I had no idea what to say. ‘I, well, I—’

‘Of course she does, Ellie.’ Max grinned at me again. ‘She’s a teenage girl. That’s how they speak to their mothers. You wouldn’t want a wallflower for a daughter, now would you?’

Eleanor stared at Max over the rim of her glass. ‘And you’d know all about teenage girls, wouldn’t you?’

There was a jagged edge to Eleanor’s comment and I watched Max’s eyes narrow with anger for the briefest of moments.

Eleanor turned to address me. ‘Tamsyn, do forgive me.’ She stood, stumbling as she did, then steadying herself on the table. ‘I’ve a headache. Max was right about wine in the sunshine. I need to go indoors.’

Max and I watched her retreat back to the house. Without Eleanor or Edie an awkwardness crept over us and I wondered if I should also excuse myself and try to find Edie. I glanced at Max and forced a smile.

‘I’m sure Edith will be back soon.’ He reached across the table to the bowl. His fingers lightly traced the fruit and then settled on a large red apple. He placed it on a small plate to the side of him, then took the knife he’d used for his steak and ran it through the folds of his serviette, leaving a greasy brown mark on the white. He carefully sliced the apple into quarters, then held each piece in turn, made two cuts to remove a triangle of core, and one lengthways to divide each piece in two.

He placed his knife down and held the plate out towards me.

‘Have some,’ he said. ‘They’re delicious. Bought from the farm shop yesterday. Sweetest apples I’ve ever tasted.’

I hesitated but he nodded so I reached for a slice and bit into it.

Max looked at me expectantly. ‘Well?’

He was right. The apple was the sweetest and juiciest I’d ever tried. I smiled at him and took another.

‘What’s your book about?’ I asked as I broke the second slice of apple in two and put half in my mouth.

‘I never talk about my novels until they’re finished. I’m convinced that if I do, I won’t ever finish them. Superstitious nonsense, I know.’

‘You must really like writing.’

This made him laugh though I had no idea why. ‘Hemingway said there’s nothing to writing, all you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed. It’s an obsession. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t do it. But then again, I know I’m lucky to earn so much money doing something I love and not have to tread the hamster wheel for peanuts in an office somewhere. Plus,’ he said, taking another piece of apple and gesturing at me with it, ‘writers have fictional worlds to escape to, which I’m certain stops us all going completely batty.’

I knew exactly what he meant.

‘Here’s a pearl of wisdom for you. In life always remember you’re the author of your own story.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t let life be something that happens to you. Write it yourself.’