‘I’ll tell Leni.’

‘Yes, do. Much, much wiser.’ She had started towards the steps. ‘Tea, in fifteen minutes.’

That was what you might call a little piece of ‘invented’ life to help get one through the real. The real life is so terribly arranged. So callous and brutal. Leni should have been here to see how well I did it. On the other hand, perhaps not. She pulled herself discreetly up the steps, one hand on the iron rail, the other in the pocket of her skirt. Halfway up she stopped and looked back. He was watching.

‘This boring old Albertine. All dead. One blossom left. So untidy. Coming up?’

He raised the book above his head. ‘Four pages to finish. I might as well.’

‘I’d finish them if I were you. You never know. There might be a surprise at the end. Who can tell?’ She turned and walked away down the lawn, tried to whistle, but her lips were dry.

For a moment he sat with the book balanced on his knees. I know how it ends. No point in going on, I know: she made a super effort, but I know. Lied, all the way. Lies. I could tell. Could tell. No light in her eyes, no light. Dark, dark, dark. What she was telling me, is that after tonight I shall never see her again.

On the terrace the Laurent Perrier chilled in its bucket, the frog-fountain bubbled, a tumble of white roses spilled falling petals silently among the nuts and olives.

‘God! I’m mad for it all. Every tiny thing. Each place you look you find something simply exquisite. It is the MOST divine house.’

Bea Huntlee followed Cuckoo to the chairs by the fountain. ‘If you only knew how magical it is to see just one lovely thing; after months and months of burgundy axminster, quilted vinyl bars, Lowry reproductions, and acres and acres of stripped pine you’d know how I feel this evening,’ she said.

‘Where are these enormities to be found?’ said Cuckoo, sitting in one of the cane chairs and indicating that Bea should join her, for she had taken an instant liking to the tall, weary woman at her side.

‘In practically all my clients’ pads,’ said Bea. ‘Some want a bit more “glit”, or glass, but by and large it’s beige for the beigeous. Or Burgundy. God!’

‘You must know more about bad taste,’ said Cuckoo, ‘than anyone else.’

‘My stock in trade,’ said Bea. ‘That’s how I make my loot. Kitsch and glit.’

Archie had opened the wine, filling the glasses with care. Marcus took two, carried them to the end of the terrace for Cuckoo and Bea and Archie gave one to Desmond.

‘I hope it’s cold enough? Do hate warm champagne.’ He raised his glass. ‘Your health.’

Desmond sipped his wine, looked about the terrace with content. ‘All very pleasant. You’ve been a very lucky fellow,’ he said to Marcus. ‘I’d say this was paradise, frankly. It’ll be a wrench to leave, won’t it?’