“Clare is inside checking the table settings,” he said.

“She wants you on that terrace before Gerald starts talking to the board members.”

“I’ll be there,” I said.

I walked through the foyer at ten past six.

The air smelled of beeswax polish, fresh-cut lilies, and damp turf from the golf course outside.

On the stone terrace overlooking the eighteenth hole, thirty guests stood in small groups under the canvas awning.

Gerald stood by the cocktail bar in a navy blazer, his gold signet ring catching the evening sun.