‘Perhaps, but it’s not your sort of thing.’

‘You shouldn’t presume that you will always know what is my sort of thing. And if Mary Richards is the daughter of Lord Atterton, then she must be some kind of cousin.’

‘Granddaughter,’ says Jomier.

‘A cousin, then, two or three times removed.’

Jomier is aware that the egalitarianism that is bundled with Judith’s liberal beliefs has not done away with a measure of self-identification with England’s upper class. She concedes that her views are not those of the Richards’ but feels that there will be a deeper affinity because of the Atterton connection. Jomier pays the bill; he waves away Judith’s offer to split it, but it is clear that this gesture of mini-munificence is not sufficient to change her worsening mood. Judith is starting to think that Jomier does not want to introduce her to the Richards; that he will somehow be embarrassed by her despite her bona fide credentials as a cousin of Mary albeit two or three times removed. Is it her looks? Her age? Her views on capital punishment or global warming? Jomier knows that these thoughts are passing through her head but dare not nip them in the bud by admitting the true reason behind his reluctance to introduce Judith to the Richards – viz. that, if he becomes half of a couple rather than a single man, Mary Richards will cross him off her list.

They return to Judith’s house in Wandsworth. They make love but their hearts are not in it. A mental estrangement detaches them from the action of their bodies. Judith is thinking that Jomier’s reluctance to introduce her to his grand friends the Richards means that at some level he is ashamed of her. Jomier is thinking that Judith may not only destabilise his finances but will also deny him any independence. They nuzzle and kiss before turning out the light but both are acting; they fall asleep thinking treasonous thoughts.

The thoughts persist at breakfast – for Judith muesli and herbal tea, for Jomier coffee, a poached egg on wholemeal toast and Waitrose honey-roast ham. They unpack the Observer. Jomier reads the news, Judith a feature on binge-drinking by young women. ‘What am I to do about Ophelia?’

Jomier looks up. He does not want to think about Ophelia: he wants to return to what he is reading about the impending recession. ‘There’s probably not that much you can do. What’s done is done.’

‘What do you mean – what’s done is done?’

‘You can’t un-divorce. You can’t reconstitute a happy home.’

‘You think it’s that? My fault, in fact . . .’

Jomier shrugs. ‘Not your fault as such but it seems likely that the divorce is the cause; the attempt to anaesthetise her unhappiness with alcohol the effect.’

‘But you divorced and your children aren’t alcoholics.’