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Nick, on the other hand, had a go within a few days of Mariana’s starting work with us in August. Well, of course he did. At the time he was driving a secondhand Porsche 911, while I had a Land Rover Discovery: slower and much less impressive, perhaps, but far more practical when you have to get to a barn conversion at the far end of a Yorkshire dale. Those two cars told you all you needed to know about the difference between us.
    Nick took Mariana out for a drink a couple of times, then laid on dinner at a restaurant he knew near York Castle. The owner knew Nick and appreciated his generous tips and fondness for expensive claret. He always greeted Nick with an effusive smile, gave him the quietest, most secluded table and made a fuss over the girl he was with. From then on it was up to Nick to close the deal.
    ‘Not a chance,’ he replied, when I asked him about it over bacon sandwiches and coffee in the office the following morning. In those days it was our habit to get in early once in a while to talk things over before everyone else arrived. Since Mariana was an employee, albeit unpaid, we agreed that her dinner with Nick constituted company business and thus a fit subject for discussion.
    ‘She was very polite, very sweet, said thank you for dinner and gave me a peck on the cheek. And it was blindingly bloody obvious that was all I was ever going to get.’
    ‘Have the dynamic duo tried their luck?’ I asked.
    ‘Jake did. He’s such a chancer, that lad, he’ll always have a go.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Same thing: smile, peck, no dice. Young Master Laurence is still trying to find the courage to make a frontal assault. But let’s be honest, it’s a kamikaze mission.’
    ‘Which just leaves me …’ I said.
    Nick laughed. I laughed. We both knew that was never going to happen.
    The following day, I took Mariana on a site visit to a farmhouse renovation we were doing for a couple called the Blacks, just outside Harrogate. The main building work had all been completed. It was now just a question of fitting out the interior.
    Mariana was quiet and watchful, saying nothing as I spoke to the tradesmen, checked work against the plans and had a lengthy discussion with Mrs Black about where she wanted various bits of equipment to go in the kitchen and utility room. There were seven men working on site and every single one of them found a different reason to come into the kitchen during the fifteen minutes or so that we were talking. It was painfully obvious that they were all after the same thing: a good look at Mariana.
    The fuss was making Mrs Black increasingly irritated. She was a well-preserved woman in her fifties and it had obviously taken a great deal of exercise, shopping, dieting, hairdressing and make-up to keep her looking the way she did. Yet here was a girl young enough to be her daughter outshining her without any visible effort at all. It didn’t help that her husband was barely able to stop himself drooling at the vision that had descended into his unfinished kitchen.
    I was wondering how to ease the growing tension and persuade Mrs Black to put her hob where I had originally planned, not where she now wanted it, when Mariana spoke up.
    ‘Excuse me, Peter,’ she said, ‘but I have to agree with Mrs Black. I can see, of course, that it is practical, yes, to have the hob against the wall, where you have put it. But there, whoever is cooking must look at a blank wall. If you place it on the island, as she suggests, then Mrs Black can look out and see what is happening in the house. She can talk to guests. She does not have her back to everything. So it is much better.’
    Then she looked at Mrs Black and in a low, conspiratorial voice said, ‘You know, Mr Crookham is a very brilliant architect, but still, he is only a man. There are some things he will never understand.’
    The older woman smiled for the first time since the conversation had begun. Mariana walked over, took her arm and said, ‘I think