‘Unpleasant,’ Arvind said. ‘Troubling. Disrupted.’

He advanced gingerly into the room; he was uneasy around his tal , brash, far too English sister-in-law.

Frances went over to him, smiling suddenly. ‘Poor darling,’ she said. ‘Have a gimlet. Thank you, Mary.’

‘Welcome,’ Arvind said, raising his glass to Pamela and John. They nodded politely.

Silence threatened to engulf the room. ‘How – how is your work going?’ John enquired, looking vaguely from Arvind to Frances, both of whose professions, if you could cal them that, were a source of mystery to him. John was a solicitor of the old school. Philosophers and painters were outside his remit but, unlike his wife, he thought you had to ask to find out.

Frances and Arvind looked at each other, like naughty children caught by a teacher.

‘You first,’ said Arvind. ‘Oh, wel . I’m preparing for a show, at the Du Val on Gal ery, in September,’ Frances said.

‘How interesting.’ John nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Frances smiled. ‘We’re having a party! They’re sending out invitations soon.’

John nodded again. ‘Delightful.’

There was an awkward pause. ‘Did you – did you hear about Ward taking an overdose?’ Miranda said. Her mother frowned.

‘They say he won’t make it through the night,’ Jeremy added.

‘This whole case,’ John said, shaking his head. ‘The state of the country after this trial is over – the damage wil be incalculable.’

Pamela nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I agree. Some of the details—!’ She shook her head.

Frances batted her husband playful y on the arm. ‘Go and see if Mary’s ready for us, wil you, darling?’

‘Of course!’ Arvind exclaimed with relief. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, exiting for the kitchen.

Guy was watching this exchange when a movement by the French windows caught his eye. Cecily had reappeared, in a simple black linen dress, her hair smooth and gleaming, her cheeks flushed. She was leaning against the door frame, staring at them, smiling, her eyes ful of tears.

‘Hey, I say.’ He went over and nudged her. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing!’ she said quickly, brushing away something on her cheek. ‘I’m just a bit tired. It’s almost too hot, isn’t it? There’s a storm coming, I think, there’s no breeze at al .’

Guy ignored this. ‘Cecily? What’s wrong?’

She smiled. ‘Darling Guy. Nothing. They’re so funny, my parents, that’s al . I don’t understand them. I look at them and I think I don’t real y know them at al . That must sound sil y.’

‘You never sound sil y,’ Guy said, his voice ful of warmth. ‘Trust me.’

‘You’re being nice.’ She turned to him, her face glowing, and Guy was taken aback; she was so beautiful in that moment, her clear coffee-coloured skin covered with a smattering of dark caramel freckles from the sun, her green eyes so dark they were almost black, and the evening breeze ruffling her hair. He caught his breath; the smel of lavender from the bushes next to them was almost intoxicating. She breathed in too, with a shudder. ‘I sometimes think I’m too emotional. Most of the girls at school, they’re quite happy to leave their parents and brothers and sisters behind, for months on end. And their homes. I hate it, you know. I love them and I love it here, it’s awful being away. And then I come back and I forget . . . how things are.’

He was touched. ‘Why don’t you tel them?’

Cecily shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh, it’s good for me to toughen up, I’m sure. I just – I wish I didn’t feel things so much. Al the time.’

‘Such as?’

She stared at him. ‘I – I can’t say.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, Guy, I wish I could. To you of al people, I wish I could. But I can’t.’

‘It’s a good thing, feeling too much, Cecily,’ he said. ‘It means you care . . .’ He touched her bare arm and was surprised when she jumped.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘You didn’t,’ she said. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, and raised her eyes to his, slowly.

‘God . . .’ Guy heard himself saying. ‘You real y are beautiful, Cecily.’

They stared at each other, blankly, for a moment. He held out his hand – she held hers out too. For a split second their fingers touched, and then she stepped away, hastily, and Guy was left standing by the window, watching her as she picked her way towards her mother. Something strange, fundamental, was shifting within him. He cal ed to her, in a low voice, ‘Cecily—’

But she ignored him.

He did not take his eyes off her until they were cal ed in to dinner.

Louisa linked her arm through Frank’s as they walked towards the dining room.

‘I do hope Daddy isn’t too boring,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘He can be rather . . . old-fashioned. He’s furious about the Profumo affair, I don’t quite know why. He tends to expound, once he’s had a glass of wine. It’s rather mortifying.’

‘Oh, I’m used to it.’ Frank yawned, and nodded. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Awful y tired. Don’t mind me, Louisa. Not on very good form tonight.’

