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Reidar turns the lights off and leaves the nursery, opening the door to the next room and stopping there.

Veronica comes towards him with a glass of champagne in her hand. There is a warm glow in her dark, intoxicated eyes.

She’s tall and thin, and has had her black hair cut in a boyish style that suits her.

‘Did I say I wanted to sleep with you?’ he asks.

She spins round slightly unsteadily.

‘Funny,’ she says with a sad look in her eyes.

Veronica Klimt is Reidar’s literary agent. He may not have written a word in the past thirteen years, but the three books he wrote before that are still generating an income.

Now they can hear music from the dining room below, the rapid bass-line transmitting itself through the fabric of the building. Reidar stops at the sofa and runs his hand through his silvery hair.

‘You’re saving some champagne for me, I hope?’ he asks, sitting down on the sofa.

‘No,’ Veronica says, passing him her half-full glass.

‘Your husband called me,’ Reidar says. ‘He thinks it’s time for you to go home.’