Angie ran the cloth beneath the tap, squeezing out the water which ran cloudy with cream cleaner, then turned. She jumped with shock when she found Max Davenport was watching her from the doorway.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I keep doing that, don’t I? I don’t mean to sneak up on you, I promise.’ He smiled at her.

Angie glanced over his shoulder and up the stairs.‘Mr Davenport—’

‘Max, please. You sound like my bloody accountant when you call me Mr Davenport.’

‘Sorry. Max. I think…’ She hesitated. ‘Mrs Davenport – Eleanor – she might be a bit upset? She’s upstairs and I’m not sure, but I think she might be crying. I wondered if I should check on her but I didn’t want to step out of line.’

Max walked past her and opened the fridge without registering any reaction. He took out a bottle of wine. The label was classy looking with a fine gold border, scalloped corners, and foreign writing on it in fancy curling letters. He took a corkscrew from the drawer and proceeded to remove the cork, which pulled free with a soft popping sound.

‘Would you like a glass?’

She hesitated, confused and wrong-footed by the question. Had he not registered her concerns about his wife? And an offer of wine? It wasn’t even midday.

She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I shouldn’t when I’m working.’

He laughed. ‘Yes, sorry. Of course, it’s only writers who can legitimately drink whilst on the payroll.’

He leant past her to retrieve a glass from the cupboard. Had she imagined his hand brushing hers? He poured the wine then set the bottle down. Angie watched a dribble of wine run down the glass and pool on the worktop.