‘Thanks.’

There is something else I want from him. ‘So: your family worked for Blake’s?’

Instantly I sense it, the imperceptible stiffening. The pitch of his voice shifts to non-committal and elusive. ‘Yes.’

‘And you all grew up together?’

‘Mmnnn.’

I turn on my side and face him. ‘What was life like?’

He sighs. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Why wouldn’t I want to know about a world peopled by royalty, tycoons, celebrities, high society parties and fancy lives?’

He looks at me with a despairing expression. ‘You watch the Kardashians, don’t you?’

‘Of course. The best show on TV ever. Now, tell me about the Barringtons and don’t leave anything important out,’ I demand.

‘It was a jewel-encrusted cage,’ he says abruptly.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because it was. Marcus, Blake and Quinn lived in magnificent palaces stuffed with the furniture of Louis XV, the paneling of Bourbon kings, priceless paintings, Gobelin tapestries, and ate from Sèvres porcelain set on golden server plates stamped with the family crest. More than thirty people worked in the house as butler, head housekeeper, chef, footmen, maids, nurses, chauffeurs and at least another sixty were employed on the farm, stable and gardens.

‘The children ate sitting straight-backed, eyes ahead and mostly silent with footmen in livery and spotlessly white gloves standing behind their chairs. The food was of the highest quality and prepared by a renowned French chef. Thousands was spent on fish alone, but their menu never varied. Mondays was fish, Tuesday was fowl, Wednesday was meat, Thursday was back to fish and so forth. Everything was controlled, from when they awakened to when they went to bed, what they ate, how they dressed, what they did. Every hour had to be accounted for. It was a very strict upbringing.

‘All the Fabergé eggs, all the gilt and the gold did not make life less stiflingly immaculate or incessantly boring. The simple fact was their childhood was one of physical luxury combined with personal neglect. It was designed to make one emotionally ill, but unable to express the trauma as nobody would understand. Blake once told me his only friends were his horses.’

I stare at him with surprise. ‘Why? Did they have no friends then?’

‘Very few, and even those they met only occasionally. Eventually they understood they were different from everybody else. It is very difficult to trust anyone when you know that almost every person that befriends you is motivated by self-enrichment.’

I immediately think of that day when Lana told Blake her father wanted money, and there had been not even the least trace of surprise in him. In fact, he had expected it. Still, I wanted to hear about their parties.

‘Did they not have fantastic lawn parties full of beautifully dressed people then?’

‘Of course. The Barringtons, like all the other families, tried to outdo each other in the lavishness of their parties. I remember gardeners used to carry cherry trees around the dining table so guests could pick the fruit themselves.’

This is more like it. ‘Who were the guests?’

‘It was a heady mix of the rich and the rarefied, artist and royalty, beauty and brains, Indian maharajas and smarmy politicians. They came to sample every imaginable pleasure. It was an amazing sight, people dressed in all their jewels and grandest most opulent dresses streaming up the stairs from the ballroom. But what I remember most is how dark and gloomy it always was, after all the glamorous people were gone and the chandeliers had been switched off. It was a suffocating existence. A place to escape.’

Twenty-one

Thursday, after I leave Vann’s flat, turns out to be the most boring day of my life. From the moment my alarm jerks me from sleep I go through the entire day like a zombie and I am almost joyfully thankful when my head hits the pillow—the day is over. When I wake up on Friday it is with sheer excitement. I have so much adrenalin rushing in my veins I run to work, rush through my chores, leave work early, bathe, dress, and am out of my flat like a bat out of hell.

On the platform, I glance impatiently at the board showing that a train will arrive in four minutes. On the train my toe taps. Out of the Tube station, a girl beggar pleads for loose change. I hurriedly slip my hand into my front jeans pocket, grasp a few coins and, without looking at what I am giving away, drop them into the jacket she has spread on the ground in front of her.

When I arrive at the entrance to his building my hands shake as I look for the keys he gave me Thursday morning. I let myself into his flat, close the door, and stand for a moment at the threshold. The entire place is flooded with evening sun, and silent. There is not even Smith around. Then I hear a noise from upstairs. I look up. The door is shut. He is working. My instructions are simple. If you come in and I am working, don’t disturb. Never come upstairs.

Without Vann’s presence, the scrupulously clean flat is still and strange. I go into the living room and find a book and a note. The book is called Notes From the Bedchamber. I pick the note up.

It arrived. See you soon. x

I smile at the little kiss. I take the book, curl up on the big black leather sofa and open it. Soon I am giggling aloud. It is full of flowers descriptions and sex positions. A penis is a jade stalk, a pussy is described as a jade portal, jade chamber, red pearl, but the one that gets me really giggling is when it is referred to as a fragrant mouse.

I hear the upstairs door open and instead of looking up I carry on reading. Soon master and cat are standing next to me. I don’t look up. The sofa beside me shifts. A man’s hand comes into my vision. He starts unbuttoning my blouse.

‘Do you want to put your jade stalk into my fragrant mouse?’ I ask, barely able to keep the laughter out of my voice.

‘Desperately,’ he says and we both laugh.

‘Do you want to go out?’

I shake my head. The truth is, ever since I discovered sex, all I want to do is have sex all the time. Even right now with two buttons undone it feels like unfinished business.

‘OK, I’ll go get in the shower and you can start preparing some food.’

‘I can’t cook.’

His eyebrows rise. ‘Right. What do you plan to feed Jack when he comes home from work?’

I frown. I never thought about that. In my dreams we never did anything as mundane as cooking or eating.

‘I’ll have my shower and we’ll cook something together. It’s time you learned.’

I smile. ‘Good thinking, Batman.’

He nods, pushes himself off the sofa and leaves in the direction of the bedroom. Smith fixes his eyes on me and yawns from the sofa opposite. I button my blouse and turn my eyes back to reading about mounting turtles, mating cicadas and jumping monkeys.

We cook chicken with rice. The rice is a boil in the bag variety so that will be really easy for me to replicate, but the chicken is another matter. It is some kind of Moroccan recipe with a whole load of ingredients. But I realize that cooking is actually fun. Vann is great company and it is a laugh.

When the food is nearly ready we lay the table and Vann lights some candles. The food is delicious.

‘Have you sold lots of paintings?’

‘I’ve never sold a painting.’

‘Not a single one?’

He shakes his head. ‘No.’

I frown. ‘Well, don’t you think you should start thinking about doing something else if nobody wants to buy your paintings?’

‘I’ve never tried to sell my paintings.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve destroyed everything I’ve ever painted.’

I stare at him. ‘Why?’

‘Wasn’t good enough.’ His voice is light, but I feel the intensity behind his words. I can’t connect.