“Sorry. Got another egg to boil, and can’t afford to make the same mistake twice.”

A second rap on the door, even firmer.

“Get on with it,” said Jenny, remaining by the stove.

Priya prepared a little speech as she walked slowly into the hall.

“I’m sorry, but—” she began as she opened the front door to find a young man standing on the doorstep holding a red rose.

“Are you Miss Priya Ghuman?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I was asked to give you this.”

Priya thanked him, closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

“Was it him?” asked Jenny.

“No, but he sent this,” she said, holding up the rose.

“I really must start going to more cricket matches,” said Jenny.

*   *   *

“On the hour, every hour?” asked Clive.

“That’s right,” said Seb.

“And for just how long do you intend to keep sending her a rose on the hour, every hour?” asked Victor.

“For as long as it takes.”

“There’s got to be one very happy florist out there somewhere.”

“Tell me, Vic, do Jewish parents feel as strongly about their children marrying outside their faith?”

“I have to admit,” said Vic, “when my parents invited Ruth to dinner three Fridays in a row, I knew the only thing I was going to be allowed to choose was the vegetables.”

“How can we even begin to understand the pressure Priya must be facing?” said Clive. “I feel for her.”

“On a lighter note, Seb,” said Victor, “does this mean you won’t be taking her to The Merchant of Venice at the National tonight?”

“It seems unlikely, so you may as well have my tickets.” He took out his wallet and handed them to Clive. “Hope you both enjoy it.”

“We could toss a coin,” said Victor, “to decide which one of us goes with you.”

“No, I have other plans for tonight.”

*   *   *

“It’s Miss Jenny Barton on line three, Mr. Clifton.”

“Put her through.”

“Hi, Seb. I was just calling to say hang in there. She’s weakening.”

“But she hasn’t replied to any of my letters, doesn’t answer my calls, won’t acknowledge—”

“Perhaps you should try to see her.”

“I see her every day,” said Seb. “I’m standing outside Hambros when she turns up for work in the morning, and again when she catches her bus in the evening. I’m even there when she gets back to her flat at night. If I try any harder, I could be arrested for stalking.”

“I’m visiting my parents in Norfolk this weekend,” said Jenny, “and I won’t be back until Monday morning. I can’t do much more to help, so get on with it.”

*   *   *