It was commonly accepted that Philip’s hair turned white after the injury. Iris found the effect somewhat dazzling, next to his dark eyes and surreal face. They’d met at a party like this one, about a month or so after she and Sasha moved here from Turkey. Sasha had become incapably drunk and Philip had driven them home in his Morris Eight, and it was only later that Iris discovered what a sacrifice this was, because of petrol rationing. She wrote him a thank-you note, and they went out to dinner the following week, Iris with Sasha and Philip with some woman they never saw again. Sasha told her that Philip’s wife had left him right after the war, had simply taken the children and moved to Canada, and was now dragging the divorce interminably through the courts because of Philip’s money. Iris spent weeks calling him Mr. Boh-shahm in her best French accent before he took her aside and confessed that his surname was actually pronounced Beecham, English style, and their mutual embarrassment was so severe that they agreed she should simply call him Philip, and just like that, they became the best of friends.

Which explained why the smile they shared now was one of mutual relief, because the flinty blond woman had finally left them alone.

“Has this aunt of yours arrived yet?” he asked her.

“Not until next week. She’s setting herself up in the Dorchester for a week to show the girls the sights, Tower of London and Buckingham Palace and everything, and then we head down to Dorset, thank God.”

He made a little bow. “Delighted to be of service.”

“Honestly, we’re awfully grateful for the cottage. I’m so desperate for some country air, I could scream.”

“Will your husband be staying long?”

“The first week, and then only on weekends. He says it’s a good time to catch up on work, when everyone’s off in August.”

“Digby’s got a reputation for hard work.”

“It’s very nice for his employers. Less so for his boys and his poor neglected wife.”

“Ah, how are the boys? Relieved to be out of school at last?”

“They are absolute terrors at the moment. The woman in the downstairs flat came up this morning and very politely requested that they stop running up and down the corridor, because her chandelier was shaking dangerously. I’m at my wit’s end without a garden.”

“It’s jolly criminal, this business of stuffing young families into these beastly so-called mansion flats. You’ll recall I did recommend you find a nice detached house down in Surrey or even Kent.”

“You’ll recall I did my best to convince Sasha to take your advice.”

They exchanged a look of understanding.

Iris drank her champagne and continued. “Anyway, all will be forgiven in August, if the three of us can survive that long. Will we see much of you?”