At her best, Fleur didn’t sparkle until after midday. As a teenager, she had been asked to leave more than one finishing school for simply refusing to get out of bed. Waking this morning with a tingling coursing through her meridians brought to mind the bearded Dutchman who had all too briefly warmed her life. He would probe her gently before sun-up so that she would wake on the threshold of orgasm. A pity there weren’t more like him. What was his name?

Mister Owl removed the long needles and began massaging her foot. He’s making a meal of it today, she thought, her mind segueing from the memorable Dutchman; perhaps the maid’s been talking. Then she recalled why she had booked the squat Oriental so early. She had two appointments, both in the Harley Street area: the dentist for her bi-monthly clean-up, and a colonic irrigation. She was due at the dentist at 10.30. Fleur’s vanity had won out, and she was bent on overcoming her fear of the occasion, albeit with a little Chinese help. Mister Owl had progressed up her calf and was now pummelling away at her knee.

What is the man doing? she thought, reaching for her robe and sliding from under the sheet.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said tetchily. “See Vanella on the way out. Still thirty pounds, is it?”

He mumbled an unintelligible reply. Amazing how these people don’t bother to learn English, she thought; she knew for a fact that he had arrived from Hong Kong over ten years ago. As she proceeded to the bathroom she found her progress impeded by two short golden arms around her midriff, and turning her head, found Mister Owl’s face buried in her shoulder.

“I huv you,” she thought he said.

For a moment she felt like she was being subjected to some extreme form of shiatsu, but when he continued to grapple with the cord of her robe, repeating, “I huv you, I huv you,” she realised his intentions weren’t solely therapeutic.

“Pull yourself together,” she said sternly. “And go and collect your money from the maid or I shan’t pay you at all.”

The thought of forfeiting a fee struck fear into the heart of Mister Owl. He immediately released her, hastily pulled his black judo shoes on over his white socks, and departed to see Vanella. The Madagasque maid handed him three clean ten-pound notes—like the Queen, Fleur withdrew only new notes from the bank—and went to linger in the doorway, smiling. Glancing once more at Fleur, he turned and left.

“Your bath is ready, Madam—would you like coffee now?”

“I’ll take it while I bathe, thank you, Vanella.”

She dropped the silk skin where she stood and proceeded naked to the adjoining bathroom, where she sprinkled extra lilac oil into the water to help regain her composure. Stepping into the bath she called: “Have you been gossiping with Mister Owl, Vanella?”

Vanella was in the bedroom. She had not yet started stripping the bed—Fleur liked clean sheets every day; linen in summer, cotton in winter—but was holding Fleur’s discarded robe against herself, admiring her reflection in her mistress’s floor-to-ceiling wall of peach mirror.