I put down the phone, turn round and do an exaggerated double take at the sight of Robert standing there in his monolithic dark suit, holding a briefcase.

‘Oh, hi!’ I exclaim gushingly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’

His face remains impassive, but his eyes flicker to my computer screen, to the phone and back to me. They’re so dark and impenetrable I can’t read them. In fact, his whole face has a kind of off-putting, closed-up air. As though what you see is the tip of the iceberg.

Not like Dan. Dan is open. His eyes are clear and true. If he frowns, I can usually guess why. If he smiles, I know what the joke is. This guy looks as if the joke might be that no one will ever guess it was him who severed all those heads and hid them in the coal pit.

Then, instantly, I chide myself. Stop exaggerating. He’s not that bad.

‘Most telephone numbers begin with a zero,’ he says matter-of-factly.

Damn.

And bloody hell. He was watching my fingers deliberately, to catch me out. That shows how sneaky he is. I need to be on my guard.

‘Some don’t,’ I say vaguely, and call up a random document on my screen. It’s a budget for a harpsichord concert we did last year, I belatedly realize, but if he queries it I’ll say I’m doing an audit exercise. Yes.

I feel all fake and self-conscious, sitting here under his gaze – and it’s his fault, I decide. He shouldn’t have such a forbidding air. It’s not conducive to … anything. At that moment, I hear Clarissa on the stairs – and as she enters she actually gives a little squeak of dismay at the sight of him.

‘Good, you’re here,’ he says to her. ‘I want a meeting with both of you. I want a few answers about a few things.’

That’s exactly what I mean. How aggressive does that sound?

‘Fine,’ I say coolly. ‘Clarissa, why don’t you make some coffee? I’ll just finish up here.’

I’m not going to jump when he says jump. We have busy lives. We have agendas. What does he think we do all day? I close down the harpsichord concert budget, file a couple of stray documents which are littering the screen (Clarissa leaves everything on the desktop) and then thoughtlessly click on some JPEG which has been minimized.

At once the screen is filled with the image of a woman with a massive trout pout and a see-through bra, her fingers splayed over her breasts (excellent hand placement). My stomach heaves in horror. Shit. I’m an IDIOT. Close down, close down … My face is puce as I dementedly click my mouse, trying to get rid of the picture for good. At last it disappears, and I swivel round in my chair with a shrill laugh.

‘Ha ha! You’re probably wondering why I had that picture up on the screen! It was actually …’ My mind casts around desperately. ‘… research. For a possible exhibition of … erotica.’

Now my face is flaming even harder. I should never have attempted to say ‘erotica’ out loud. It’s a bad word, ‘erotica’, almost as bad as ‘moist’.

‘Erotica?’ Robert sounds a bit stunned.

‘Historical. Through the ages. Victorian, Edwardian, compared to modern … er … It’s only at the early planning stages,’ I finish lamely.

There’s a bit of a silence.

‘Does Willoughby House contain any erotica?’ says Robert at last, frowning. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was my aunt’s thing.’

Of course it isn’t her bloody thing! But I have to say something, and from the depths of my memory I pluck an image.

‘There’s a picture of a girl on a swing in one of the archived print collections,’ I tell him.

‘A girl on a swing?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t sound very …’

‘She’s naked,’ I elaborate. ‘And fairly … you know. Fulsome. I guess for a Victorian man, she’d be quite alluring.’

‘What about for a modern man?’ His dark eyes gleam at me.

Is that appropriate, for his eyes to gleam? I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice. Or hear the question. Or start this conversation.

‘Shall we begin the meeting?’ I say instead. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

‘I want to know what the hell you do all day,’ he says pleasantly, and at once I bristle.

‘We run Willoughby House’s administration and fundraising,’ I say with a slight glare.

‘Good. Then you’ll be able to tell me what that is.’

He’s pointing to the Ladder. It’s a wooden library ladder, set against the wall, with boxes of cards on the three steps. As I follow his gaze, I gulp inwardly. I have to admit, the Ladder is idiosyncratic, even by our standards.

‘It’s our Christmas card system,’ I explain. ‘Christmas cards are a big deal for Mrs Kendrick. The top step is for the cards we received last year. The middle step is for this year’s cards, unsigned. The bottom step is for this year’s cards, signed. We each sign five a day.’

‘This is what you spend your days doing?’ He turns from me to Clarissa, who has brought over three cups of coffee and almost jumps in alarm. ‘Signing Christmas cards? In May?’

‘It’s not all we do!’ I say, nettled, as I take my coffee.

‘What about social media, marketing strategy, positioning?’ he suddenly fires at me.

