Robert was talking into an old green Post Office phone, which sat on a stunning glass sideboard that Alice had dragged me to worship at Heal’s in London. I couldn’t remember the name of the designer, but she’d had tears of pure joy in her eyes as she’d lovingly opened and shut the drawers in the manner of a game-show hostess. Robert had nothing in the drawers besides a Yellow Pages. It looked perfect in his hall. But then, the hall was as sparse and tasteful as the showroom. He motioned for me to go on in as he squeezed his forehead with his spare hand and tried to get a word in edgeways with whoever it was on the phone. I stepped through the perfectly cream hall (no pictures, no stags’ heads, not even a teeny claymore) and into the open-plan kitchen, marveling as I went at how empty it was, compared with the main house. I’d picked up enough of Mum’s “ ‘Less is more’ costs more” principles to know that the simple oak kitchen units were probably handmade and extortionate, along with the impressive array of matte black appliances, most of which didn’t even have visible controls.
