‘Artair, you must. It seems Harry’s grant was stopped after he became ill. No one knew about it or what it was, and from what I have been able to gather, it was never even set up properly. I’m trying to be a bit more responsible, so you will have to promise not to talk about it to anyone. I don’t want the publicity and nobody in the family wants this mentioned again. I will have to ask you to sign something, but it’s for the best. You can have the money as soon as you want it and all you have to do is tell me where to send it.’

Artair is still wearing his small hat. He takes it off in a reflex gesture of gratitude. The space between his two parallel side-panels of hair is like a parterre, very precisely delineated.

‘I can’t take it, Fleur.’

‘Artair, my darling, the family has everything, beauty, luxury, ease, but no one speaks secretly to their souls. Artair, take the money, take this money and do something wonderful with it.’

She’s overwrought by Artair’s grandeur and innocence and she can’t bear the idea that he won’t take her money.

‘Please, Artair.’

‘On one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That you become the patron of my company.’

‘Does that mean I get free seats?’

‘And free pasties. A choice of cheese and onion or meat and potato. And maybe one day you will act for me again.’

‘I don’t think so. OK, as I’m officially your patron, can I ask you to sign some papers? We’ll do it over coffee and madeleines in the library.’

She can’t tell him that Amanda put the tabs in the legal folder herself and that Amanda reminded her firmly, twice, that he must sign all three copies of the deed.

Artair looks up from signing. His mouth is whitened with icing sugar.

‘Do you miss Harry?’

‘I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t be afraid. You were made to fall in love. And remember, you’re one of us again. Don’t worry.’

And she takes some comfort from this, absurd though it is to accept comfort from Artair, who now imagines himself in Dombey and Son, despite the fact that he is wielding her Mont Blanc rather than a quill. She suspects he would like blotting paper and a wax seal.

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The editor and J.D. plotted in a small bedroom of the Francis Drake Lodge. It had stained carpets: the physical and spiritual detritus of loneliness and furtive sex and cigarettes and fatal takeaway meals had left their mark on this dog kennel. The two elderly men were planning the downfall of the House of Tubal.