She would need another job soon, but her redundancy and savings would cover the next few months. She reached for her phone. The diary had always been crammed. Now there was only one entry. Her return flight in just under three weeks.

Olivia rang just as she’d finished a delicious room-service breakfast.

‘Please tell me you’re not out in the city applying for jobs?’ her godmother said.

‘I’m down in the kitchen. They’ve taken me on as a dishwasher.’

‘Don’t even joke about it.’

Olivia told her she had one more appointment and then had taken the afternoon off. They agreed to meet in the foyer at midday.

Eliza used the time to explore the Montgomery again. She walked down each hallway and into every public room, noticing the antique furniture, patterned wallpaper and sumptuous drapes. She admired the artwork, particularly. She appreciated it more now than she had as a teenager. The collection was so varied, delicate watercolours alongside darker oil paintings, portraits alongside landscapes. The artists were from all over the world, Scotland, Italy, France, Australia. Underneath each painting was a brief description of the artist, and then his or her technique and intent. All written by Olivia. Her godmother was so knowledgeable about art.

Eliza was making her way down the wide stairs to the foyer, stopping every few steps to look at the paintings hanging there too, when she heard her name being called. It was a man in his early thirties, wearing a suit. He had pale skin and strawberry-blond hair. He was smiling.

‘Eliza? You probably don’t remember me. I’m Rory. Welcome back to our humble abode.’

She instantly warmed to him as he asked about her flight, her jetlag. There was none of Alex’s practised charm. He still had the sweet shyness she remembered.

‘You’re taking the self-guided art tour? Any favourites yet?’

All of them, she said truthfully. He was so lucky to have grown up surrounded by such special art.

‘I know. Alas, none of it rubbed off. Neither Alex nor I have our father or Olivia’s knack for spotting good art. It must be true, talent skips a generation.’

At dinner, Olivia had told her about his jigsaw puzzles. She mentioned them. He smiled shyly again.

‘It’s not working for the Tate, but I love it. I spend half my time dressed like this’ – he gestured at his suit – ‘the rest covered in paint and sawdust. I can show you my workshop one day if you like?’

She’d love to see it, she told him.

They walked downstairs into the sitting room. The thick curtains were pulled back. An ornate church was visible in the distance. Rory was sharing its history when he was interrupted.

‘Don’t believe a word he says, Eliza. If Rory doesn’t know something, he makes it up.’

It was Alex, also in a suit, loosening his tie. ‘Early shift done. All yours, Rory. A party of twenty Americans checking in shortly. Good luck satisfying their every fuc—’