‘One more,’ John pleaded, looking soulfully at me from under his lashes.

‘Yes, there is time. Let me think. Ah! Here is one you may not have heard, it is the latest hit of the famous Road Sisters.’

The song was ‘You’re a Detour on the Highway to Heaven.’ A sample will suffice, I believe.

‘When mama lay a-dyin’ on the flatbed, She told me not to truck with gals like you; But you were just one more roadside attraction, And I went joy-ridin’ jest for the view.’

I cut Schmidt off after three verses and three choruses.

John’s face was rapt. ‘My God,’ he said reverently. ‘That’s magnificent. It’s even better than the one about Jesus and the goal posts of life. How does it go again? “Your curves made me lose my direction . . .”’

‘Schmidt,’ I said, through clenched teeth.

‘Yes, Vicky, we will go.’ Rising, he took John’s arm. ‘“Mein’ hand from the steering wheel strayed . . .”’

They went off arm in arm, voices clashing in duet. It was the most outrageous noise I have ever heard, and I have stepped on the tail of a cat or two in my time.

I caught Mary’s eye.

‘He’s like that sometimes,’ she said, with a stiff, apologetic little smile. ‘So whimsical.’

‘Whimsical’ wasn’t the word I would have chosen.

III

Getting Schmidt ready for the grand dinner and costume party was almost as bad as decking a bride out for the wedding. (Yes, I’ve been a bridesmaid. Twice.) It didn’t take me long to dress. Schmidt, that sly little rascal, had presented me with three ghastly garments he had bought from the guys in the boats; one was too short, one was too tight, and the third was both, and all three were covered with multicolored sequins. I had already decided I wasn’t going to appear in public in any of the three. I put on the simple blue-and-white-stripe robe I had bought at The Suq and studied the effect. It might not be glamorous, but it was very comfortable and very simple: two rectangles stitched together at the shoulders and down the sides, with open spaces left for the insertion of the arms. Blue braid outlined the neck opening and a perpendicular slit down the front.

I slung on all my fake gold jewellery and, after considering the question for longer than it merited (‘Take his letters and his locket . . .’) I fastened around my neck the chain that held the golden rose. Too many people had access to my room and that ornament was unusual enough and valuable enough to arouse speculation. I tucked the pendant firmly down into my bra so it could not be seen or dislodged, and proceeded to Schmidt’s room.

When he opened the door his pink mouth sagged in disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you wear one of your beautiful new gowns? That is too plain, too large. It is ugly!’