They find a meter on Ladbroke Square, park the Golf and walk to an estate agent on Kensington Park Road. They look through the window at the display of houses posted for sale – photographs of elegant terrace houses with ‘details’ beneath. The prices are stupendous. They are expressed in millions with a simple decimal point. £2.3 million. £3.75 million. Each decimal point is one hundred thousand pounds. No need to spell it out as ‘three million, seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling’ or even show the zeros: £3,750,000.

‘Ridiculous,’ says Judith.

‘Absurd,’ says Jomier.

Both realise that, even if they were able to sell their present houses for £1 million apiece, they would then only be able to afford the meanest of dwellings in Notting Hill. Jomier thinks of his former home on Blenheim Crescent. £3 million? £4 million? And the house Tilly shares with Max on Phillimore Gardens? £8 million? £10 million?

Perhaps they should look in North Kensington? Jomier makes the suggestion. Judith accepts it. Jomier further suggests leaving the car where it is and taking a 52 bus from outside the Pentecostal church opposite the estate agent: but Judith has seen from the corner of her eye the human stream that has erupted like volcanic lava from the Notting Hill Gate Tube station and is pouring down Pembridge Road. ‘Let’s go by the Portobello Road,’ she suggests. Jomier agrees – relieved that a note of gaiety has come back into her voice.

The lava moves slowly. It is composed largely of Continental Europeans – French, Germans, Italians – shopping for bric-a-brac in the Portobello Market, Britain’s marché aux puces. Judith too, it seems, is on the lookout for a bric-a-brac bargain. She pushes through a loden-green wall formed by the backs of German tourists to look at . . . God knows what. Jomier remains behind the wall, waiting patiently while Judith looks, fingers, questions, considers, rejects. They move on. Progress is slow. Somewhere, on one of the many stalls, is something that Judith covets – or would covet if she knew it was there. A silver sugar bowl, perhaps, or an amethyst brooch. Jomier masters his exasperation. Are they looking for houses or trinkets? He recalls the ornamented surfaces in the drawing room of Judith’s house in Wandsworth and compares them in his mind’s eye with the clear clean shelves of his house in Hammersmith. Cosy clutter versus anal minimalism. In their shared dwelling in North Kensington, which will prevail?

Judith buys a bowl. It has an oriental look. She shows it to Jomier.

‘What is it for?’

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Yes, it’s lovely.’

‘I might give it to Tim.’

‘Wouldn’t that be coals to Newcastle?’

‘You’re right. I’ll keep it.’

‘And use it for what?’

‘Dried rose petals.’

‘They gather dust.’

She takes his arm and squeezes it. ‘You’re so philistine.’