spirits up. I get through the day on a kind of autopilot, and by 4 p.m. I’m really in the pits. Clarissa has gone out to see a prospect, and it’s started to rain, and I’m sitting at the computer desk, head slumped in my arms, when I hear Robert’s tread on the stairs. Hastily I sit up and resume the email I started about three hours ago.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say as he appears, in an absent sort of voice, as though I’m in the middle of concentrating. ‘Has “Mike” gone, then?’ I can’t help calling him ‘Mike’ with a sardonic tone, just like Mrs Kendrick did.
‘Yes, “Mike” has gone.’ Robert sounds amused.
‘And have you sold the place for twenty million?’ I add without looking up.
‘Oh, at least.’
‘Good. Because I wouldn’t want you to starve.’ I briskly sign off my email.
‘It’s OK,’ he says, deadpan. ‘The orphans that I trample over on my way to cash my ill-gotten money can knock me up some roast suckling pig while they’re sweeping my capitalist chimneys.’
I can’t help a tiny smile curving my lips. He’s funnier than he lets on, Robert. I finally raise my head and wince at the sight of the bruise which has sprouted on his forehead.
‘You hurt yourself!’ I say.
‘Yes! Thank you,’ he says in mock-aggrieved tones. ‘That’s what I was trying to say.’
‘Has Mrs Kendrick gone, too?’
‘Yes, she’s in a meeting with Elon Musk,’ he says, and I nearly exclaim, ‘Really?’ before I realize he’s joking.
‘Ha,’ I say.
‘On the plus side,’ Robert says, ‘while I was showing Mike around, we found this.’ He lifts up a bottle of wine in his right hand.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, without much interest, ‘that’s the Christmas wine. We give it to the volunteers every year.’
‘Château Lafite,’ repeats Robert, and I realize he’s making a point. ‘Château La-fucking-fite.’
‘Well, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Mrs Kendrick likes the best.’
Robert looks at me, then stares at the wine bottle, then shakes his head incredulously. ‘Every time I think this place can’t get any madder, it does. Well, let’s see if it is the best, shall we? Got any glasses?’
I fetch a couple of cut-crystal glasses from the Trolley, which is where we keep our sherry, nuts and crisps.
‘She likes to have a glass of sherry if we stay late,’ I explain.
‘Of course she does.’ Robert pours out two glasses of the Château Lafite and, even though I’m not a wine buff, I can tell from the smell alone that it’s special.
‘Cheers.’ Robert holds up his glass and I clink it with mine, and I suddenly need a drink so badly, I gulp down about half.
‘Have some snacks,’ I say, decanting some little cheesy biscuits into a cut-glass bowl. Robert sits down on an office chair and we drink silently, hoovering up the cheesy biscuits. After a while, I open another packet and Robert replenishes our glasses. He still looks incongruous up here, with his big shoes and deep voice and way of pushing things aside without even noticing.
‘Careful!’ I say as he leans back, his elbow casually on the computer desk, and knocks over Clarissa’s pile of leather-bound exercise books. ‘Those are the Books.’
‘The Books?’
‘We write summaries of all our meetings,’ I explain. ‘Time, person, subject. They’re actually incredibly useful. They go back years and years.’
Robert picks up the exercise books. He flicks through one of them, reading Clarissa’s careful entries in fountain pen, then puts it back with a sigh.
‘You’re all getting under my skin, you know that? The Dish, the Ladder, the Books, the Wine … It’s like bloody Alice in Wonderland up here.’ He looks around the office with what seems like genuine ruefulness. ‘I don’t want to force this place into the real world. But I have to. We can’t stave off reality forever.’
‘I’m looking into websites,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve done another appeal to supporters. Or we could sell off some pieces, raise some cash that way …’ I break off as Robert shakes his head.
‘That would take us so far,’ he says. ‘But what then? Sell three paintings every year till they’re all gone? This place needs to be sustainable.’
‘It needs an injection of cash,’ I counter. ‘Just one lump sum would really help us …’
‘It’s had injections of cash!’ Robert sounds frustrated. ‘Year after year! There’s a limit! Do you realize how much my aunt—’ He stops himself, and I feel an uneasy twinge. I have