‘Rupert has always been in awe of his father,’ said Clarissa, including him at last.

‘So was I,’ said Charlie, irritated at her posturing.

Silence frested around the table and Charlie tried to think of something to say. Then he thought, sod it. If they wanted to behave like spoiled kids, it was all right with him. The pheasant had been just as he liked it, not too high, and the ubiquitous Robert was always at his elbow with the decanter. He’d have a better class of hangover tomorrow.

‘Have you finished your business?’ demanded Clarissa.

‘Yes,’ said Willoughby.

‘So you don’t expect the rigmarole of port and cigars?’

Willoughby looked inquiringly at Charlie, who’d never been to a dinner where women withdrew. ‘Whatever you prefer,’ he said.

‘I prefer you to come with me,’ she said.

Charlie walked with her into the drawing room. The curtains were undrawn and there was just sufficient light to show up the silhouette of the trees. As soon as they entered, Willoughby said, ‘Damn, there isn’t any brandy.’

‘Call Robert,’ said Clarissa.

‘He’s downstairs: quicker if I get it myself.’

Clarissa turned as her husband left the room. ‘Hello Charlie Muffin,’ she said.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s nice to see you again.’

He fell another stir, the feeling he’d known earlier. ‘And vou,’ he said.

‘Why didn’t you call?’

‘I didn’t think it was a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’ Charlie looked towards the large doorway through which Willoughby had gone. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you two?’

‘Just normal.’

‘That’s not normal.’

She made an uncaring gesture. ‘Your number’s not in the book. I looked.’