She sat at one end of the sofa and tucked her feet up, pulling her T-shirt over her knees. He sat at the other end, in his jeans, but no shirt, his legs pulled up too, facing her, as he embarked on his bloodless revolution. He began with her father and Arun, and the offer of the company, the ownership of Paligny.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said.

‘It’s not a confession, Bea.’

‘But why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I needed to think. And you’ve got enough on your mind. I didn’t want to get into it.’

‘Think about what?’ she asked.

‘Just wait. Give me a chance.’

The things he needed to say were pushed out by everything he mustn’t, three years of laws she’d laid down for him, without saying a word. Never mention her money. Never even acknowledge its existence. Riches hung above their heads like a golden sky he had to pretend not to see. She waited, her eyes steadily on his.

‘Go on,’ she prompted.

He couldn’t think straight. ‘He only offered, because he wants to help.’

She was studying him. He could see her thinking.

‘Bea, basically, he loves you. He might be doing it for tax reasons or whatever, but he loves you.’

‘It’s not love, it’s money.’

‘So what’s wrong with money?’

‘Not money. His money. He gets it from turning London into a shopfront.’

‘There’s no such thing as dirty money or clean money.’

‘No, fine then, it’s all dirty, but my mother lives off his, and that makes it untouchable.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Yes. We’ve talked about this.’

‘Not really, babe.’

‘Dan, it’s so late, I’m –’

‘You talked about it, and you never told me how much he had. I mean, you haven’t been exactly straight with me. You made a decision about our future, about our security, without ever really discussing it.’

‘There’s nothing to discuss.’

‘Why not? He makes his money selling luxury flats as futures trading. It’s not people trafficking.’

‘Money he made in the sixties, keeping the Windrush generation in his slums –’

‘Yeah, don’t lecture me about my history –’

‘It’s my history, too.’

‘I’m not talking about that –’ he said.

She wasn’t listening. ‘He hardly pays tax! He has no scruples!’

‘Shut up!’ he shouted.

Now she was quiet, but her hollow-eyed silence was worse judgement than her lecturing.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.’

‘I don’t want his help,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I don’t want his little offshore company, or anything of his. I’m happy how we are. I love who we are. What’s wrong with it?’

‘You’ve got your career,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a vocation. It’s all right for you.’

‘We came away, didn’t we?’

‘So it’s my fault now?’