Cuckoo swept leaves, stalks and scattered blossoms into a box at her feet. ‘I’d call it love, frankly,’ she said.

By eleven o’clock the apparent confusion and hysteria of the Flamingo Croquet Game gave way to calm, serenity, order. On the terrace a long table draped in crisp white cloth, sparkling with glass and silver, dishes and salvers awaiting the delights and delicacies which Cuckoo had taken such care to plan. It was garlanded all about with trails of fern and starred with sprays of white roses. Around the lawns and under the trees little round tables beneath plain canvas umbrellas. Down at the pool the great bronze figure of Mars gazed sightlessly across the splendid bar under a cool awning, and waiters moved silently about adjusting a plate here, a bowl of lilies there, polishing a glass, folding a napkin, elegant in blue and cream with a large ‘C’ on their shirts, ‘So that they won’t be mistaken for guests; people do get so dreadfully confused drinking in the sun, you see …’ She took up two slender flutes of champagne, offered one to Leni, and raised her own towards her.

‘You look absolutely delicious. Edible!’

‘Thank you. I feel lovely. I only had my kimono …’

‘We used to call that a camisole, I believe. Awful name. It was my mother’s. She was tiny like you, adored broderie Anglaise … and that red silk round your waist makes it so “chic”. You’ve tied such a pretty bow-thing.’

‘And my airplane slide?’

‘Divine … don’t lose it.’

‘I’ve fixed it tightly. And Marcus looks lovely too, don’t you think?’

‘Does he think so? He didn’t mind, did he? I simply couldn’t resist them.’

‘Jolly glad you didn’t.’ He was at the top of the steps, came slowly down towards them in tight yellow dungarees with bib and braces, a white T-shirt under.

‘Enter the Banana King. Do I turn you on?’

‘You didn’t mind? I mean, if you hate them do say. Change.’

‘Mad about them, and me in them. Look all right? You haven’t said yet?’

‘Scrumptious! Have a glass of champagne, for courage. This is the worst part, just before it all begins. Everything’s ready, calm, waiting; like a stage before the curtain goes up, you know? Will it work? Will it be a flop, a success, a non-starter? One never knows. I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. Oh! Will it be a happy day? A success? Better than last time? One simply can’t tell, one just prays. Most of all I want you both to love it; my pretties. And you are.’

Marcus raised his glass. ‘It’s nearly noon. Good luck, and thank you, from us.’