“All right,” Artemio shrugs.

Kate, whose cherry-red mouth has quite unconsciously pursed as soon as Gillem mentioned slipping off on some private errand when his son’s only just arrived home from school, now looks almost stricken when she guesses what he’s up to.

“Have a good time, boys,” she says. “Don’t be too long.”

On their way home, Gillem takes Artemio for hot chocolate at one of those Italian-style chain cafés next to the tube station. They sit down at high stools in the window—stools again!—looking out at people hurrying home from work. June, but a raw gray day that could easily pass for late autumn. Artemio is chattering about a Blake Edwards film he has just seen for the twentieth time, in which Peter Sellers, playing a comically clumsy and obtuse Indian actor, is accidentally invited to a Hollywood mogul’s party.

“Darling,” Gillem interjects gently, taking his son by the hand.

But Artemio continues, undeterred. “So then he starts talking to the parrot, because none of these, like, celebrities want to talk to him,” he pursues, “and he’s like, Pretty Polly, Pretty Polly, and the parrot has this food called birdie num num, so Peter Sellers is, like, going around to all the guests, saying—” Here Artemio tries to assume an Indian accent, mid hysterical giggles, “‘Nice parrot eat birdie num num!’ and the Hollywood producer’s, like—”

Gillem looks at his watch. “My darling, hold on a moment,” he persists. “I need to talk to you.”

Artemio halts, annoyed.

“There’s a girl who’s coming to stay with us from France,” Gillem says. “A big girl—sort of, well, Tarquin’s age. She’s your half sister.”

Artemio’s glance swings up at his father, panicked, then veers away, unreadable. “My what? What’s a half sister? Which half?” he inquires, facetiously.

“You know, like Rufus and Camilla. They have the same father, but not the same mother. I had a child before I married Mumma.”

“You—were—married—to—someone—else?” Artemio screws up his face in comic disbelief—a gesture he’s copied from somewhere—perhaps an actor in a television series, or another child at school.

“We weren’t married. It was a … it was a sort of summer romance. Years before I’d ever met your mother. In France. Where Granny used to rent a house. This woman and I went out together. And she had a baby.” He’s not quite sure how much Artemio knows about sex. “The girl grew up with her mother. She’s fifteen now. I’ve never met her. Her name is Celia. And she’s coming to see us here in London.”

“What for?”

“Because she’d like to meet us all. And I’d like to meet her. I’ve invited her.”

Artemio is momentarily silent. “She’s French?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s she to you?”