‘Come on then, Jago,’ she called as she walked away from them. ‘Let’s put you to work.’

‘Did you smell her?’ Jago whispered. ‘Jesus. She must have had a skinful last night.’

‘Shush.’ Angie’s eyes widened and she swallowed a laugh as she batted him on the arm. ‘She’ll hear.’

‘Hear what?’ The voice came from behind them.

Angie’s heart stopped and she looked around to see Max Davenport standing in the doorway through to the kitchen.

‘Nothing. Sorry.’ She glanced at her son who didn’t seem remotely worried about the possibility of having been overheard. ‘Jago, love.’ She grabbed the packet of sandpaper from the sideboard and thrust it out towards him. ‘Go out and join Mrs Davenport.’

Angie smiled briefly at Max Davenport and eased past him into the kitchen then hurried through to the utility room. She bent down, trying to work out the likelihood of Max Davenport having heard them, and opened the cleaning cupboard. She reached in for the bag she kept at the back and the plastic box of cleaning products, willing Max Davenport to walk away.

‘We haven’t been formally introduced. You must be Angie.’ She turned and looked up to see him approaching her with his hand outstretched. ‘Max Davenport. I understand you’re the angel who swoops in and makes our house gleam before we arrive each weekend.’

She stood and reached into the bag for her indoor slippers, which she placed on the worktop.

‘I’m not sure about being an angel, but, yes, I’m the one that cleans your house, Mr Davenport.’

‘Max.’

Angie unzipped her pixie boots, grey suede with a pointed toe and a small heel, then slipped them off and put them in her bag.

He smiled and his eyes wandered over her. It didn’t bother her; she was used to it. Yes, she had two children who were nearly grown-up, but she kept herself looking nice. And, anyway, men were men, weren’t they? It wasn’t hard to get their attention. Wanted or otherwise.

‘Mrs Davenport says you’re down here to finish a book?’ She got her Marigolds out and laid them on top of the cleaning box. She kept them hidden in the bag with her slippers as she hated the idea of wearing rubber gloves other people had used, even though she was sure Eleanor Davenport had never worn a pair in her life.

‘Yes. But I’ve been desperate to spend a decent amount of time here since we bought the place. It’s tiring driving back and forth in a weekend and I never feel like I really get to enjoy it. You live in a beautiful part of the world, Angie. The sea air is spectacular.’

He smiled at her. It was a smile Angie could tell he’d used a thousand times before on a thousand different women. Angie knew men. This one might have a posh voice and creases ironed into the front of his jeans but he was no different to any of the others.