I forced myself to stop counting. Feeling like a big blond ox, I lumbered pergolaward and took a chair next to Mary while Larry busied himself with glasses and ice. Very cosy and informal it was, no servants, just a small group of friends.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Mary said. ‘So kind of Larry.’

‘Uh-huh.’

From the far end of the pool two voices blended – to use the term loosely – in song. Apparently they were delving deep into the historical roots of country music, for this was a real oldie. ‘“If I had the wings of an angel, Over these prison walls I’d fly . . .”’

Not bloody likely, I thought. There was no way he’d get out of it this time. And nobody deserved it more.

II

When I got back to my room I found that my freshly pressed clothes had been returned to the closet. They smelled faintly of jasmine.

It wasn’t a closet, in fact, but an enormous gilded and painted cupboard, serving the same function as an armoire. My pitiful wardrobe occupied less than half of the vast interior. The cupboard was lined with sandalwood, and like every other piece of furniture in the room it was old, beautiful, and probably extremely valuable. I examined the paintings appreciatively, wishing I knew as much as I had claimed about medieval Islamic art. Like orthodox Judaism, Islam avoids the use of the human form in art. These designs featured flowers, animals, and the ornamental Kufic script. An ornate grille, gilded and pierced so cleverly that the openings formed part of an overall pattern, covered the top half of the doors. A good idea that, in a hot climate; it allowed air to circulate among the garments hanging inside.

In contrast to the bedroom, the adjoining bath was completely modern. There was even a built-in hair dryer, and I blessed Larry as I worked on my dank locks. I’d been a fool to let my hair grow long, it was thick and heavy and took forever to dry. I promised myself I’d have it cut as soon as I got home.

We were to dine, en famille, with our host at seven-fifteen. The reception started at nine. I figured it would be pretty fancy, but the best I could do was my good old, slinky black cocktail dress. I had just slipped into it when Schmidt banged on my door. He was ten minutes early. I padded on stockinged feet to the door and opened it. Schmidt’s face fell. He’s always trying to catch me with my clothes off.

‘You are ready,’ he said sadly.

‘Not by a damn sight. Sit down, Schmidt, I’ve got to do my hair.’

‘It is very pretty hanging over your shoulders like that. Leave it so.’

‘It gets in my mouth when I eat.’