She remembers these wild swings of optimism and expectation. Then, she thought they were inspiring, his naïve belief in the inevitable triumph of art over bourgeois values and his confidence in the effect that the old Celtic legends – presented by himself – would have on the ancient but forgotten cultures when he reconnects them with their melting, misty past. As she remembers it, his belief was that we are all the products of our history and our race memories; even memories we are not aware of are buried within us and need exhuming. Absolutely mad nonsense, but even now she understands the yearning that lies behind it.

Artair is staring past her.

‘Jesus, Fleur, that looks like a Cézanne.’

‘It is. Harry has – Harry had – three Cézannes. Two are on loan, and then there’s this one, Mont Sainte-Victoire, of course.’

‘My God, it is so beautiful.’

He has another draught of champagne.

‘So, so beautiful.’

He stands in front of the picture, transfixed. From behind he seems to be trembling. His little hat is oscillating in sympathy.

‘Artair, are you ready for lunch? You must be hungry.’

He turns.

‘Until your cheque arrived, I had been living on pasties. I am not complaining, but the life of a serious artist is not easy. No, it’s not easy.’

And it has obviously not been easy for him, that’s for sure. But she saw, even in her short time in the theatre, that most actors and directors thrive on the ups and downs and the many false hopes and the occasional successes. It’s a sort of addiction, the high of an unexpected job instantly banishing the low of unemployment. The steady and the predictable are a kind of hell for actors.

She and Artair walk through the library to the morning room. In his presence she sees this house, this huge house where no children have lived for years, for what it is, a mausoleum. Artair must be asking himself how one woman can live here alone, surrounded by wonderful paintings and cosseted by servants. Even now, as they pass the French windows, she can hear a lawnmower at work outside. She suddenly thinks it makes a noise like the flamingos on Lake Natron. Her mind is prone to odd leaps at the moment, brought on by isolation. So strange that she should think of Kenya at this moment: she was there on her honeymoon with Harry. They slept in a huge safari tent under storm lanterns and their guide tried to kiss her when Harry went on a bird walk. The vanity of young men. There was always something about her that made men think it was fine to try it on: she’s not the kind of girl who will take offence, they thought.

‘Fleur, this house is astonishing.’

‘I’m moving out soon. The family trust owns it. You never quite know what belongs to the family.’

‘Aren’t you family?’