‘They’ve mostly fallen out,’ shouted Emily from her sofa. ‘Fancy blacking that poor boy’s eye; mind this one, Nicholas, he looks dangerous. Who are you?’ She stared belligerently at Martin.

Keeping out of reach, wrapping his thumb in his handkerchief, Martin said: ‘I am extremely sorry. I was passing this way and thought I would collect my umbrella, which I left at the concert.’ (Why am I apologising?)

‘Umbrella,’ said Emily, ‘umbrella?’

Nicholas groaned. ‘God, I haven’t been so pissed for years. Thank you, darling.’ Laura was taking off his shoes.

‘Just put some logs on the fire,’ she said to Martin, ‘he’ll go to sleep in a minute and so will she.’ She moved across to Emily and removed her shoes.

‘Lovely.’ Emily wiggled her toes.

‘Rugs,’ muttered Laura and went away to return with rugs which she swathed round the old people, propping their heads on cushions. Her actions were tender and considerate. ‘You are not all that wet,’ she said, ‘I’d never get you up to bed.’

Martin watched her. She rearranged the logs he had put on the fire and watched it blaze, then stood looking down at the old people swaddled now in rugs, lying quietly. ‘Better leave the light on in case they get dizzy,’ she murmured.

Nicholas gave a loud snore and let his arms fall away from the dog, who now leapt from his master’s arms and approached Martin, snarling.

Terrified but inspired Martin shouted, ‘Die for Eastbourne!’

Bonzo rolled over and lay flat.

Laura let out a whoop of laughter: ‘Oh, how? Oh, where did you? Oh, ho, ho, ho ho.’ She pressed her hand against her side. ‘Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, it hurts.’

‘I will just get my umbrella,’ said Martin, ‘then I’d better push off.’ He felt acutely embarrassed. This was not how he had visualised introducing himself.

‘Yes,’ said Laura, ‘yes.’ Her eyes brimming, she followed Martin into the hall. ‘Of course,’ she said weakly. She was still giggling uncontrollably. ‘Your umbrella.’

Martin took the umbrella from the stand and said, ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Laura, pulling herself together as she opened the door for him to step out into the rain.

Martin opened the umbrella and held it up; as the rain pattered down onto it, he was surprised to find he was trembling.

His aunt was still up when he got back. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked, switching off the television.

‘I don’t know,’ said Martin. ‘I got bitten.’

‘You’ll find Elastoplast in the kitchen,’ said Calypso. ‘Goodnight, my dear, I am going to bed. What a risky occupation yours is.’

The tone of his aunt’s voice, thought Martin, dabbing antiseptic on his wound, exactly matched the smile Laura had given him as he left. In America women did not ridicule with such diabolical accuracy, they were kind to the weaker sex.

‘I suppose you talked to Ann Kennedy?’ Calypso called from the top of the stairs.

‘Who is Ann Kennedy?’ Martin answered unguardedly.