I very nearly rang her back later and suggested I come anyway and bring Sergei with me, which would show everybody … Well, I’m not sure what it would show, or to whom, but it seemed like quite a good idea until I remembered just how Sergei behaved at private dinner parties, when he actually deigned to grace them with his presence, and also that he and Linny seemed to have rather taken against each other lately, so I had to give up on this idea.

Pity. I looked absolutely stunning in that Titania blue beaded outfit.

The first morning of the Shrimphaven Annual Festival of Culture weekend dawned bright, breezy, and smelling of rotting fishing nets: a typical day, in fact.

Sergei arrived at my cottage early and dressed in beautiful suiting, looking suave and a bit exotic, what with his designer shades and glistening blue-black hair ruffled by the brisk breeze.

I’d been on the lookout for him, but all I’d seen was an early tourist with binoculars dodging about the harbour, probably looking for birds, as they do, though the only birds that hang around Shrimphaven are dreadfully common seagulls and they will find you at the rustle of a paper bag – there’s no need to look for them.

I heard the car door slam and was in time to watch Sergei leap from the car into the cottage in three long, elastic strides, whereupon he immediately insisted I shut all the windows, although I told him he would have to face the ozone at some point, since he would be standing outside the town hall opening the festival in less than an hour.

‘Outside?’ he said, shivering, adding pathetically that he hoped it wouldn’t be the death of him, and hadn’t I assured him it would all take place under cover? Then he bent and picked up something white from behind the door, though I wasn’t expecting any post since the postman only delivered on days when the wind was from the north-east and magpies were flying backwards, and from the sound of it we would all soon be paying for stamps to not have our post delivered at all except to some pick-up point miles away, and perhaps we should all start training carrier pigeons.

Sergei seemed to be engrossed by it, whatever it was.

‘Is that another flyer?’ I asked without much interest. ‘All I seem to get these days are leaflets telling me about hearing aids and Avon catalogues, but you can have it, whatever it is.’

To my surprise he looked up at me all slitty-eyed with suspicion. ‘No, it is a letter from an admirer called Neville, saying he is here – hot, ready and waiting!’ he snarled.

‘Neville?’ I exclaimed, startled and annoyed. ‘For goodness’ sake! And he’s not an admirer, Sergei.’

‘No?’ Sergei said, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at me like a jack-in-the-box about to explode into action.