‘Certainly, Mr Wright,’ Toby says. ‘He’s in the drawing room.’ ‘Good. Send through’—Adam stops and surveys me with narrowed eyes before continuing—‘a grazing platter. Nothing too sugary. Plenty of protein. We’ll eat properly when Dyson’s done his thing.’ We certainly won’t, I think, but instead I shoot Toby a smile I hope is grateful and apologetic as I follow Adam, who’s already striding off to one of the sets of open double doors. Oh, sweet Jesus.
