Silvi Asselin – she was born Silvi Kareva in Estonia – has a squint, not unattractive. She comes from a small town west of Tartu, but speaks of it little. Her father was a Stalinist who killed himself when the Communists lost power. Her narrow green eyes give the impression of being always slightly trained on the road out of town, to the world beyond Lake Võrtsjärv and its broken-down carriages, the stained brick, the three-legged cat; possibly beyond Oxford, even.

Having caught her husband, Silvi stands on permanent vigil against anyone who might resemble herself. Those careless enough to treat Silvi as a mere conduit to Gilles are not invited to their impressive house in Ward Road, with its malachite bathrooms, butler called Brian, large modern paintings hung next to smaller old masters. (‘Sometimes upside down,’ bitched one football dad.) Here, Silvi is chief executive, not Gilles.

Silvi likes Dyer because he listens, and because the small-town Estonian girl in her responds to the notion of playing patroness and matchmaker to impoverished single artists.

Dyer likes Silvi because she likes his son, and because there is something generous in her that has nothing to do with her husband’s wealth.

Shapely in her expensive grey latex, like the smooth rubber handle on a hammer, Silvi flashes Dyer a smile. Long white face, short hair, reddish, as the breast of a robin, she looks at him in the way of a woman who needs to be played, not approached head on.

‘Has his mother been in touch recently?’ she asks.

‘Hardly at all.’

Angry to justify herself, Nissa had cast Dyer as the Devil: ‘He’s addicted to everyone’s stories but mine. He’s nicer to people on buses than he is to my family. He’s a cold Englishman. He’s a … he’s a … é um narcisista maligno.’

‘Where’s Leandro going to go after the Phoenix?’ Gilles meanwhile was wanting to know.

‘It’s still up in the air.’

‘Eton, he should go to Eton,’ decided Gilles. ‘Or Wellington. They do the IB programme. Where were you?’

Dyer told him.

‘That’s a good school. Why doesn’t he go there?’

‘He might,’ said Dyer, reluctant to admit that a fee-paying school was unlikely. Not saying, I can only just about cover the Phoenix’s astronomical fees.

Brushing past Dyer, a curly-haired brown dog lunged after a flock of pigeons that had landed on the grass, and was shouted back.

The whistle for the second half reverted their attention to the game.

Silvi touched his arm before she moved off. ‘See you tonight. You’re coming to dinner, remember? There’s a woman I want you to meet …’

Dyer was about to reply when a male voice stopped him: ‘How’s that boy of yours? Still winning every race?’

Chapter Seven