Mistaking her contempt for admiration, Cordelia laughed and said, “As I spend an enormous amount of time in this place, I took a great deal of time and trouble to furnish it. I indulged myself completely. Do you really like it?”

Lindsay looked around her again in amazement. “To be honest, I don’t think I’d ever feel at home in these surroundings, Cordelia. You could buy my whole flat in Glasgow with what you’ve spent on this one room.”

“But what’s wrong with being comfortable, for God’s sake?”

“There’s comfort and there’s comfort. I feel comfortable in my flat with its tatty chairs that don’t match and the threadbare carpet in the spare room. Put it down to my Scottish puritanism or my politics, but I find it a bit over the top.”

“I’m sorry if you find it oppressive—I’ll just have to reeducate you to appreciate it,” Cordelia replied acidly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude, I was just being honest. I get outraged about anyone spending so much money on a place to live. Though I suppose if I had the money I’d lash out a bit myself.”

“But your flat’s lovely. All the rooms are so airy. Now take my study. It has practically no light at all; even in summer I have to have the desk lamp on most of the day. My mother keeps telling me it’ll make me go blind. I tell her she’s getting muddled and my eyesight is in no danger.” They laughed. “Fancy a drink? I could do with one, and you must be exhausted after all that driving. There’s whisky, sherry, gin, vodka, you name it . . .”

Lindsay settled for wine and together they went through to the kitchen. Cordelia said, “We’ll have something to eat. The freezer’s full of food. I have a binge every three months—I cook like mad, fill the freezer, and live out of it.”

The conspicuous consumerism of the kitchen took Lindsay’s breath away. The units were oak, and the worktops bristled with gadgetry. “I love kitchen machines,” said Cordelia as she tossed the chosen lasagna-for-two into the microwave.

“I never realized writing was so lucrative,” said Lindsay wryly, picturing her own kitchen whose sum total of gadgetry was a blender, a coffee grinder, and a cooker, and whose decor consisted of theatre posters begged from friends.

“Well, to be fair, it’s not all the proceeds of my sweated labor. My grandmother died three years ago and left me rather a large legacy. That went on the deposit for this place. Most of the rest of the money has come from telly, radio, and the film I scripted last year. Crazy, isn’t it? The novels are what I really care about, but they wouldn’t allow me to live in a bedsit in Hackney, let alone here.”