Edie had no idea how many of Eleanor’s continuous accusations were true – if, indeed, any – but what she did know was that as her mother aged, her insecurities and jealousies and irrational explosions grew more and more intense. Her father only had to look at another woman for the raging ire which hovered beneath her surface to ignite.

The internal door to the study flew open and her mother burst into the living room. Eleanor walked over to the sideboard and bent to open the doors. When she stood she was holding a full bottle. Brown liquid. She slammed the cupboard door shut then caught sight of Edie watching her from the table on the terrace. They held each other’s stare for a moment before Eleanor turned on her heel and marched up the stairs.

Edie got up and went into the house, pausing at the door to her father’s study. He was sitting at his desk, an expansive glass table that held nothing but the vintage typewriter he’d picked up at a literary auction for a vast sum of money. He was staring at the piece of white paper protruding from the typewriter, oblivious to her presence, his lips moving silently. A moment later he swore and yanked the sheet from the roller, screwed it up and balled it aggressively, before throwing it into the corner of the room where it missed the wastepaper basket.

Edie walked across the room and bent to pick it up and deposit it in the bin.

‘Edith, I didn’t see you there.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry if you had to listen to that.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m used to it.’

Edie approached his desk. There was copy of Tatler lying open on the society page, a double-page spread with a collage of photographs of famous faces taken at prestigious events. She picked it up and scanned the pictures until she found the one which had set her mother off. It didn’t take long. It was a photograph of him within a small group of people. He was smiling at the camera, shirt open at the neck, his jacket sporting a flamboyant silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. He stood with his hand around the waist of a girl in a red jumpsuit and vertiginous white heels who could easily have been a model. She was gazing up at him, her perfect teeth exposed as she laughed at whatever he’d just said. The caption beneath read: New York Times bestseller Max Davenport and unnamed brunette at celebrity Knightsbridge haunt San Lorenzo for post-awards dinner for winner Kingsley Amis.

‘She works with my editor.’ He concentrated on winding another sheet of paper into his typewriter. ‘It was a party. I don’t even recall her name.’