‘Let’s have a show of hands,’ Cath says, after a good while of all this, ‘as we are all due in the Village Hall in less than ten minutes. I’m in,’ she announces, in a louder voice, an elegant arm arching towards a beam. I can’t help checking whether there are any darker marks on her cream silk shirt from Anne Fontaine, but no. She hasn’t even broken sweat. ‘I hereby swear I will bust my booty for the Honeyborne Collective,’ says Cath, placing her hand on her heart in an affecting, one-nation-under-God gesture of allegiance to the country of her residence, but not her birth. ‘Who else is in?’

A forest of hands. Cath pinks with pride.

‘Terrific,’ she says. ‘Good job, you guys! I am so proud to be part of this community.’ She looks around. ‘Oh yes,’ she adds, as if in afterthought. ‘I’ve persuaded Granville to do the books.’

A ragged cheer arises, as Granville – who hates personal publicity and was furious to appear on the Sunday Times Rich List – is, according to the Daily Telegraph’s business section, Britain’s third most successful hedge fund manager. To my mind, this rather answered the question about whether he could afford to be a psychotherapist or not, although when I asked him, he just laughed in a newly knowing way and said, ‘The question is, could I afford not to be a psychotherapist, mmm, Rose?’

Everyone leaves the pub for the village hall charged with optimism and alcohol. Sir Michael is singing, there’ll always be a post office, while there’s a country lane, wherever there’s a cottage small, beside a field of grain, and only the Hitchens are – to my mind – looking a tiny bit glum.

Later on, same evening.

Granville Cobb, Sir Michael Hutton and Ned Bryanston are back in the Farmers’ Bar sitting round a small table that has one leg shorter than the others and threatens to spill drinks into laps at the slightest touch. I am waiting at the bar for Pierre to join me (he couldn’t come to any of the meetings, he was too busy in his studio, but he said he could have a drink with me and take me home in time for me to make supper). I am pretending to read the Mail but am watching the three men closely – after all, Ned came in for a terrific beating, and I am in shock, too.

Ned has already knocked back one large whisky.

‘Another?’ says Sir Michael.

‘Yes please,’ Ned answers, in a chastened voice. ‘Thanks awfully, Michael.’

Sir Michael notices me at the bar. ‘Rose – why don’t you come and join us?’ he suggests, dragging a fourth chair to the rickety table. Ned puts his head in his hands.

I don’t know where to look, either, and sit down as bidden.