‘Why are you scraping that meat, Merle?’

‘To feed my little Venus. That’s her breakfast. Come along. I’ve got a fly I caught under a sherry glass but I couldn’t catch more than one.’

The fly was very small. It was crawling up the inside of the glass, but when Merle approached it, it began to fly and buzz frenziedly against the transparent dome of its prison. Daphne turned her back. She went to the window, the huge plant-filled bay window, and looked out, pretending to be interested in the view. She heard the scrape of glass and from Merle a triumphant gasp. Merle trod very heavily. Under the thick carpet the boards creaked. Merle began talking to the plant in a very gentle maternal voice.

‘This really is a wonderful outlook,’ said Daphne brightly. ‘You can see for miles.’

Merle said, ‘C’est Venus toute entière à sa proie attachée.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You never were any good at languages, dear. Oh, don’t pretend you’re so mad about that view. You’re just being absurdly sensitive about what really amounts to gardening. I can’t bear that sort of dishonesty. I’ve finished now, anyway. She’s had her breakfast and all her mouths are shut up. Who are you waving to?’

‘A rather nice young couple who live in the flat next to me.’

‘Well, please don’t.’ Merle looked down and then drew herself up, all golden pleats and stiff gold curls. ‘You couldn’t know, dear, but those two people are the very end. For one thing, they’re not a couple, they’re not married, I’m sure of that. Of course, that’s no business of mine. What is my business is that they’ve been keeping a dog here – look, that spaniel thing – and it’s strictly against the rules to keep animals in these flats.’

‘What about your Fly Trap?’

‘Oh, don’t be so silly! As I was saying, they keep that dog and let it foul the garden. I wrote to the managing agents, but those agents are so lax – they’ve no respect for me because I’m a single woman, I suppose. But I wrote again the day before yesterday and now I understand they’re definitely going to be turned out.’

Forty feet below the window, on the parking space between the block and the garden, the boy who wore jeans and a leather jacket picked up his dog and placed it on the back seat of a battered car. His companion, who had waist-length hair much the colour of Merle’s dress, got into the passenger seat, but the boy hesitated. As Merle brought her face close to the glass, he looked up and raised two wide-splayed fingers.

‘Oaf!’ said Merle. ‘The only thing to do with people like that is to ignore them. Can you imagine it, he lets that dog of his relieve itself up against a really beautiful specimen of Cryptomeria japonica. Let’s forget him and have a nice cup of coffee.’

‘Merle, how long will those flowers last on that Venus thing of yours? I mean, they’ll soon die away, won’t they?’