‘Can’t believe how warm it still is,’ I said. ‘Will you close the sliding door when you come in?’ I turned to go and was almost at the door when he spoke again.

‘You probably think,’ he said abruptly, ‘that I was too harsh with Odette this evening, don’t you?’

I stopped, turning back to him. ‘I know how difficult it can be sometimes with small children.’

‘The bloody nanny lets her get away with anything. No discipline. Nothing. And she’s so bloody stubborn, just like her mother. Always has to get what she wants, never does what she’s told.’

‘It’s just a stage, all kids go through it.’

He grunted and took another swallow of brandy. ‘I bet you think I’m one of those blokes who can’t stand his wife to earn more than him.’

‘No,’ I said, not entirely truthfully.

‘Not like you and your other half.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, you’re like the perfect couple, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t know about that.’

He pointed a long finger at me. ‘That’s what Rowan says to me. “Why can’t you be more like Sean?” It’s her favourite line. And I say to her, “What, be more Irish?”’ He gave a mirthless, gravelly laugh.

‘Really?’

He poured another inch of brandy into his glass. ‘Oh yes, your husband is quite the role model, apparently.’ He held the bottle out to me. ‘You sure you won’t change your mind about that drink?’

Cognac was the last thing on my mind, but I wanted to keep him talking.

Why can’t you be more like Sean?

‘Go on then. A small one.’

I drank my water down in a swift gulp and handed him the empty glass, accepting it back a moment later with a hefty measure of the amber liquid in the bottom. At least a triple, I guessed. I perched on the edge of the chair next to him and we stared out into the darkness, the distant hills bathed in silvery moonlight. Somewhere below us, down in the village, a dog barked once then fell silent.

I sipped the cognac, the fiery liquid burning as it went down. It reminded me of teenage parties, raiding my parents’ booze cabinet and grimacing through shots of dessert liqueur and Greek ouzo and long-forgotten cherry brandy.

‘So,’ I said, ‘what do you think she means when she says she wants you to be more like Sean?’

‘God knows. Better with Odette. Better at home. Just . . . better.’

For one mad moment I thought about telling him what I knew. About the messages. To share this burden with someone, get another point of view. A neutral point of view. Russ was so drunk that he probably wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway, but I couldn’t take the risk. I had to keep this secret to myself, at least for now.