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"I'm not saying yes for definite—I need to check my calendar," I protest. What am I letting myself in for? "Look, I'll phone you."

This he chooses to ignore. "So see you tomorrow—I'll introduce you to the team, give you the tour, before the students arrive."

He lays his left hand lightly on my arm, the bandage somewhat grubby. "I'm sorry about Marcus, and I mean that."

Then he stands up, teases the girls with another of his steel-gray glances, and bounds out of the bar. Leaving me to pay the bill.

* * *

I hate to go on about money, but since Marcus died I've discovered how totally clueless I am. He knew how to manage finances, handle any sort of tricky situation, whereas I always seem to be out of my depth and chasing my tail. I can't believe how much it costs to run a house—even one as tiny as mine. Thank God for my freelance work for Escape, which covers the basics; an eight-pager every month—recipes and food styling. And thank God for Julie, who happens to be the magazine's food editor and commissions me.

Back at Jubilee Cottage, I phone her to tell her about Christian. Early evening on a Sunday, she may even pick up. Party Girl is out carousing with some noisy media friends in a bar in Covent Garden—a Montmartre vibe, apparently. "I'll call you back on Facetime," she screams. She thinks modern technology is marvelous, whereas I can take it or leave it.

A few seconds later my phone vibrates and her smiling face appears. Tonight she's gone for a Latin look, with hair swept up and dramatic eyeliner. "That's better," she says, to the background bleat and swell of accordions. "It's crazy here—you should come and join us!" My barfly days with Julie are over but it's kind of her to ask.

"Funnily enough, I've been out to drinks myself," I say, with a hint of pride. For weeks she's been trying to persuade me to stir my stumps and go out. "But you'll never guess who with."

"Lady Gaga? Elton John? Dolly Parton?" 

"Better than that—Christian!"

She's amazed—hasn't seen him since the brasserie launch. "That's great! But I thought he'd crashed and burned. Is he still as gorgeous as ever?" 

"Some wear and tear," I say, ungenerously.

"Remember that time he got mixed up with the oligarch's daughter and we were convinced he'd been sent to Siberia?"

Or the time he was fan-mobbed in Tokyo, or cooked at the White House: no shortage of material for a future biographer.

I tell her about Christian's accident, and that he wants me to step in and save the day. As expected, Julie turns protective. "Are they paying you properly?" I confess this hasn't been finalized. "Pin them down, Paul, and insist on half up front. Otherwise—if you want my opinion—it's a brilliant idea."

"The only thing is, I was promising myself a few days off after last week," I say lamely.

"But you're a fantastic teacher—it'll be fun. Get you out of the house, and you can treat yourself to a holiday on the proceeds. A proper holiday, like you deserve."

It's true: I could do with a week on a beach. Early September means Christmas to magazine people, and we've just completed a nerve-shredding two-day photoshoot for Escape's festive number. The theme was The Nutcracker. As well as the inevitable groaning turkey and trimmings, our editor insisted on a twelve-foot Christmas tree (fully festooned in blue and silver), three small kids (ditto), and a French bulldog (blue and white bandana). Everywhere you looked, bewhiskered toy soldiers, plus—I can feel sweat breaking out at the memory—a crackling log fire, on the hottest day of the year.

"I just hope she's okay with the pictures," I say. "She" is our editor, Dena, a tyrant who stubs out careers as casually as the Dunhills she still smokes in the office because no one has the nerve to object.

"I'll text you tomorrow morning the moment she's seen them. And please say yes to Christian."

As we talk I catch sight of myself in the mirror. It's hard to look at your own reflection objectively, but the last couple of years haven't been kind: Marcus's dreadful illness, followed by the inevitable. For forty-two, I guess I'm in reasonable shape—not that I take any exercise apart from racing around for work. But there's sadness in my eyes, a sort of wariness that wasn't there before. Hair's getting grayer, too—which on Marcus was distinguished, but makes me look somehow faded. Worn down by grief, if you want to know the truth. I try smiling, and it's a big improvement.