‘Yes,’ I say, nodding politely, trying not to look over her shoulder at Mum.

‘The clasp didn’t work properly. And I took it back to the shop – because, dear, I did want to support you, and I was so glad to have bought it –

and do you know what they said?’

‘Oh, Jeremy,’ I hear Louisa say behind me to her brother. ‘Do you have to go already? Oh, dear.’

‘Wel , let me know if they don’t give you a refund,’ I say as the old lady pauses for breath, as if I’ve listened to and understood every word she’s saying. ‘Excuse me, wil you?’ I make my way over to the table, and grab some crisps. Jeremy is hugging his sister, Mary Beth is kissing the Bowler Hat.

‘Ah,’ Jeremy says, as he turns and sees me. ‘Natasha. I’m so sorry I haven’t had a chance to talk with you today.’ He squeezes my shoulder and nods, his kind face creasing into a smile. ‘But you look wel .’ His eyes rest on the plaster on my forehead and he hesitates a little. ‘And – er, I hear al ’s good with you, you and Oli, and the business, that’s real y great.’

‘Um – thanks.’ I don’t know what to say. Louisa gawps a little, and the Bowler Hat just smiles urbanely at us al – I want to hit him.

‘Jeremy,’ Mary Beth says, at his side. ‘They just split up.’ She kisses me on the cheek. ‘I’m so sorry, dear. We’re worried about you. Are you feeling OK? How’s the head?’

‘Um –’ I begin again, wil ing myself not to cry, it would be too awful. Mary Beth is pretty, with fluffy brown bobbed hair with bangs, as they say in the States, and she is dipping her slender hands into her pockets. She stands next to her husband, slightly tense. I can’t read the body language.

‘Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry,’ Jeremy says, looking taken aback. ‘I had no idea – wel , gosh, I’m not back very often, I suppose, I hadn’t heard.’

‘It just happened, don’t worry,’ I say to him. His forehead crinkles up, like concertinaed folds of paper. ‘Are you – are you real y off? I haven’t seen you at al .’

He nods. ‘I’m awful y sorry. We have a crazy early flight from Heathrow and we’re staying in a motel close by tonight.’ I’d forgotten, because I haven’t seen him for a while, how he has a curious turn of phrase, a combination of British time-warp gent and regular American guy. But he says things people here don’t say any more, like Austin Powers. ‘Need to get there and get some sleep, I guess,’ he says. He looks around the sitting room, his eyes scanning the paintings, the people, the old familiar things. ‘Lovely to be back here again, even if the reason’s a sad one.’ Mary Beth pats his arm.

‘How long’s it been since you were here?’ I say. ‘Erin and Ryder were stil at school, weren’t they?’

Jeremy glances round. ‘Oh, about five years,’ he says. ‘Just been busy, you know? And now my mum and dad are both gone, have been for ten years now, there’s been less reason to visit Franty and Arvind. It’s just Mary Beth’s family’s in Indiana. We spend time with them in the summer. It’s so far to come, when we don’t have much vacation.’

‘Of course,’ I say.

He looks relieved that I understand. ‘Wel , yes. That’s the way it’s been. Very sadly.’

I can’t help it, I give a ragged sigh. ‘There’s nowhere quite like Summercove, is there? It’s paradise down here, especial y in summer. Oh, I’m going to miss it so much. I expect you wil too, now it’s going.’

Jeremy looks quickly from left to right. ‘No,’ he says. I’m not sure what he’s saying no to. There’s a silence and then he says, ‘Actual y, I don’t real y think about the old days, if truth be told. It was al a long time ago.’ And then he takes Mary Beth’s hand, clutches it hurriedly, wincing as if he’s getting a headache. ‘So, we’re going . . .’ He kisses his sister again. ‘Bye, love,’ he says, and he hugs Louisa, hard. ‘Thank you . . . thank you for everything, Lou. You’re wonderful.’

He nods briefly again at me. ‘Lovely to see you, Natasha.’ Mary Beth raises her hand, and they are gone.

Louisa stares after them. ‘Oh, dear,’ she says, and her eyes are ful of tears.

I go to her, put my arm round her. ‘You’l see him soon,’ I say stupidly.

‘I won’t,’ she says, her smile sad. ‘He never comes back any more. Especial y now Mummy and Dad are dead, you know.’