‘Oh,’ I say, caught off-guard. ‘Well. Our social media presence is … subtle.’

‘Subtle?’ he echoes incredulously. ‘That’s what you call it?’

‘Discreet,’ puts in Clarissa.

‘I’ve looked at the website,’ he says flatly. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

‘Ah.’ I try to think of a comeback to this. I was rather hoping he wouldn’t look at the website.

‘Do you have any explanation?’ he asks, in tones that say, ‘I’m trying to be reasonable here.’

‘Mrs Kendrick didn’t really like the idea of a website,’ I say defensively. ‘She was the one who came up with the eventual … concept.’

‘Let’s have a look at it again, shall we?’ Robert says in ominous tones. He pulls a spare office chair towards him and sits down. Then he takes out a laptop from his briefcase, opens it, types in the web address – and after a few seconds our home page appears. It’s a beautiful, black-and-white line drawing of Willoughby House and on the front door is a very small notice, which reads: Enquiries: please apply in writing to Willoughby House, Willoughby Street, London W1.

‘You see, what I’m wondering …’ says Robert in the same studiedly calm tone, ‘is where the information pages are, the gallery of photos, the FAQ, the subscription form and, in fact, the whole bloody website?’ He suddenly erupts. ‘Where’s the website? This …’ He jabs at the page. ‘This looks like a classified ad from The Times, 1923! “Apply in writing”? “Apply in writing”?’

I can’t help wincing. He’s right. I mean, he’s right. It’s a ridiculous website.

‘Mrs Kendrick liked “Apply in writing”,’ volunteers Clarissa, who has perched on the corner of the computer desk. ‘Sylvie tried to get her to have an email form, but …’ She glances at me.

‘We tried,’ I affirm.

‘You didn’t try hard enough,’ Robert shoots back, unrelenting. ‘What about Twitter? You have a handle, I’ve seen that, but where are the tweets? Where are the followers?’

‘I’m in charge of Twitter,’ says Clarissa, almost in a whisper. ‘I did tweet once, but I didn’t know what to say, so I just said “hello”.’

Robert looks like he doesn’t even know how to respond to this.

‘I don’t think our clientele are on Twitter,’ I say, coming to Clarissa’s defence. ‘They prefer letters.’

‘Your clientele are dying out,’ says Robert, looking unimpressed. ‘Willoughby House is dying out. This entire concern is dying out and you can’t even see it. You all live in a bubble, my aunt included.’

‘That’s not fair!’ I say hotly. ‘We don’t live in a bubble. We interact with a lot of external organizations, benefactors … And we’re not dying out! We’re a thriving, vibrant, exciting …’

‘You are not thriving!’ Robert suddenly erupts. ‘You are not thriving.’ His voice is huge in the low-ceilinged office and we both gape at him. He rubs the back of his neck, wincing, not looking either of us in the eye. ‘My aunt’s been desperate to keep the truth from you,’ he continues in a calmer voice. ‘But you need to know. This place is in big financial trouble.’

‘Trouble?’ echoes Clarissa, with a little gasp.

‘For the last few years my aunt’s been subsidizing it out of her own money. It can’t go on. And that’s why I’ve stepped in.’

I stare at him, so flabbergasted that I can’t speak. My throat has actually closed up in shock. Mrs Kendrick’s been subsidizing us?

‘But we raise funds!’ says Clarissa, looking pink and distressed, her voice practically a squeak. ‘We’ve done really well this year!’

‘Exactly.’ I find my voice. ‘We raise funds all the time!’

‘Not enough,’ says Robert flatly. ‘This place costs a fortune to run. Heating, lighting, insurance, biscuits, salaries …’ He gives me a pointed look.

‘But Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’ says Clarissa. ‘She donated half a million!’

‘Exactly!’ I say. ‘Mrs Pritchett-Williams!’

‘Long gone,’ says Robert, folding his arms.

Long gone?

I feel shaken to my core. I had no idea. No idea.

I suppose Mrs Kendrick has been rather cagey about the financial situation of the charity. But then she’s cagey about so many things. (Like, for example, she won’t let us have the address of Lady Chapman, one of our supporters, for the database. She says Lady Chapman ‘wouldn’t like it’. So we have to write By hand on the envelope every time we want to send Lady Chapman anything, and Mrs Kendrick delivers it personally to her house.)

As I stare at Robert, I realize I’ve never once doubted the financial strength of Willoughby House. Mrs Kendrick has always told us that we’re doing well. We’ve seen the headline figure for the year and it’s always been great. It never occurred to me that Mrs Kendrick might have contributed to it.