‘Where is he?’ Suze is tapping at her phone. ‘Honestly, this bloody Golden Peace …’ She shoots me an accusing look, which is totally unfair. ‘I told him to get back in good time,’ she mutters as she presses Send. ‘He totally loses track of time. What’s he doing?’

I know Suze thinks Tarkie attends Golden Peace far too much. But she’s just prejudiced. The truth is, Tarkie is having a brilliant time hanging out with his volleyball gang, being one of the guys. No one pesters him about listed gables or investments in South Africa. Nor do they keep trying to pitch him movie ideas, because that kind of thing is totally banned at Golden Peace. I think it’s the first place he’s ever been where he’s just him. Tarkie. The person.

From outside comes the sound of car doors slamming. A moment later I hear the front door opening and closing, followed by footsteps in the hall. There we go. I knew Tarkie would turn up.

‘You see? He’s here.’ I grab my Lara Bohinc clutch bag and the diamanté one. ‘Let’s have a titchy while he gets ready.’

Suze is stepping into her teetering high heels, which make her look even taller and more willowy than usual. Her blonde hair, piled high in snaky curls, gives her yet more height, and she basically looks amazing: all golden suntanned limbs and fake lashes and imperious frown. No one can frown like Suze. She’s really quite scary, especially when she’s towering above you in her Louboutins. She gets it from her mother, who is equally formidable. Apparently she can trace her ancestry back to Boudicca. (Or do I mean Boadicea? The fierce fighty woman, anyway.)

Now Suze grabs her clutch (Tory Burch, snakeskin, on sale at Bloomingdale’s) and strides out of the room, calling, ‘Tarkie! Where have you been? We have to go!’

I hurry after her along the galleried landing, and stop dead at the same time as she does. Tarkie is in the hall below, but he’s not alone. He’s with Bryce, who is looking as tanned and crinkly-eyed as ever. They’re both in baggy surfer shorts and bandanas, and Tarkie is holding a Frisbee. I’ve seen Tarkie holding many weird things in my time – a First World War gun, an antique stuffed owl, an ancient scythe – but somehow seeing him with a Frisbee makes me want to burst into giggles.

As I glance at Suze, I can tell she isn’t thrilled.

‘Hello, Bryce,’ she says, overly pleasant, walking down the stairs. ‘How lovely to see you again. Please don’t let us keep you. Tarkie, you’d better get changed.’

Ouch. Suze’s clipped, polite tones are like little shards of glass landing, one by one. Her smile is icy, and the atmosphere is distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Darling, I’d rather not come tonight, if you don’t mind,’ says Tarkie, apparently oblivious. ‘Bryce’s organized an evening hike with some of the chaps. Sounds rather fun.’

‘But, darling, we’re going to the Actors’ Society Awards. Remember? We arranged it?’ Suze’s voice is so flinty that even Tarkie seems to realize something’s up.