I nod. Their mother, Pamela, was Granny’s sister, a rather starchy old lady. She died about seven years ago, her husband before that. They’d come to Summercove, not as much as Louisa, but they were there.

Louisa’s face creases. ‘He only came back this time for me. Darling Jeremy.’ A tear rol s down her cheek. ‘Oh – oh, this is awful,’ she says.

My arm is stil around her. It feels weird. Louisa is the mumsy, organised one. Seeing her cry for the first time is wrong. like everything else today.

‘Oh, Louisa, I’m sorry,’ I say. Her head is bowed and she is properly crying now, tears flowing easily down her crumpled face. She looks up at me then, and almost flinches. And then she blinks.

‘No, I’m sorry, Natasha dear,’ she says, moving away, so that my hand fal s to my side again. She presses the Bowler Hat’s arm. He kisses her on the head, briefly, tenderly and pul s her against him, and she looks up at him, grateful y happy. I watch them with interest – I see the Bowler Hat so rarely, and any interaction between long-standing couples is fascinating to me at the moment. I turn away, to pick up some more crisps from behind me.

‘She looks so like her, doesn’t she?’ Louisa says, her voice stil a bit wobbly. ‘I’d forgotten.’

‘Cecily,’ says the Bowler Hat, slowly, not troubling to keep his voice low. ‘Yes, she does. You’re right.’

No one ever mentions Cecily. It’s like a bul et fired into the conversation.

Perhaps I would have pretended not to hear Louisa, but the Bowler Hat’s voice is loud. ‘I look like Cecily?’ I say, turning back with a bottle in my hand.

Louisa is facing her husband, plucking at a piece of fluff on his jacket. He meets her gaze, briefly, and then looks back into his drink again. I can’t decide if he’s uncomfortable, or simply tired. They ignore me, it’s as if they’re in a world of their own. ‘She gave you your name,’ Louisa says.

‘Don’t you remember?’

He nods, his chin sunk onto his chest, I can’t see his face. ‘Yes. She did, didn’t she?’

I close the gap between us, by reaching forward and fil ing the Bowler Hat’s glass, and they both look up at me. ‘I didn’t know that,’ I say. I’ve never real y thought about it, strange to say. That’s just how he’s always been referred to. ‘Real y, that’s how you got the name?’

He nods and switches his wine glass to his other hand. There are smeary finger marks on the glass. He pul s at his col ar.

‘Yes,’ he says, and he smiles. ‘You know my brother Guy?’ I nod. ‘He and I came here for the summer, that was the first time I met the rest of the family. 1962?’ He turns to his wife, and for a second he is younger, his craggy strong face unlined, his colourless hair blond again, a stil handsome, strapping young man.

‘’63,’ she says quickly. ‘’63.’

‘Of course. Profumo – the trial had just started when we arrived.’ He smiles. ‘Yes! We got the train from London. Read about it on the way down. And after we’d arrived, Cecily took one look at me and said I looked like I should be wearing a bowler hat, not shorts. She could be very funny.’ He shakes his head. ‘Tragic. So sad.’ He is silent, Louisa is looking down at the floor.

I never hear them talk about when they were younger, probably because of Cecily. Never heard anything about the summers down here when they were children. It’s hard, now, to believe they hung out together for weeks on end, had picnics, swam together, lay in the sun. Sure, there’s the odd photo, and the odd reference – ‘That was the year Archie broke his arm, wasn’t it?’ But that’s it. Louisa comes – came – for a week to Summercove every year with the children, that’s how I know them better, but the Bowler Hat never real y came, he’d stay up in London, working.

Mum and I would sometimes be down here for Christmas, but not often. Mostly it was at home, or with Archie and Sameena in Ealing. We didn’t make jol y family visits to Tunbridge Wel s, and I don’t recal Mum ever entertaining Louisa and the Bowler Hat to dinner in our tiny damp Hammersmith abode. They don’t socialise, when I think about it. They’re so different now and there’s no intimacy between them al . And apart from that photo of Cecily that Granny had and I saw only once I know nothing else about her. Cecily simply doesn’t come up. What happened doesn’t come up.

So the three of us stare at each other, unsure how to proceed: we’ve gone down a conversational dead end.

