The restaurant is one Amara remembers well. She smiles at Rufus, pleased he would think to bring her here, the place they visited before their first night together. The roof terrace is just as lovely as she remembers, shaded by its trellis of creeping vines, the view looking out over the rooftops to the deep blue of Vesuvius as dusk falls. It is partly guilt, she suspects, that has led Rufus to choose this place. Amara knows that he has slept with Victoria.

She reaches for her wine, and he catches her hand, kissing it. Amara tilts her head affectionately, as if charmed by the gesture, then raises her glass to drink. “You’re so beautiful,” Rufus murmurs.

Amara wonders if he says that to Victoria too. It has only happened a few times, and afterward, Victoria tells her, Rufus is full of remorse, swearing her to secrecy lest they break Amara’s heart. Poor Rufus has no idea the two women have set him up.

“You’re so good to me,” Amara replies, looking at him from lowered eyelashes.

Rufus accepts the compliment without a hint of discomfort. Not that guilty then, she thinks. It had been Amara who first noticed her patron’s attention starting to stray to her friend’s voluptuous figure every time Victoria performed for them in the garden. The glazed look in his eyes. After that, she mentioned the idea to Victoria and found her surprisingly happy to help. Amara left them alone together at every opportunity then dropped hints to Rufus about a whole day she intended to spend with Drusilla. Sure enough, Rufus called at the house when she was out.

“I don’t know why he’s always moaning about you eating.” Victoria had mused afterward, while she and Amara gossiped together in her rooms. “He didn’t seem to mind my curves at all.”

It made Amara uncomfortable then, thinking of her patron and Victoria together, but she had still managed to laugh. Let Victoria crow a little. Amara would, after all, prefer not to sleep with Rufus herself, so why should it matter? Drusilla has always held on to a patron’s interest through a variety of women. And this is one way of ensuring she does not lose Philos.

“Don’t you think that’s enough, little bird?” Rufus asks, interrupting her thoughts. He is looking pointedly at the chunk of sea urchin she is in the process of lifting out of the bowl that sits between them.

“I don’t really think I’m fat, my love,” she replies, continuing to spoon the seafood onto her plate.

“Of course not,” Rufus exclaims, eyes widening as if horrified by the idea. “I just think you’re perfect exactly as you are.”

“This is such a treat for me,” she adds. “We do try to be sensible with meals back at the house. And I have such happy memories of this place.”