‘Of course not,’ said Angus hurriedly. ‘I know just how busy your Saturdays are. What with …’ He tried to recall what it was that Domenica liked to do on a Saturday; was it something to do with the Farmers’ Market? Or did she go to see somebody, some old trout (as he referred to her) who lived down in Stockbridge and was something to do with the Labour Party? Angus had a habit – a most annoying one, Domenica thought – of calling any woman over forty an old trout. He had not dared do with this Big Lou, of course, who was thirty-eight, or thereabout – nobody quite knew, and it was well known that people from Arbroath often looked younger than they really were. And even if he had not trouted her, she had taken him to task for this, although he had defended himself vigorously.

‘You call women hen, Lou. You’re one to talk.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Big Lou. ‘It’s a term of endearment.’

‘As is trout,’ said Angus.

They had left it at that.

Even if Domenica had been intending to go to the Farmers’ Market or visit a woman in Stockbridge to discuss Labour Party matters, she would not be doing this on that particular Saturday as she had a very good reason to have a word with Angus. Ever since she had heard that he was included in the planned Italian trip, she had been anxious to discuss the matter with him. What she wanted to find out was the circumstances in which the invitation had been extended, and what Angus thought about it. Did he know, she wondered, that she was coming too? If he did not, then she might wait to see if he mentioned the trip; a failure to do so would indicate that Angus was hoping to slip away to Italy with Antonia without letting her know about it. That would be an unequivocally disloyal thing to do and their friendship, she feared, would surely run aground on such dishonest and duplicitous rocks. Angus was not a dishonourable man, but he was a man, after all, and men were unquestionably weak. Jezebels like Antonia – or would-be Jezebels, perhaps – would know how to exploit a man’s weakness, how to turn his head by inviting him to a villa in Italy.

By the time that Angus arrived in Scotland Street that morning, Domenica had worked herself up into a considerable lather at the thought of Antonia’s tactics. Angus, though, appeared breezy.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Here I am. Cyril, you’ll be pleased to hear, has chosen to remain on your landing, tied – ignominiously, for such an intelligent creature – to a railing. Uninvited, be it noted, in spite of having had a bath only two or three weeks ago.’