Well, in this letter, Jesse Marlon was begging me to reconsider my decision, and to come back and resume my morning activities at Spodden’s Hatch. Such bad luck that Pierre is provided with actual documentary evidence of my adultery after the event.

So Pierre finds this note, which my own daughter has considerately passed on for his perusal, and the rest… well, the rest is history repeating itself. I have to say that it was extremely unfortunate that Jesse Marlon in this missive referred to at least one practice that is banned – so Ceci tells me; the young are so judgemental – in several US states.

So it’s all been a complete nightmare. Ceci is lying in bed sobbing and texting Mirabel, and even Spike, their friendboy – we’re not allowed to use the word ‘boyfriend’, unlike all my sad single friends, who use it willy-nilly of their creaky pensioner consorts – has rushed round to sympathize. As I tiptoed past her bedroom I heard Ceci saying to Mirabel, loud and clear even though they were playing Lily Allen on the iPod speakers, that it was ‘way gross’, and that I was ‘well ancient’, and then I heard Mirabel say, yeah, I was almost as old as Liz Hurley, and I heard them all sigh. Then Spike said, ‘I’ve pretty much given up on grown-ups. Every single one I’ve ever met has either screwed my mum or someone else’s mother.’

‘They’re, like, totally skanky and sad,’ Ceci agreed.

When Ned called and asked whether it was convenient to come to Godminster this morning, I took particular care with my appearance, obviously so as not to underscore the two-decade age gap between me and their son (Lulu’s stepson – Lulu is much too young to be Jesse Marlon’s mother, as her Ugg boots and miniskirts signal very loudly). So I channelled Demi’n’Ashton, rather than mother and son, and wore an Agnès B vest underneath a denim playsuit (I wore the vest tight, the dungarees loose) with the legs cuffed up to mid-calf and Havaianas flip-flops.

When I parked on the gravel by the statue of Pan in the forecourt, the huge mahogany doors of the hall were open, so I wandered in. ‘Ned?’ I called.

Silence. I looked around at the family portraits, and a Beechey and a Gainsborough and a Ramsay all stared back at me, in a quizzical, seen-it-all way I found comforting. There was that smell of library and woodsmoke, overlaid by the sweet scent coming from a huge vase of lilies on the round table in the hall.

‘Rose?’ came Ned’s voice. ‘In the study.’