‘Well, he obviously hasn’t read the sponsor’s memo about bringing us onside,’ Johnny sighed. ‘Which means it probably is going to be the arm-wrestling route.’

Matty and Clover both chuckled. Matty reached for a breadstick. ‘So when do you think they’ll show? Halfway through dinner, when we’ve got boiled beef broth dribbling down our chins?’

‘Probably.’ Clover looked around the impressive space again. It was going to take some getting used to. They were sitting by the fire, now lit and crackling away; Carlotta’s return to duty had been efficient. The town was just a confection of lights below them, the lake an ink spot below a starry sky.

‘Hey. Cool beats,’ Johnny said, noticing a vinyl record player behind the billiards table and going over for a closer inspection.

Clover looked up at the glass wall of Kit’s bedroom on the mezzanine, the copper bath gleaming even in the dark. She wished now they had taken their time up there, snooped with a little more purpose, instead of scuttling in and out within minutes.

She got up and began to wander, too restless to sit. A chess board was set and mid-play on a side table. She went over, assessed the state of the contest; moved a piece. It was weighty in her hand.

‘You’re a rebel without a cause, you know that?’ Matty asked, an eyebrow arched as she watched on.

‘Can’t help myself,’ Clover shrugged. ‘Want to see if you can beat me?’ She was teasing but it was a valid question. She was good. Her father had taught her when she was young and it had rapidly become ‘their’ game, her way of getting his attention when he came home from work. She hadn’t played in years, though. She would be rusty . . .

‘Bet I get you sub-ten moves,’ Matty said as Clover brought the small table over so they could play in front of the fire.

Clover laughed. Her friend was the most competitive person Clover had ever met. ‘Hmm, fighting talk.’

Matty sat forward on the edge of her seat, scrutinizing the state of play. ‘I’ll play white,’ she said after a moment.

‘That’s not fair. You’ve already got my bishop.’

‘I always play white,’ Matty shrugged as Clover dragged over one of the giant sheepskin beanbags and sank into it.

Clover took a deep swill of her champagne and examined how the black team was doing, minus the bishop. ‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘This is a jam.’

‘Pretty tricky,’ Matty murmured, scrutinizing the board too. ‘Which piece did you just play?’

‘Rook to F4.’

‘Hmm.’

The Who started playing through the surround-sound speakers. The quality was excellent, Johnny sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping through the stacks of records, head nodding as he sang along.