‘Morning,’ she said, as she came down.

She didn’t notice how guilty he looked, or the slamming of the computer. She wasn’t the kind of girl to notice. She was not suspicious of him.

‘You slept ages,’ he said. ‘That’s good. Feel better?’

They had some breakfast then Dan cut the grass and Bea read a book. Stopping, to clear wet, stuck-on grass from the blunt blades, he looked at her while she was reading, unaware of him. She was on her stomach with her knees bent, and her feet crossed at the ankle. The camisole top she had on was not a new one, he couldn’t remember when it had been new. One stringy strap had fallen from her shoulder, he could see the side of her breast, full, squashed against her arm. The skirt was almost white, but had been pink, a sort of cotton gathered mid-length thing she wore every summer. She had another like it, he thought. At least one. Her feet were bare. Her hair had a scruffed-up tangled part at the back, where she hadn’t bothered brushing it. She had not put on her bra. He thought of her mother’s studied chic, the skinny cropped jeans and shirts and simple skirts, which didn’t need visible labels to advertise their pedigree. Dan didn’t think Liv probably wore the same thing more than five times. Bea’s clothes were like family to her, she was nonsensically loyal to them. Everything Liv wore screamed money. Every look she gave or word she spoke, every silence, said Look at me. Bea’s clothes said as little as was possible to say. Her walk, and manner, the way she spoke, all of it, modestly, quietly assembled, apparently diffident, shouted from the rooftops that she did not care. They were flip sides of the same coin, Liv and Bea, they were both disingenuous. And Bea did care. He knew she did. She looked up.

‘Why haven’t we heard anything?’ she asked. ‘Have you checked your phone?’

‘Yes, nothing. Try not to think about it.’

‘Why were you staring at me?’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Dan. ‘I was just thinking you look gorgeous.’

She shrugged him off as if it made her grumpy to be told it, like she always did at compliments, and went back to her book.

She earned all right in her job. She could have bought some new things. He started up the mower. He felt ashamed. He hadn’t meant to think that. The dirty engine spat and roared. It wasn’t loud enough to block the image of the oil-painting grounds of the Chateau L’Orée from his mind, or the feeling he’d had, standing with Griff on the terrace, like he owned it, or the headlines – millionaire, billionaire, mogul, playboy – it was only stubbornness, and phoney, that made Bea wear old clothes.