Minerva, her head bound up in a white silk turban, her long body draped in flowing chiffon, arms folded lightly across her chest, hands to shoulders, elbows tight to slender waist, a vague smile of content on her lips. A caryatid in drenching moonlight. She stood for some moments perfectly still, looking up the gentle slope of silvered lawns towards the lights of the house. Somewhere in the pines above her a nightingale; laughter from the distant pool, fireflies drifting, spiralling; in the house, light in Archie’s window, the terrace shadowy as a church, sparkling with votive candles, the high bay-window of the drawing-room thrusting into the darkness, a crescent of amber.

She tapped the soft grass beneath her foot, feeling its resistance and solidity, and throwing her arms wide, as if to embrace all that lay before her, she walked slowly and deliberately towards the terrace steps, retrieved her bag from a body-indented chair, her empty glass from a table where she had left it more than half an hour before, and went into the drawing-room.

Pools of shaded light, gleam of polished wood, silver, glass, massed spikes of white delphiniums, the John portrait above the fireplace, the Sickerts, Magrittes, the Bonnard lilac glowing as if incandescent, from hidden lights. In a far corner, sitting at a bonheur du jour, pencil to her lips, Cuckoo with a thick book, her free hand idly twisting pearls at her throat.

‘It’s all to die! It’s too much … all too much!’

Cuckoo turned in startled surprise, eyes wide. ‘To die? My dear; what? What is?’

Minerva waved her empty glass vaguely above her head. ‘The whole bit: this room, the house, the gardens, the moonlight … the peace, the calm of it all. If you knew what calm means to me after three weeks on that bloody bateau … nothing moves any more, nothing lurches.’

Cuckoo closed her book, marking the place with a slip of card.

‘You gave me the most awful shock. I was utterly lost in Larousse … something quite delicious for tomorrow. Lunch. Does this monstrous creature eat anything? Or is he what Nanny used to call “choosy” about his food?’

‘Well … not anything. He has fastidious tastes in all directions, as I told you. No battery hens or veal … because of the hormones.’

‘We don’t have battery hens. Archie’s terrified too. And Bruna. I think in the end we’ll just have a sort of picnic, pâté, cheese, crudités. Larousse is worse than Mrs Beeton; at least she was bourgeoise, but Larousse hasn’t quite come to terms with the French Revolution. We’ll keep it simple for tomorrow, first “working day” after all.’

‘Well, for God’s sake don’t fuss … he’ll be happy with a salad. I’m going to have a night cap … you too?’

She poured herself a generous drink.