‘Yes and no. Mostly, I’m just the bit of fluff the old boy took a fancy to. And we never had children, so I don’t quite qualify.’

‘Did you want children?’

‘Harry didn’t. He persuaded me that I didn’t. Now I think I regret it. Come, here we are, Cornish lobster, followed by chocolate pudding with tinned cream. And madeleines with the coffee. Do you get the theme?’

‘I’m overcome, Fleur. You always were such a kind girl.’

Luis, his face as adamantine as a picador’s waiting for the bull to enter, serves them. Artair’s table manners were never good, but now they are explosive. He ignores the silverware and picks up a large piece of lobster tail, dips it into the lustrous mayonnaise and pushes it into his mouth, where his ancient, world-weary teeth cut surprisingly cleanly through it.

‘Artair, tell me all about your project. It sounds so exciting.’

He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his T-shirt, where his rather skinny old arms poke through. His torso is massive as though the pasty diet has reached his chest to the neglect of his arms and legs. Waving a lobster claw, he describes the challenge of demonstrating that art is an illusion, that truth, as Kierkegaard said (he pronounces the philosopher as Kierkegourd with many glottal acrobatics), is never at one moment complete.

And he explains his master plan: using Flann O’Brien’s appearance at the first Bloomsday as a framework, he will make a film which will challenge all the conventions of art and society. He’s tearing at the lobster now, biting through the shell on the legs – she can see why his teeth are worn – bits of shell fly on to the floor, mayonnaise glistens on his lips and further afield; his eyes are wild with the beauty of art, the prospect of transcendence. He catches his fingers in the lobster tweezers.

‘Ow, fuck. Fleur darling, this house reminds me of a poem by Baudelaire. It’s called ‘L’invitation au Voyage’. It recalls a place in the south and a house.

‘There everything is order and beauty

Luxe, calme et volupté

Furniture gleaming

Burnished by the years

We would grace our bedroom

With the most exotic of flowers . . .’

‘I forget the next few lines, it goes on, oh yes . . .

‘The oriental splendour,

All of it would speak

To the soul, secretly

In its gentle, native tongue

There, everything is order and beauty

Luxe, calme et volupté.’

He looks around.

‘“Luxe, calme et volupté”. I took the stony road, but I could grow used to this. The poem rhymes in French, by the way.’

Fleur is weeping. She seems to be doing a lot of that these days. Artair stands clumsily and then kneels beside her and holds both her hands.

‘I’m sorry. Maybe it was too much.’