‘I think perhaps. But we are still conspirators, remember, you’ll never, never say, will you, about not slipping? It would be so dreadfully hurtful to everyone.’

‘Absolutely.’

She got to her feet, tucked up the cuffs of her shirt. ‘Now then: after that dire confession, of which I am thoroughly ashamed, I must go and get on with things. I do rather long to meet Uncle Desmond tonight, we must turn him loose in Archie’s Museum place, mustn’t we? All those bits and pieces; he’ll be fascinated. You’ve got an early start in the morning?’

‘Car’s coming at seven. I’ve packed nearly everything. Leni wants me out of the room when she gets back. I don’t know why. This dotty hair business or whatever.’

‘Well, look here: I suggest this.’ She had moved to the edge of the pool and stood looking up to the top of the steps, shielding her eyes. ‘I’ll stay abed in the morning. Far too early for me and I’m like Minna: I simply loathe farewells. So we’ll just go off as we usually do, at the end of every evening, don’t you agree? I mean, do admit, “Goodnight” is far less final than “Goodbye”.’

‘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.’