‘Of course she’s running herself into the ground with sledge hammers,’ he said mildly. ‘What you may not know is that she is a fantastic cook, can scrub a floor with the best of them, change a tyre, and drive like a feller. We had a fantastic trip down,’ he said, turning to Marcus, ‘fantastic. She did the first leg, I did the second, and so on. Avignon last night for dinner, not bad. Nice today for lunch.’

Bea chose a thin cigar from a box and lit it. ‘And the car was but loaded. I was certain the springs would go on the Abbeville-Paris bit, the pavé. Crammed with tinsel junk for a client of mine who had built herself a perfectly ghastly palazzo near Mougins; wrought-iron, plate glass, and wheelbarrows full of petunias. Know the kind? I’ve brought down a stack of amazing kitsch she wanted; frilly glass and terracotta shepherdesses. That’s why we’re here. Des thought it would be fun.’

‘I said, dump it all in the car, cheaper than Pickfords, drive it down ourselves, couple of days on the Coast, some good grub, good wine, pick up the children and get back.’ Desmond finished his vodka, picked out the lemon ring and ate it.

‘The children,’ said Marcus. ‘That’s us, I gather?’

‘That’s you,’ said Desmond with a grin. ‘And it’s about time you got back to work, don’t you think? Three weeks in the flesh pots, I gather from your cards.’

‘Yes,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s time.’

‘Finished my drink,’ Desmond, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s go to the bar, Marcus, a couple of things I’d like to talk about before dinner. You’ll forgive us?’ he said to Bea and Leni. ‘Not confidential, just boring. I’ll send you replenishments?’ But they declined, and he led Marcus into the high-domed lobby.

‘Overpowering?’ said Marcus.

‘Not really.’ Desmond straightened his tie, shot his cuffs. ‘Known her for aeons, though you must have met? She said not anyway. I’ve done a lot of work with her firm. She’s got extraordinary taste and imagination, but not in her choice of gentlemen. Alone now; the Palmer part of the business hopped it with the till one day. She’s making a small fortune buying hopeless houses in Battersea and Kentish Town, painting everything white and trailing something green over them. I mean, that’s what she says. It’s tougher than that. She’s got a weird clientele. Racing drivers, film stars, Arabs, TV personalities, whatever they may be, and Pop Singers with sauna baths on Kingston Hill..’

‘Married?’ said Marcus.

‘Was. Came unstuck. He shacked up with the best man. Embarrassing. But she bears no grudge. Said the best man was the prettiest of the pair anyway. Great girl.’

They turned into the bar.

‘Serious?’ asked Marcus. ‘I mean you?’