In the distance she sees Harry approaching, hat jauntily in place, with Antoine some way behind carrying the tray. Out on the bay, just past the Eden Roc, a slim speedboat, which the French call a cigare, slices up the blue-white surface of the sea, leaving a record of its passing, a cicatrice on the water for many minutes. It’s a mystery. Some moments after the boat has disappeared around the rocky point which marks the end of the villa’s five acres of garden, the horrible clattering roar of the overpowered engine makes land.

Harry sits down and hands her his stick. He looks out to sea happily as Antoine lays out some fruit, expertly sliced, a pot of coffee and some pastries.

‘Pwidge,’ says Harry.

‘Porridge,’ Estelle explains.

Antoine goes off to prepare the large oats they order specially for him from Nice.

‘Julian’s on his way, Sir Harry.’

‘Julian?’

‘Yes, he’s coming.’

‘Julian?’

‘Yes, Julian. He has some business to discuss with you.’

‘Sailing?’

‘No, I don’t think he’s got time. He wants your advice. He relies on you.’

‘Nice boy. Jolly nice boy.’

It comes out as, ‘Nighboyjuhuhuhullynighboy.’

But she knows.

He doesn’t ask after Fleur. He hasn’t spoken her name for weeks. She has phoned to postpone her visit again and now hopes to come at Easter with a few friends who will stay in the guest cottage down by the boathouse. Harry watches the doves, moving about in a stately pigeon gavotte. Gradually they return to the trees and resume their gentle but insistent love songs. Estelle brushes crumbs from Harry’s mouth, which she thinks is unusually pink. She isn’t sure if this is a good sign. His consultant is coming down from Queen’s Square in just over a week to carry out some tests.

Antoine arrives with the porridge. Harry likes warm milk with porridge and she feels the jug to be sure. She pours the milk on to the jumbo oats. Harry shows no interest. He’s gazing, rapt, out to sea. She looks to see if anyone is watching and then she feeds him. Without taking his eyes off the sea he eats the porridge, opening his mouth like a fledgling when he’s ready for more. From the direction of Port de la Salis a flotilla of small dinghies appears. It’s the first time this season that she has seen the sailing school out. Harry points. It’s as if he was expecting them.

‘Dinghies,’ she says.

‘Ding-hees,’ he repeats, his voice very thin and distorted, like a war-time radio broadcast.