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if it gives me indigestion. Just so long as I don't have to drink any of that stuff.' I eye the green gloop warily.

    'It's good for you.'

    'I'll take your word for it.'

    As Dermuid flings two rashers of bacon in the pan with a flourish, I ask, 'How long have you worked for the great Evan David? Is this a temporary gig for you, too?'

    Chef shakes his head. 'I'm on the permanent payroll and have been for two years,' he tells me as he continues to prepare Evan David's healthy feast. 'I travel with him when he's on tour. Which is always. He never stays in hotels. Hates them. Too many nasties. We always hire a place like this. Palatial, minimalist and Erin has it practically fumigated before he arrives. I trail all my own stuff with me in three great trunks.'

    'He doesn't believe in travelling light then?'

    'The only thing he believes in is getting exactly what he wants exactly when he wants it.' The wonderful smell of bacon fills the kitchen. 'He's a great bloke, really. Underneath it all,' he adds darkly.

    'What do you mean?'

    'He likes to shout,' Dermuid expands. 'Except on the days when he's performing, and then he might not speak at all.'

    'Must make it fun for his wife.'

    'He isn't married. I don't think that anyone would have him. His relationships always seem to be troubled. Evan reckons that the three worst karmas you can have are to be beautiful, successful and wealthy. He says they play havoc with your personal life.'

    'Yeah?' I try not to laugh. 'This is from a man who's never tried poverty, crap jobs and doesn't exactly look like the back end of a bus.'

    Dermuid looks slighted. 'I didn't say I bought into it.' He slaps my bacon sarnie onto a white, Japanese-style plate and decorates it with flat-leafed parsley and some sort of cherry tomato salsa.

    It's difficult to stop myself from slavering, and I remember that last night's dinner was a packet of cheese and onion crisps. 'I don't suppose there's any ketchup anywhere?'

    'No, there certainly isn't!' Evan David's voice booms out behind me.

    I have no idea how to disguise the fact that I have a bacon sarnie in front of me and resort to flushing guiltily.

    'So,' he says, rubbing a towel over his damp hair, 'I can't persuade you to join me in my healthy living plan while you're here?'

    'Er...'

    'Don't mind me,' Mr David says. 'Tuck into it. Enjoy.'

    I smile weakly and lift the wonderful-smelling concoction to my lips. 'Even though it will shorten your life by five years,' he adds.

    He sits down opposite me and studies me, which tends to reduce the enjoyment of my cholesterol overload. The jogging gear has been replaced by casual black linen, but the perpetual frown that he wears is still in place.

    I'd say that Evan David was about forty-four or forty-five years old. There are a few crinkle lines around his eyeswhich he can't have got from smilingand a fine weave of grey in his dark hair. He raises an eyebrow at me and I realise that I've been studying him, tooand he knows it.

    Dermuid hands him his breakfast, which does looks sickeningly healthy compared to mine. 'So, Fern,' he says after he swigs down his gloop. 'You're an opera buff.'

    'Er...Well...I...' We exchange a glance and I can't help but laugh. 'Did I really say that?'

    'You did.'

    'Then I'm a liar,' I say. 'I've never been to an opera in my life. I'd probably be hard pushed to even name one. The only time I've ever seen you is in the Royal Variety Performance or interviewed on Parkinson. '

    'Then you have a lot to learn,' Evan David tells me crisply. He finishes his breakfast and dabs at his mouth with a linen napkin. 'You might as well start today. I have a Sitzprobe rehearsal.'

    I try to put an intelligent look on my face.

    'A run-through with the full orchestra,' he explains. My intelligent look has clearly translated as completely blank. 'Come with me.' He glances at his watch. 'Get the laptop. We'll do some work in the breaks.'

    'Right,' I say, jumping up. 'Right.'

    'You have