Elspeth returned to India Street. Matthew had got out of bed but was still in his dressing gown. He looked at her half expectantly, half guiltily.

‘I’ve just come back from Moray Place,’ she said. ‘You know what the surveyor said?’

Matthew put his hands to his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t want to hear.’

‘Matthew, my darling! He said that it was a very wise purchase! And he moved the Chinese cabinet. Nothing happened, Matthew, nothing!’

It took a moment or two for her words to sink in. When they did, he moved towards her, throwing his arms around her, showering her with kisses. It was a complete transformation; the self-doubting husband she had left that morning was nowhere to be seen; the gentle optimist she had married had returned.

‘And?’ he asked tentatively. ‘The gallery?’

She nodded. ‘Sorted out.’

‘Maturely?’

She hesitated. Was there much difference, she wondered, between the world of Olive and Tofu on the one hand and the adult world on the other? Not really.

‘More or less,’ she said.

83. A Hinterland of Regret

Over the next few days, Domenica and Angus slipped naturally into a daily routine as peaceful and as soporific as the Tuscan countryside itself. Breakfast was taken on the patio at the front of the villa, gazing out over the gently rolling countryside to the little hill town of Sant’ Angelo in Colle in the distance. Sitting over large cups of milky coffee, they discussed the day ahead with all the urgency and anxiety of those who knew that they had nothing to do – that is, with none of either. An outing might be suggested, but not necessarily acted upon – perhaps a run down to the abbey at San’ Antimo or over to Monte Oliveto Maggiore to view the frescoes of Giovanni Bazzi, il Sodoma. ‘Such an unfortunate nickname,’ said Domenica. ‘Like all nicknames, so unkind.’

Angus did not think that true: there were affectionate nicknames, too, but he did not argue; not here in this setting, with the heat beginning to make the hills shimmer and the air fill with the orchestral shriek of insects.

‘I’d also like to see his frescoes in Siena,’ he said. ‘In the Basilica of San Domenico, Domenica.’ He paused. ‘He depicts the life of St Catherine of Siena. Such a tiresome saint, I’m afraid, with all her fasting and constant letter-writing. But she meant well, I suppose. She eventually gave up water – an ultimate sign of piety.’

‘And?’ asked Domenica.

‘That was the end,’ said Angus. ‘Giving up food is one thing, but water’s another, I’m afraid. Her eating disorders made her seem very light, apparently. Her supporters saw her floating above the ground from time to time.’

‘Like St Joseph of Copertino,’ said Domenica. ‘Didn’t he float?’