‘Sylvie, I’m so sorry.’ She puts a hand on my arm. ‘I know I’ve left you in the lurch recently. I’ve been rather busy.’

‘Robert said you’ve been learning to use a computer?’

‘Indeed I have! I have an Apple Mac.’ She says the words carefully, as though enunciating a foreign language. A-pple Mac.

‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Amazing.’

‘Oh, you can do all sorts of things on it. I bought this “online”, you know.’ She plucks at the white frilly shirt she’s wearing. ‘Do you see? They delivered it straight to my house from the shop. I just had to type in my credit card number. So convenient.’ She nods, as though satisfied with herself. ‘And then I reviewed it on Review Your Stuff. Four stars out of five. Nice fabric but the buttons are a little cheap. You can read my review, if you like.’

I feel a bit speechless. Mrs Kendrick has gone from not knowing what a computer is, barely, to reviewing products online?

‘Right,’ I say at last. ‘Well, I don’t know that particular website—’

‘Oh, but you must, you must.’ She fixes me with a glittering eye. ‘Reviewing is the most marvellous hobby. You can review anything. I reviewed the policeman standing outside my block of flats yesterday.’

Robert turns and stares at her incredulously.

‘Aunt Margaret, you can’t review policemen.’

‘Of course you can,’ says Mrs Kendrick crisply. ‘In the “General” category you can review anything you like. Teabags … holidays … policemen. I’m afraid I only gave him three stars. He was slightly dull about the eyes and wore his uniform badly.’

As she speaks, she eyes the shaven-headed guy meaningfully, and I bite my lip. Mrs Kendrick is back on form. Thank God for that. And I’m definitely going to look up some of her reviews. I just love the idea of Mrs Kendrick’s views on life being disseminated across the internet.

The shaven-headed guy moves towards the rear of the hall and I say quietly, ‘Who’s that?’

‘That is Robert’s guest. I believe his name is “Mike”.’ She enunciates ‘Mike’ with slight disdain.

‘You know his name is Mike,’ says Robert patiently.

‘Really, Robert, this has nothing to do with me,’ says Mrs Kendrick frostily. ‘You may proceed however you wish. When I’m dead, it will all be yours, anyway.’

‘Are you selling up?’ I stare at Robert. ‘Weren’t you going to give us a chance first?’

‘I’m finding out our options,’ he says a little testily. ‘Gathering information.’

‘Some people give up.’ Mrs Kendrick gives Robert a scathing look. ‘Others think outside the space.’

‘“Outside the space”?’ As Robert confronts Mrs Kendrick, he seems beleaguered and I wonder if this disagreement has been going on all morning. ‘Outside the space isn’t even a saying! As I’ve told you, all I’m doing is getting a valuation …’

‘And as I have told you, Robert,’ Mrs Kendrick retorts crisply, ‘I have come up with an ingenious plan in which you do not seem interested. You may think I’m a dinosaur, but I can move with the times.’

Robert sighs. ‘Look, I am interested, but I need to deal with this first …’

‘It is a forward-looking idea.’ Mrs Kendrick turns to me. ‘It involves a smartphone.’

I clamp my lips together, trying not to smile. Mrs Kendrick enunciates ‘smartphone’ with the same care as ‘Apple Mac’, accentuating ‘phone’ instead of ‘smart’. ‘Smartphone’.

‘Mavis, where is your smartphone?’ She raises her voice. ‘We need the smartphone.’

Mavis is one of our most stalwart volunteers, a plump lady with dark bobbed hair, shapeless dresses and sturdy shoes that she wears all year round. She’s clutching an iPhone and brandishes it at Mrs Kendrick. ‘Here you are, Margaret. Are you ready?’

‘Well, not quite.’ Mrs Kendrick looks around the hall, as though seeing the occasional tables and porcelain urns and eighteenth-century paintings for the first time.

What on earth is she planning to do? Take a selfie? Post a picture of Willoughby House online? Write a review?

‘Where shall I stand?’ Mavis looks around. ‘A few steps back, I think?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Kendrick nods. ‘Perfect.’

I’m watching, intrigued, as they manoeuvre themselves round the hall. Mavis keeps holding her iPhone up as though to frame Mrs Kendrick, and the pair of them seem to have something quite specific in mind.