‘Natasha’s right, though,’ the Bowler Hat suddenly says, unbending. ‘It was like paradise, Summercove. So laid-back and free. That day we arrived, Guy and I, and you were lying out on the lawn in those great tight-fitting black trousers, remember?’ He smiles, wolfishly. ‘Yes, we were young then.’

‘Frank,’ Louisa says, through gritted teeth. ‘That wasn’t me. My shorts ripped, remember? That was bloody Miranda.’

‘Your memory, dear,’ Bowler Hat says. ‘Incredible. Hah.’ He looks around him airily. I will not be embarrassed by this mistake, don’t try me.

‘Is Guy here? I haven’t seen him yet,’ I say hastily. ‘Though it’s been so long, I don’t know if I’d recognise him.’

‘Oh, you would,’ says Louisa. ‘He was at Julius’s wedding. Guy!’ she cal s. ‘Guy!’

Last year, Julius married a Russian girl, a trader he’d met through work. He was thirty-seven, she was twenty-three. It was a smart hotel in central London, in a huge room with gold panel ing on the wal s, and red-faced, huge-handed Julius and a stick-thin beautiful young woman in acres of tul e posing for endless photos. They had a huge row – at the reception – and she stormed off. Jay says he heard she ended up at the Rock Garden in Covent Garden with one of her bridesmaids, snogging a Russian guy. I don’t believe him, though I’d love it to be true.

Al I real y remember about that night is that Oli and my mother got real y drunk; they’re a bad combination, those two. Oli managed to offend one of Julius’s ghastly City friends: unintentional y, he can be a bit ful on when he’s had too much to drink. I had to take him home. Julius’s wife isn’t here today. Neither’s my husband, though.

‘Ah,’ Louisa says. I turn around. ‘Hi, Guy,’ I say, holding out my hand. Again I hear Julius’s words on the train. ‘Bloody good thing Guy’s already there.’ I grip his hand, suddenly angry, and pump my arm up and down a little too hard. Guy is nothing like his brother, he is mild-looking and rather thin, wearing a tatty checked shirt with a corduroy jacket. He smiles at me.

‘It’s nice to see you again, Natasha. It’s been a very long time.’ He nods, his grey eyes kind.

‘Hi,’ I say. I haven’t seen him for ages. ‘I was in a shop where they were sel ing your bracelets the other day,’ he says. ‘Nearly bought one for my daughter.’

‘I wish you had,’ I say. He stares at me. ‘Guy’s an antiques dealer,’ Louisa says behind me. She crumples a tea towel up in her hand. ‘We thought it’d be useful for him to come to the funeral, you know? Get started on the work ahead. Because of course, there’s some interesting things in the house too.’

Interesting. ‘Has anyone been into her studio yet?’ I say. ‘It’s locked, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Louisa says, her face tight. ‘Your mother found the key and went in, a couple of days ago. She started taking things out, but I managed to stop her. Someone should be making sure it’s al properly done.’

‘Arvind wanted to go in,’ the Bowler Hat says. ‘In fairness to Miranda.’

‘Wel , fine,’ Louisa says crossly, but she doesn’t seem convinced. ‘Anyway, it’s al in there.’

‘Like what?’

Louisa is brisk. ‘A few paintings, which is wonderful. That’s it though. And her old sketchbooks and paints. Why, what were you expecting them to find?’

I shake my head, feeling stupid. ‘It’s time we sorted everything out.’ Louisa narrows her eyes. ‘Is that Florian leaving? Yes.’ She turns to me. ‘I mean, they weren’t wealthy in other ways, not for years now. But there are a lot of valuable paintings, letters, books, that sort of thing. And we need to decide what’s best for them al . For al her work, and everything else they’ve got here.’

I know about the signed first editions by Stephen Spender, Kingsley Amis, T. S. Eliot, which line the shelves rising from the floor to the ceiling either side of the fireplace. About the Ben Nicholson print in the hal , the Macready sketch with its white frame in the dining room: ‘Frances at the Chelsea Arts Club, 1953’. They lent that one for his retrospective at the Tate, a couple of years ago. It was the cover of the catalogue. I hadn’t thought about al of that. To me, they’re a part of the house, as much a part as the doors and the taps and the floors.