‘And all this, my dear, in the middle of the picnic with that idiot Reggie Courtney nodding and grinning and trying to get an introduction to the man, and waiters clattering about with trays of drinks. Simply awful. And then Bell-whatever very pleasantly said why didn’t we forget all about it since I was obviously unhappy about it all, which I thought most sensible and said so. He pointed out, very nicely indeed, that although my name on the Credits would have brought a great deal of distinction and veracity to the film, it was not absolutely essential, that they would go ahead anyhow, because everything was far too committed, and he was quite certain that I would approve of it very much when I finally saw it. And then, my dear, Grottorosso, obviously infuriated that I had won my case, started off on another attack about beauty being in the eye of the beholder and all that nonsense, and said that I was exactly like the infamous Metternich himself! Who had misconstrued Prokesch’s relationship in the same manner! He implied, in a very irritating way, that to read such an ugly innuendo into a lyrical, literate piece of work, suggested that one had an ugly mind oneself! Cuckoo! Really! I ask you. I was wild. He just sat there smiling that superior smile, looking sad and sympathetic as if he had heard that I’d just lost my hearing, shaking his head and tut-tutting all the time. I very nearly choked him!’

Cuckoo sat perfectly still, hands folded on her knees. ‘How loathsome for you. I’m terribly, terribly sorry … I had no idea.’

He ran a hand briskly over neatly parted hair. ‘Loathsome. And then a perfectly strange thing happened. The Bell-fellow was saying something about forgetting it all and putting it behind us, carrying no wounds, that sort of stuff, and that they really didn’t need my name or permission since there was no form of copyright, all that, just that it would have been such an honour and so on, when I noticed that Grottorosso was sitting bolt upright, staring over my shoulder. His eyes were quite strange, white with light, do you know what I mean? As if he’d seen the Second Coming or something … extraordinary. What he had seen, of course, was the boy.’

Cuckoo’s hand clenched lightly. ‘Marcus?’

‘Yes. Absolutely thunderstruck, of course. The resemblance. He turned to me and said in quite a different voice from the patronizing one he’d been using before, “Is that the pebble which your wife found on your beach?” I ask you!’

Cuckoo opened her hands, smoothed the nightdress over her knees, looked up at him. ‘And what precisely did that mean, pray?’