Louisa squeezed his arm in jokey exasperation. ‘How can you be tired? You had a nap this afternoon while we were al swimming and picking blackberries, didn’t you?’

‘Perhaps that’s the problem,’ Frank said. ‘Oh, too much sleep, I suppose. It’s – I’m much better now, promise.’

She looked up at him. ‘Are you . . . al right, darling?’

‘I am.’ Frank squeezed her arm back. ‘Been on rather subdued form, I’m sorry. I am very al right.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Listen, I’ve been rather a brute this holiday, I know. Trying to persuade you to do something you don’t want to. Wil you come for a walk with me, after supper?

Steal away when the grown-ups have gone to bed?’

‘Frank?’

‘There’s something we need to talk about,’ he said. He took her hand and squeezed it tight and Louisa smiled, her eyes fil ing with tears.

There came voices from next door and suddenly her expression changed.

‘Oh, dear,’ Louisa said. ‘I think I was right.’

‘About what?’ Frank sounded alarmed. ‘Right about Daddy.’

‘Absolute rubbish,’ John James was saying, as they sat down. ‘I tel you, the woman is a common prostitute, nothing more. The men she was associating with. Black men, in Notting Hil . That Edgecombe fel ow, turning up and shooting people. Those are the people Mr Powel is talking about and I for one can’t blame him. What are we coming to? It’s al very wel , and yes, people must be al owed to come into the country, but when they set up enclaves like this . . .’ He waved his wine glass in the air. ‘Whole system starts to go to pot.’

‘What system?’ Miranda was sitting opposite him, in between Guy and Cecily. She was examining her dirty fingernails. She barely raised her voice; it was the disdain in her tone that was most surprising of al . ‘The system of white men oppressing everyone else for hundreds of years? Or the system of raping countries and people so you can make money?’

Al of a sudden, the atmosphere in the room was electric. ‘Miranda –’ Frances said, in a warning tone. ‘There’s coronation chicken and salad,’

Mary said in a bright voice. ‘If that’s al —’

The others were al sitting stil . No one got up. John said, ‘Young lady, you are confusing the argument. It’s a question of how our own great country has been pol uted, is being pol uted, with the question of immigration, with this lax – lax behaviour in public life . . .’ He trailed off, cleared his throat, and then said, ‘With al respect, I don’t think you know what you are talking about.’

‘Of course I don’t,’ Miranda said scornful y. ‘I’m just a girl, what would I know? After al , girls are pretty stupid, aren’t they?’

‘Miranda –’ Cecily hissed desperately, next to her. Her uncle was watching her, imperturbable, one eyebrow slightly raised, cold grey eyes in a thin, sculptured face.

‘I don’t think,’ said Pamela, ‘this is appropriate.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Louisa, have you been keeping up with your tennis? Frank,’ she said, ‘do you know that Louisa’s tennis instructor says she’s—’

‘No,’ Miranda’s voice cut through, biting and clear. ‘Girls aren’t nearly as clever as boys, of course not. They’re born with fewer brain cel s, did you know that? They can’t drive properly or do science or maths, you know? Al they’re real y good for is . . .’

‘Yes?’ John looked disdainful y at his niece. ‘Do enlighten me, Miranda.’

‘Fucking and cooking,’ Miranda said, standing up and throwing her napkin on her heaped plate, which Mary had just set down. Louisa gasped, and Guy screwed his napkin into his fist. ‘That’s al we’re good for, wouldn’t you say?’ She stopped and looked round then, as if realising there was no turning back, she took a deep breath and ploughed recklessly on. ‘Even someone like me, though, that’s the question? Me, and my sister, and my brother, and my dad, do you real y want us, pol uting the country?’

‘ Miranda! ’ her mother hissed furiously. ‘Miranda, apologise to your uncle!’

‘Oh, don’t you dare talk to me,’ Miranda told Frances, her eyes blazing. ‘You of al people, don’t you dare! You’re the biggest hypocrite of them al , tel ing me what’s best for me, how worthless I am!’ Frances looked as though she’d just been slapped. ‘Yes, we’re in such an honest country too, aren’t we?’ Miranda’s voice shook. ‘Not hypocritical at al , oh, no. Definitely worth preserving the old way of life. Essential.’ Her face was pale; her eyes were huge. ‘I wish Archie were here. He’d say it better. Oh, hang it al .’

She took Cecily’s hand in hers and gripped it. Cecily wriggled away, embarrassed. She could not bear to look up at her sister, as if she were a leper on the street.

Into the stunned silence a voice spoke from the end of the table.