‘Robert, to the left,’ says Mrs Kendrick suddenly. ‘Just a little. And “Mike”?’ Even as she addresses him, she manages to make his name sound ridiculous. ‘Could you possibly stand on the stairs? Now, quiet, everyone, I’m going to film.’

Before anyone can protest, she draws breath, beams at the iPhone and begins speaking, whilst simultaneously walking backwards over the black and white tiled floor, like a TV presenter.

‘Welcome to Willoughby House,’ she says in clear, distinct tones. ‘A hidden gem in London. A treasure trove of art and antiquities. And a snapshot of what life was really like … Argh!’

‘Shit!

‘Oh my God!’

Everyone cries out in horror as Mrs Kendrick stumbles on the tiled floor, trips, and crashes heavily into a little circular table, knocking a blue and white urn flying. It seems almost to stop, poised in mid-air, before Robert, in a flying rugby tackle, hurls himself at it. He grasps the urn, rolls on the hard floor and there’s an audible crack as his head hits the stair banister.

‘Robert!’ Mrs Kendrick shrieks. ‘That’s twenty thousand pounds you’ve just saved!’

‘Twenty grand?’ Robert stares at the urn with such an expression of horror I want to laugh. ‘What’s wrong with the bloody world? Who would pay twenty grand for this?’

‘Are you all right, mate?’ Mike descends the stairs.

‘Fine. Fine.’ Slowly, grasping the urn tightly, Robert gets to his feet.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Kendrick?’ I ask, because after all, she got a bit of a bump, too.

‘Of course I’m all right,’ says Mrs Kendrick impatiently. ‘Play it back, Mavis. Let’s see it.’

We all crane over Mavis’s shoulder and watch Mrs Kendrick backing over the tiles, talking in distinct, serene tones, stumbling … and then the total chaos that followed. Oh God, you can’t help but laugh.

‘Next time, try walking forward,’ says Robert pointedly to his aunt as it finishes.

‘Well, at least the urn didn’t break,’ I remind him.

‘Twenty grand.’ Robert is still staring incredulously at the urn. ‘For a pot. Is that insured separately? I mean, shouldn’t it be in a locked case?’

But Mrs Kendrick isn’t listening to any of us. She’s saying, ‘Put it on Twitter, Mavis! And YouTube. Load it up! Now.’ She looks at me and Robert. ‘Everyone must start twittering,’ she says firmly. ‘Sharing. Whatever you call it.’

‘What?’ I say stupidly.

‘Twittering! If we want to go viral, we have to twitter. Now, what shall we call it?’

Viral?

A sudden suspicion is forming in my mind – and as I glance at Robert I see he’s thinking the same way.

‘Aunt Margaret,’ he says in even tones, ‘was that faked?’

‘Of course it was faked,’ says Mrs Kendrick with asperity. ‘Robert, as I said, I’m not a dinosaur. The more people who see this video, the more people will know the name of Willoughby House.’

‘I’ve just asked my grandson’s advice,’ announces Mavis breathlessly, looking up from her phone. ‘He suggests, “That awkward moment when your priceless urn nearly breaks.”’

‘Marvellous.’ Mrs Kendrick nods at Mavis. ‘Type it in, dear.’

‘But you let me dive to the floor! I bumped my head!’ Robert sounds really quite aggrieved.

Mrs Kendrick gives him a frosty smile. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to act.’

‘And what if the urn had broken?’ he demands. ‘That would have been twenty grand. You risked twenty grand for a viral video!’

‘Oh, Robert.’ Mrs Kendrick gives him a supremely pitying look. ‘Have a little sense. It’s not really worth twenty thousand pounds. I bought it from John Lewis.’

Robert looks so apoplectic, I want to laugh, although I’m not sure if it’s because his aunt has got one over on him, or because his head is still sore, or because Mike gives a sudden snort of laughter.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say diplomatically, and head upstairs to the office – and the whole thing has almost, kind of, sort of, cheered me up.

Sure enough, the video is soon up on YouTube, and every time I check, it’s been viewed by another fifty or so people. It’s not exactly a sneezing panda but I do think Mrs Kendrick has the right idea.

But even a viral video can’t keep my 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.