Rob knows she hardly ever drinks these days, not since the accident. Neither does he. It’s Bex he’s worried about. She can fill her boots.

‘Wild,’ Kate says, not very committed. ‘You know me.’

She’s trying to pluck up courage to ask him about the news item she saw in the night on France 24, his sudden ability to talk in French.

‘But is she with you now?’ he says. ‘In the house?’

‘She’s here, don’t worry.’

‘I should be there with you too. It’s just all these meetings…’

‘It’s fine, honestly.’

‘I’ll be back down soon, I promise.’

Rob is at his flat in Shoreditch. At least she assumes he is. He might be at the office. It’s the one drawback of not being able to see him. And he’s feeling so guilty today, it’s almost funny. A woman rang first thing to ask if Kate would be in all day. Said she had a flower delivery for her. Kate knows they’re from Rob. He’s done it before. When she first moved down here on her own, he sent her flowers two or three times a week. Since then it’s been more random, whenever guilt strikes. Last time no one rang in advance, though. A huge bunch of white lilies just appeared one morning, piled up against the front door like an overnight drift of snow.

‘How is it down there?’ he asks.

She looks through the vast windows at the beautiful scene outside. Fields rolling down towards a calm, cobalt sea; solitary Monterey pine trees punctuating the vivid skyline. Her Cornish idyll, though, has been tarnished by the sight and sound of Rob speaking fluent French on TV.

‘I saw you on the news last night,’ she says, not as casually as she’d hoped. ‘France 24. I didn’t know you’d been back to Brittany.’

She can’t bring herself to ask about his French. Not yet.

‘Flying visit last week,’ he says breezily. ‘Looks like we’re going ahead with the new office in Brest. I didn’t have to be there – should have sent someone in my place.’

Rob’s often singing Brittany’s praises, says it has so many similarities with Cornwall, its big beaches, rugged cliffs and coves. Their languages, Breton and Cornish, are closely related – mor means sea in both, for example. There’s even a region of Brittany called Cornouaille, popular with artists because of its unique peninsular light. It sounds so similar. He’s promised to take her one day, when she’s fully recovered. She can paint en plein air and feast on crêpes rather than pasties.

‘I could have come with you,’ she says, coyly, hoping to disguise her line of questioning as petty jealousy. ‘Kept an eye on you.’