But when she woke very early on Christmas morning the idea of another meeting with the computer analyst had palled rather, that wouldn’t be a very merry Christmas, she said to herself as she quickly showered and dressed and packed her script and her books into her bag, I’ve been welcomed to the era of Aids and now I think I’ll go home and scrub the kitchen floor, it could do with it. A yawning receptionist said Merry Christmas and made out her bill and Molly heard her own footsteps echoing across the marble floor to the exit.

Luckily her car was parked in a garage; she trudged through the falling snow to collect it. There were still not many people about in the cold Hastings morning and the sea was silent as the snow fell on it. Seagulls walked on the shore, arguing their white territory in shrill voices. In the Citroën, driving back to London slowly and carefully, she listened to Christmas carols from Ethiopia.

Inside her front door a pile of mail lay on the carpet, Christmas cards: she saw Banjo’s writing on one and tore it up without reading it. She was glad she had turned her answering machine off. The house was freezing; she put the central heating on, put on her oldest clothes, piled the table and the chairs and the rubbish bin and the vegetable basket into a corner of the kitchen and was already scrubbing at the lino, her knees covered with Ajax, when the doorbell rang.

At the door Anthony Bonham stood clutching a large bunch of red roses and three champagne bottles, his coat and his hair covered in snow. He was either drunk or suffering from a terrible hangover: she could smell the alcohol and his forehead was creased in a frown of pain.

As Molly stared at him, holding the door open, he stepped forward to cross the threshold and by some miscalculation tripped and fell at her feet. He immediately remembered doing this after the reunion in the doorway of his house in Chiswick.

‘Oh God,’ he moaned.

The champagne bottles rolled on the hall carpet but did not break; some of the red roses lay squashed between the carpet and his body.

‘God Molly darling,’ he said, lying there, lifting his head from the floor with an effort, ‘I couldn’t face Christmas with Portia, open the champagne, Merry Christmas,’ and his head fell back again. ‘We’re going to Rome at 8.30 pm from Heathrow,’ he said and closed his eyes.

‘Who is?’ she said, staring down at him.

‘You and I are. There’ll be a car waiting at Fiumicino.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I’m working.’

‘You’ve got four more days off after today, I checked with your agent, I knew you were in Hastings, I’ve got a palazzo.’ His eyes were still closed.

‘A what?’

‘A palazzo. An Italian palace.’

‘What?’