‘No. A wintry smile if she was pleased. A pained look if she was displeased.’

‘How sad,’ says Judith.

‘She had been brought up in an old-fashioned upper-class household. Nannies. Governesses. She saw her parents only for half an hour before bedtime.’

‘No loving role model,’ says Judith.

‘No one is taught parenting,’ says Jomier. ‘You can take courses in almost anything, and almost everything is subject to regulation and control, except the one thing that has a greater bearing on human happiness than anything else – how to bring up a child. As a result, we make mistakes which are handed down from generation to generation.’

‘But your children sound fine,’ says Judith.

Jomier reflects; then: ‘Tilly was good with the children.’

They have reached the Rialto Bridge. Jomier is about to tell Judith how, thirty years before, he and Tilly had come to the Rialto Bridge from the same direction and after crossing it had got lost in the narrow streets looking for the Museum of Modern Art. He changes his mind. This recollection of a happy moment with another woman might not be something that Judith would want to hear. Jomier stops the words from leaving his mouth but the memory remains in his head. An impromptu winter holiday. He had finished a long trial and felt rich. They had left the children with Tilly’s parents, flown to Turin, hired a car and driven across the Po valley, staying in Parma, Ferrara and Padua before arriving in Venice. There were no tourists. They were almost alone in the restaurants and hotels. Tilly had been so fresh and pretty and happy. There was no Max, only Jomier: love brimmed over from her eyes when she smiled.

The memory now makes Jomier feel sad. He fights this sadness: he struggles to prevent his mood spiralling down into a pit. The past is past. The Tilly who loved him is dead. The Jomier who loved Tilly is dead. He is in love with someone else – an attractive woman, albeit a yoga teacher and no spring chicken, but healthy, cultured, companionable and accomplished in bed. Judith does not notice the struggle going on in his mind: she has let go of his arm and is examining a bead necklace displayed on a stall on the Rialto Bridge. She asks its price, then shakes her head. She wants the necklace but feels she is being taken for a sucker. She haggles. She is an experienced haggler from the souks of Morocco, the casbahs of Damascus, the markets of Kerala and Rangoon. Tilly had never haggled. She was too much the grande dame. Jomier does not haggle either. He puts himself in the shoes of the Venetian. Tourists are there to be fleeced.

Judith strikes a deal. She buys the necklace. ‘Don’t you think it’s pretty?’ Bright blue glass beads linked together by a delicate silver chain.

‘Is it for Ophelia?’