‘It’s not always about profit, Olivia. Sometimes art should exist for art’s sake, don’t you think?’

Olivia had decided not to share that particular conversation with Edgar, in case he was able to take any of it in. She could too easily imagine his reaction to Rory describing jigsaw puzzles as ‘art’. But she told Edgar everything else that was happening with his sons.

She visited him most days, for two hours at a time. His nursing home was the most expensive in Edinburgh, but it meant he received first-class care. She couldn’t have settled for less. Fortunately, Deirdre – in charge of paying the bills – seemed to agree.

At each visit, Olivia would sit in the comfortable chair beside his bed and smooth down the quilt she had chosen herself for the room she had helped decorate, knowing he would never notice it. She would hold his hand and try to convince herself she was feeling an answering squeeze. Sometimes he was conscious and she would pretend he was looking at her. That his now faraway, faded-blue eyes could still actually see her.

Even though he couldn’t respond, she read out all their business reports and occupancy updates. As she rubbed cream into Edgar’s hands – he sometimes seemed to like it, sometimes pushed her hands away – she would share any funny stories with him, especially tales of difficult or unusual guests. There were always plenty of those. Part of her role was to respond to any online praise or criticism of the Montgomery. There was no way of knowing if he understood even a word she said or read to him, but she found it calming. Saying everything out loud had helped her many times to make decisions or reach some clarity on issues, be they business problems or tensions with his sons.

She recalled something now that he’d said about Alex, years earlier. ‘He’s a maverick and we need to keep our eyes on him. But I believe there’s more good than bad in him.’ Olivia hoped he was right. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions about Lawrence’s urgent meeting today.

She heard footsteps in the hall outside. It was five minutes to eleven. Lawrence was always punctual. There was a loud knock at the door. It flung open before she had a chance to respond. A woman in her mid-forties walked in, stopped in front of her desk and crossed her arms.

‘I quit, Olivia.’

‘Susan, please —’

‘I mean it. Don’t try to talk me out of it again. Life’s too short to spend time with that monster.’

‘Susan, I know —’

‘No, you don’t. Yes, you told me it might be difficult at times. Yes, you told me she might be a hard taskmaster. What you omitted to tell me is that she’d be the most bad-tempered, vicious, selfish woman I’d ever have the misfortune to work for, be it temporarily or not.’

‘Please don’t make a rash decision. I know she’s been having a few bad days.’