‘What does Auntie Rachel say?’

‘She’s not happy. But then, I have a sense that Auntie Rachel isn’t happy about much in her life. Ultimately, it’s his father who has to make the decision. He might think the worst thing that could happen to his son is to be left to the tender mercies of a pair of big old dykes. But until that happens, I think we need to hang on to Torin. It’s what he wants, and I think you in particular might be what he needs.’

Paula gobbled some more chilli, suddenly starving. ‘I don’t seem to have much say in this.’ It was, they both recognised, an objection for form’s sake only. More a gentle demurral than a righteous protest.

‘Like you’re going to start walking away from doing the right thing. Now finish up that chilli and get on the trail of Carol Jordan.’

Paula smiled. ‘I had an idea about that.’

43

The cuisine that Marco Mather had learned from his mother was one of the healthiest in the world. At its heart, the Southern Italian food was the diet of peasants, too poor for obscure or luxurious items. It was based on a handful of easily grown vegetables and herbs, olives and their oil, cheeses made from the milk of hardy goats and sheep, and small amounts of game and poultry. But like so many other aspects of modern life, it had become corrupted by money.

That frugal but delicious diet had spread like a spare tyre to embrace all manner of richness. Estate-bottled olive oil used as a dip for enriched breads; cream and butter liberally added to sauces and ragus which contained more meat than their original creators would have eaten in a month; full-fat cheeses from grass-fed dairy cows; and an endless supply of tasty processed pig products. Italian food at its worst had become an invitation to obesity and furred-up arteries.

It was an invitation that Marco had embraced. The food he created for their daily dinners was loaded with calories and cholesterol. Marie loved it, but she fought its effects by skipping breakfast and sticking strictly to so-called healthy options at lunchtime. Marco, working from home at his desk, had only his willpower to keep him from food during the day, and it generally let him down at least once between breakfast and bedtime. For a long time, his natural metabolism had kept his weight more or less under control. But as middle age crept closer, so the pounds were creeping on. His trousers were tighter and his thighs had begun to rub together as he walked.