Over dinner that evening, Max got carried away describing the palace gardens on Isola Bella and Glain sat and watched him, all dewy-eyed. When they carried their coffees out onto the terrace, Cai remained at the table, aware of the stiffness in his calves and thighs after the daylong hike. Stretching his legs gently, he watched Marco, the waiter who’d served them, and tried not to think about his aching muscles. Marco had that slight stoop of so many tall men; an apology for having his head stuck above the crowd or just a habit developed from too many bumps against beams and door lintels? His skin was dark against the whiteness of his shirt. Perhaps there were sculptured curves concealed within the crisp cotton – muscles toned at a gym or worked out in the early morning along the lengths of a pool – but he looked too lean for his own good. His hair was slicked and spiky, as seemed to be the season’s fashion, and blacker than shoe polish. When he lifted his head he always wore a smile that evoked a sense of well-being… and doubtless elicited generous tips. Cai sensed the rousing in his body. It surprised and shocked him: such feelings had been quiet for so long. And he remembered how the memory of the youth who’d served him bread and cheese had come back to him. Lingering over his espresso, he wrestled with the sense that he was betraying Tudor… and held on to the vain hope that Marco’s cheerful eyes would hold him in a cruisy gaze.

After seeing two specialists, there was an operation to remove his breast, some of the lymph nodes under his arm and part of the chest wall muscles. He never showed me the scar… never let me draw my fingers gently over it, or run my tongue along its length. He never let me kiss it better.