'Furniture,' said Dicky. The lounge is stacked to the ceiling with antique furniture. They'll strip the paint off it and polish it up and sell it for a fortune.'

'Not antique furniture,' said Daphne. 'Bernard already regards us as philistines. I don't want him to think I'm a complete barbarian, ruining antiques. It's second-hand odds and ends, kitchen chairs and tables and so on. No use going round the little shops in Camden Town looking for it. Liz and I go into the country banging on doors. It's rather fun. You meet the oddest people. Apparently you just dip the furniture into caustic soda and the paint falls off. We're starting that next week when I've got some gloves to protect my hands.'

'I tried it once,' I said. 'It was a wooden fireplace. It fell to pieces. It was only fifty years of paintwork that was holding it together.'

'Oh, don't say that, Bernard,' said Daphne. She laughed. 'You're discouraging me.' She poured more wine for me. She didn't seem at all discouraged.

'Take no notice of Bernard,' said Dicky. 'He can't fix an electric plug without fusing all the lights.'

'We won't be selling the furniture as perfect,' said Daphne.

'It's what all the newly weds are looking for,' said Dicky. 'At least it's one of the things.' He gave his wife a wink and an affectionate hug. 'And it looks good. I mean that. It looks very good. Once the girls get decent premises they'll make a fortune, you mark my words. They were going to call the shop "The Strip Joint" but now we hear someone is using that already.'

'You're not very tanned, Dicky,' she said, looking closely at his face. 'Considering where you've been. I thought you'd come back much more tanned than that. Neither is Bernard,' she added, glancing at me.

'We've been working, old thing, not sunning. Right, Bernard?' He picked up the cork from the wine Daphne had served me and sniffed at it.

'Right, Dicky.'

'And I saw Henry Tiptree, darling. You remember Henry. He was at Balliol with me.'

'The one who left the BBC because they were all poofs?'

'No, darling; Henry. Tall, thin, reddish hair. Looks a bit of a twit. His cousin is a duke. Henry's the one who always used to bring you those huge boxes of Belgian handmade chocolates, remember?'

'No,' said Daphne.

'And you always took the chocolates to your mother. Then Henry was posted off somewhere and you made me buy them for her. Belgian chocolates. They cost me a fortune.'

'Yes, and then when we got married you told her the shop didn't sell them any more and you got her Black Magic instead.'

'Well, they cost an absolute fortune,' said Dicky. 'Anyway Henry is in Mexico now and let us borrow his car. And I managed to get a trip to Los Angeles and I got you everything on your list except the pillowcases from Robinson's. They didn't have the exact colour of the sample you gave me. They were more purple than mauve, so I didn't buy them.'

'You are sweet, darling,' said Daphne. 'He is so sweet,' she told me.

'I know,' I said.

'And I got a dozen of those masks the Mexicans make out of old tin cans, and I got six silver-plated bracelets in the market. So that's the Christmas-present list taken care of.'

'I ordered a whole salmon for Thursday,' said Daphne. 'But I can't think of an extra girl for Bernard.'

'I should have told you,' said Dicky, turning to me. 'You're invited for dinner Thursday. Are you free?'

'I imagine I am,' I said. Thanks.'

'And don't worry about an extra girl for him,' said Dicky. 'He's having it away with one of the girls in the office.' There was a note of bitterness in Dicky's voice. Daphne detected it too. She looked at him sharply; for Dicky's affections had wandered lately and Daphne had discovered it. She drained her wineglass.

'How nice,' Daphne said icily, pouring herself another drink. 'What's her name, Bernard?'

'Her name is Gloria,' said Dicky before I replied.

'Is that the one you wanted as your secretary?' said Daphne. She stood with the bottle in her hand, waiting for the reply.

'No, no, no,' said Dicky. 'It was Bret who wanted to foist her on to me but I wasn't having her.' Having tried to appease Daphne, he turned to me and said, 'No offence to you, old man. I'm sure she's a very nice girl.'

'That's perfect,' said Daphne. She poured me some more wine. 'It will be nice to meet her. I remember Dicky saying she was a wonderful typist.' I could tell that Daphne was far from convinced of Dicky's innocence.

'She'll come to dinner, your friend Gloria?' Dicky asked, watching me carefully.

'Gloria? Oh, of course she will,' I said. 'She'll go anywhere for a free meal.'

'That's not very gallant of you, Bernard,' said Daphne.

'We'll be here,' I heard myself saying. I don't know why I say such things, except that Dicky always brings out the worst in me. I hardly knew Gloria. I'd only spoken to her twice, and then it was only to tell her to hurry up with my typing.

It was good to be back in London again. First I opened the shutters in every room and let in the afternoon sunlight. I just couldn't get used to going home to a dark, silent house. It seemed such a short time ago that it was echoing with the sound of the children, nanny and Fiona my wife.

For lunch I made myself a cup of tea and balanced the contents of a tin of sardines on two very stale wholemeal biscuits. It was hot and airless in the top-floor room I used as a study. I opened the window and let in the sounds of London on a Sunday afternoon. I could hear the distant cries of children playing in the street, and the recorded carillon of an ice-cream pedlar. I phoned the office and told them I was home. The duty clerk sounded tired and bored but I resisted his attempt to engage me in conversation about the climate of Mexico at this time of year.

While eating my sardines I opened the stack of mail. Apart from bills for gas, electricity and wine, most of the mail was coloured advertising brochures; head waiters leered at credit cards, famous chefs offered a 'library' of cookbooks, pigskin wallets came free with magazine subscriptions, and there was a chance to hear all the Beethoven symphonies as I'd never heard them before. On my desk-pad the Portuguese cleaning lady – Mrs Dias – had pencilled a list of people who'd phoned during her daily visits. Her handwriting was rather uncertain, but I recognized no one there I felt like phoning except for my mother. I called her and chatted. I had a word with the children too. They seemed happy enough but I could hear the nanny prompting them from time to time.

'Did you like it in Mexico?' said Sally.

'It was very hot,' I said.

'Grandma said you'd take us to the seaside when you got back.'

'Is that where you want to go?'

'You've been away a long time, Daddy.'

'I'll take you to the seaside.'

'When?'

'As soon as I can.'

'Billy said you'd say that.'

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm a rotten father.'

'Are we coming home?'

'Yes, very soon.'

It was only after I'd showered and changed my clothes that I noticed the cream-coloured envelope propped in front of the clock. Mrs Dias would naturally think of the clock as the place to which the human eye most readily returned.

Phone me home or office as soon as you return. Many matters to discuss. David.

It had been delivered by hand. The envelope bore a bright-red 'Urgent' sticker and the message was written in ink on a heavy handmade paper that matched the envelope. I recognized the stationery even without the engraved address and the artistic picture of the house that adorned it. The prospect of a discussion with my father-in-law, Mr David Timothy Kimber-Hutchinson, philanthropist, philosopher, tycoon and Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, was not my idea of a welcome home. But I couldn't think of any excuse for avoiding it so I phoned him and agreed to drive down to him without delay.