budleigh, I’m beginning to conclude, is no place for the faint-hearted.

We walk first to the seafront. Christianne, it turns out, attracts even more attention than Evelyn. Everyone appears to know her, and most of them insist on stopping for a chat and a catch-up. Christianne seems to get a real kick out of introducing me, and as we progress very slowly down the High Street, arm in arm, she starts telling people I’m in the process of moving down.

‘But you know that’s not true.’ At last, we’ve made the seafront.

‘So what? You’re famous, that’s what really matters. And you’re my friend, too. Can I call you that? Do you mind?’