And in this fashion the game and the morning compose themselves. Julian’s anxiety subsides into contentment; he forgets Fleur and the power of attorney and the £400m. sent into the ether, and tries to concentrate on hitting right through the ball, which is the secret of tennis. One of them, anyway. All around there’s an urgent sense of promise, brought on by the sunshine and the rich scents of the gardens. In the distance he sees Esmé Purkiss, carrying her trowel and trug, head bent low, on a mission.

Later Kimberly and the children bring out some pecan cake and elderflower cordial: Kimberly lays these things on a Moroccan cloth, and they all sit on the grass. If you saw them sitting there, Sam swinging Julian’s racket, which dwarfs him, trying to hit a passing bumblebee (it is in no danger), you would think what an idyllic little scene this was. And it is. It’s shot through with Englishness, which has nothing much to do with reality. Although, of course, reality depends on where you are standing. Esmé Purkiss in the distance is English, one hundred per cent.

Sam misses the bumblebee and hits his own knee. He starts to cry but then he realises that there is no one to blame, and he stifles the second sob. Kimberly laughs and he comes to Julian for comfort. He sees, through Sam’s hair, Kimberly talking animatedly to Freddie. She is a little too insistent; she’s taken to England, but she is forever the homecoming queen, perky and upbeat, as pretty girls often are, right into old age.

‘OK, let’s play,’ says Julian. ‘Bye, ankle-biters, bye, Kim.’

‘Bye, Daddy.’

After the second set he walks around the garden with Nigel.

‘Nige, could you get Eric to find out something about an ex-professional rugby player called Morné? He played in England and he’s South African, apparently, and is a personal trainer, probably at Fleur’s gym.’

‘Why do you need to know?’

‘My brother heard a rumour that he’s after her money.’

‘OK.’

They pass two small children hanging upside down like bats on the climbing frame, and speaking French.

‘Nige, I am not going to stay on when we sell. I’m going to propose you as chairman.’

‘Let’s talk about that. I don’t think you should decide here and now.’

They walk back towards the courts through the whispering, fluttering, pulsing garden.

The family has always loved gardens. His grandfather gave Chisenbury Down to the National Trust in 1946. His great-great-grandfather built a grand house there and planted thousands of broad-leafed trees and dammed streams and designed temples and grottoes. The works almost bankrupted the business. Now, as he sips an elderflower cordial, Julian thinks maybe he will make some improvements to the garden of the villa when he’s got more time.