He paused, looking at Rowland speculatively. Rowland, examining a photograph of Max in full cricket regalia, made no response.

“I mean, face facts, Rowland. Now that you’ve actually seen her, perhaps you’ll understand. You still think a two-day-charm offensive’s going to work?”

“I imagine it can’t do any harm.”

“Well, I wish you luck. I told you, it was a nightmare, hiring her. There she is—she and Lindsay—both at the News, both dying to leave it, because that bloody awful Nicholas Jenkins is taking it so far down-market, nothing but sex, sex, sex. Incidentally, have you seen his circulation figures?”

“Another fifty-two thousand? Yes, I have.”

“Bloody man. And it was a good paper once. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. Poaching Lindsay and Gini. Well, Lindsay was simplicity itself. Stated her terms—we had the entire deal sewn up over lunch. A very good lunch, actually, at Tante Claire. Best Meursault I’ve ever had in my life. Two bottles. It was fun. Whereas Gini…” He made a face. “She played me off against the Times. For months.”

“So? You’ve used precisely that technique in the past. So have I. Everyone does.”

“I know. But I just didn’t expect it, that’s all. Not from a woman who looks like that. Charlotte thinks she looks like a Crivelli Madonna.”

Rowland was silent.

“—And I told her, that certainly wouldn’t be most men’s response. It wasn’t mine, and I speak as the most happily married man I know. I mean, you must have noticed—there’s something about the mouth. And her figure—put it like this: it didn’t immediately bring Madonnas to mind.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Max.” Rowland gave a gesture of annoyance. “She’s a journalist. An exceptionally good journalist. Can’t you just leave it at that?”

“No, I can’t,” Max replied with spirit. He eyed Rowland narrowly. “And I have to say, that’s rich, coming from you. Since when were you indifferent to women? There’s a new one every week.”

“Maybe so. That wasn’t always the case. As you very well know, Max.”

There was a brief silence. This answer brought them perilously close to an area of Rowland’s private life he would never, perhaps could never, discuss. There, Max was afraid to trespass. The last time he had dared to raise the subject of Esther had been at least four years before—and he could still remember Rowland’s biting anger when he had done so.

“I do know,” he said now. “But it was six years ago, Rowland. And you’ve broken a lot of hearts since.”

“Not my intention.” Rowland turned his back.

“You use these women, Rowland,” Max persisted. “You may not see it that way, but it’s what you do. I know you loved Esther, but can’t you exorcise her some other way?”

“What would you recommend?” Rowland swung around, white-faced. “Drink? Work? I’ve tried those remedies. Mind your own business, Max.”

“You can’t grieve forever, Rowland. Not even you can do that.” Max spoke quietly. Rowland began on some angry reply, then bit the words back. He averted his face, and Max, having dared this much, said no more. He lit a cigarette and watched his friend thoughtfully. He considered certain comments his wife had made on the subject of Rowland; he considered her matchmaking plans for this weekend. Had he been right to curtail them? Charlotte had accused him of getting cold feet, and Max had agreed. “Yes, I am,” he had replied. “Rowland’s love life is a mine field. I should never have let you even consider this. Lindsay? I must have been mad. We should leave well enough alone.”