Standing nearby, Dan watched Bea spin the stool. The little girl tipped her head back. Will played some more chords and sequences, and then sang ‘The Man Who Sold the World’, from start to finish, perfectly.

‘We didn’t know it was David Bowie’s song,’ he said, as the kitchen clapped. ‘We thought it was Kurt Cobain.’

Liv came from the terrace to the threshold of the garden door, commanding attention.

‘Oh, Will! That was gorgeous. Thank you so much. We’re going to have the tables in the garden, if the weather holds. Would you rather play on the terrace, or shall we put the stage at the end?’

‘Hey, whatever suits you, Liv,’ said Will.

She sat next to him, and touched the neck of his guitar. ‘Isn’t it lovely? Could you bear to show me a chord? Do you mind?’

‘No, sure,’ he said. ‘Here, like this.’

When the caterers and decorators came and started to lay the dust sheets to protect the floors, Will left. Griff withdrew to his study, and Bea to her room. Dan stayed downstairs, at the island unit with a cup of tea and a croissant, watching Liv and the party planner talking to the workmen in the garden. Blessica had put a slice of butter on a saucer in case he wanted it, and a glass dish of honey. Now she was wiping inside a cupboard. Dan wondered if her apparent adoration for the family was genuine, or if it was like a salaried form of Stockolm syndrome; her own family were in the Philippines. His phone buzzed with a text from Bea.

Come up?

She was summoning him. She was ready to talk. Blessica wouldn’t let him clear his plate, she took it from him, and thanked him like he was doing her a favour. He went upstairs.

‘So … shall we sort this out?’ said Bea, when he came into the bedroom. She was on the floor, with her back against the bed.

‘You want to?’ said Dan.

She nodded. He sat down beside her on the floor.

‘OK,’ she said.

‘OK?’ His forearms rested on his knees, his hands were clasped, his head bowed, waiting.

‘This thing,’ she said, then stalled.

‘What thing?’

‘The money.’

‘Yes.’ His heart beat fast, quickening at the mention of it, along with a kick of shame.

‘We have to control it,’ she said. ‘We have to be distant enough from it. It’s very important.’

‘OK.’

‘We have to decide what we want, and stick to it.’

‘Sure.’

‘The rest can be put into a trust, and not accessible.’

He felt the thrill, the danger of the taboo. Her trust, her fortune, in all this talk of death, like treasure in a fairy tale.

‘I don’t want to suddenly find I’m sharing stuff with Ed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Like this house. Deciding whether to sell, what to do with it and all the other places.’