“Yeah. She bad-mouths you,” Tom put in, loyal and truthful to the last.

“Does she indeed?” Rowland said with a cool green glance in Lindsay’s direction. “Ah, well. The hostilities are over, Tom. We’re at the peace negotiation stage now, isn’t that right, Lindsay?”

Rowland contrived to make this process sound curiously erotic. Lindsay, who found his glance and his tone were affecting her body in a number of inexplicable ways, averted her gaze. Louise made an odd chirruping noise that possibly indicated parental indulgence and possibly indicated rage.

Lindsay had to admit that Rowland was both decisive and manful when he chose. Before Louise could launch her next salvo, he had Lindsay by the arm, had steered her through the door and led her down the stairs.

“She does that,” Lindsay said, getting into her car, which Rowland had parked perfectly, in a tiny space, with two inches to spare. She began hauling on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry, Rowland. She does it to everyone. She does it all the time.”

“I could see that,” he replied, unperturbed. “Hard left, Lindsay. Take it slowly. Well done.”

Scarlet with exertion and shame, Lindsay finally extricated them and set off up the street.

“East?” she said. “If I just keep going east, will you direct me from there?”

“You’re going north at present, Lindsay. Make a right, here.”

Lindsay obeyed. They bowled along for a considerable distance in silence. Lindsay had a slight run-in with a blind taxi driver, and a brief altercation with a battered Ford Cortina, occupied by four youthful comedians. The comedians overtook her on the inside; they appeared to object to her lane procedure at the last traffic circle. As they barreled past four arms were extended from the Cortina’s windows simultaneously, and four fingers were stabbed up at the air.

Lindsay hit the horn as the Ford disappeared into the distance. She glanced toward Rowland, who was still looking calm.

“You’re a pleasure to drive, Rowland. I can’t stand backseat drivers. People will tell me when to brake, or signal; it drives me mad. Gini’s impossible. Nervous as a cat. The whole way down to Max’s, she kept her eyes closed.”

“I don’t blame her,” Rowland said in easy tones. “You’re a terrible driver. You’re one of the worst drivers I’ve ever encountered in my life. Your only rival, as far as I’m concerned, was a one-eyed taxi driver who once drove me in Istanbul. He was smoking hashish at the time. He had something of your style.”

Lindsay decided to take this as a pleasantry. “I drive perfectly well,” she said firmly. “A bit fast, maybe. I don’t like hanging around.”

“Most women make poor drivers anyway,” Rowland went on. “They lack spatial awareness. Tests have been done. It’s been scientifically proved.”

“What nonsense.”

“It’s true. It’s why there are so few women architects. It’s why women make such mediocre chess players.”

“I play brilliant chess. I taught Tom.”

“Who wins when you play Tom now?”