The walls were papered with a hand-painted Fromental wallpaper of cherry blossoms. A sheepskin sofa sat against the end of the emperor bed with two matching armchairs opposite, should he want to host some kind of meeting or gathering in his bedroom. Clover felt certain no one had ever sat down on them.

She went over and contrarily sat on them each, in turn.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ Johnny whispered, looking amused.

‘Oh yes,’ she grinned. But she felt strangely disappointed, too.

This was their first indirect encounter with Kit Foley, a deliberate breach into his inner sanctum. It was supposed to speak about him without words, but as she looked around, she wasn’t hearing much. The room looked exactly as it had been conceived – pristine, beautiful, calm. The bed had been made, the wardrobes were shut. No porn mags, no smokes, no dirty underwear lying about. She got up – not even a scummy waterline inside the bath.

She went over to his wardrobe and looked in. There were three white shirts, one black suit, a clutch of snowboarding jackets – all in solid, sober colours – with JOR in matt shadow along the shoulders. JOR: Julian Orsini-Rosenberg. The man behind Foley’s comeback. Supposedly, Kit had designed this himself?

She checked the drawers – he was a Calvins man; clearly not much interested in socks – just black ribbed pairs. She checked the other drawers – base layer thermals, jeans, some merino wool sweaters in dark grey.

‘Ugh, he dresses like a bloody architect,’ she muttered. ‘Where are all the Hawaiian print shirts and board shorts?’

‘He gave it up, remember? This is Foley Mark Two.’

‘Well, Foley Mark Two is . . . dull.’ She stood by his bedside table and did a visual inventory: vitamin tablets, a phone charger, airpods, some paperbacks. He was a reader?

‘Oh god,’ she smirked, holding up the top one to show Johnny. ‘Unfuck Yourself: Get Out of Your Head and Into Your Life. He’s a deep thinker? Please.’

She went to the second. ‘The Power of Positive Thinking . . . Maybe he should take the anxiety pills?’

Johnny chuckled.

‘Obama’s biography,’ she murmured, holding up the copy of Dreams from My Father. She flicked through it idly. ‘Oh, look at that. A signed copy. Friends in high places.’

‘Not anymore. I bet he wouldn’t get a signature for Obama’s new book.’

Clover smiled, mollified by the thought. ‘True that.’

She picked up some loose papers and glanced at them – architect’s drawings for a house. Surprisingly twee, she thought, looking at the pillared porch.