The woman beside him was saying she had named her dog after the actor. The dog was a cocker spaniel, she said. She wished she could tell the actor. She had read all about him in magazines; she knew him like a friend. Harold tried to lean against the statue for a better look, but the statue gave him a sharp dig in the ribs. The bleached sky shone. Sweat broke out on Harold’s neck and slid from his armpits, clamping his shirt to his skin.

By the time Harold made it back to the spa, a flock of young women on a hen party were playing in the water and he didn’t want to alarm them or get in the way, so he took a quick steam and left in a hurry. At the Pump Room, he asked if he might take a sample of the health-giving water to a very good friend in Berwick-upon-Tweed. The waiter poured some into a bottle and charged five pounds because Harold had mislaid his ticket for the Roman Baths. It was already early afternoon, and he needed to get back on the road.

♦

In the public lavatories, Harold found himself washing his hands next to the actor from the book signing. He was wearing a leather jacket and trousers, and cowboy boots with a small heel. The man stared at his face in the mirror, pulling at the skin, as if he were checking it for something missing. Close up, his hair was so dark it looked plastic. Harold didn’t want to intrude on the actor. He dried his hands and pretended he was thinking of something else.

“Don’t tell me you have a dog named after me as well,” said the actor. He was staring straight up at Harold. “Today I am not in the mood.”

He told the actor he didn’t have a dog. As a child, he added, he had been bitten many times by a Pekinese called Chinky. This was probably not politically correct; the aunt who owned him had not troubled herself with other people’s feelings. “But I have been walking and I have met some nice dogs recently.”

The actor returned to his reflection. He continued to talk about the dog-naming issue, as if Harold’s interjections about his aunt had not been made. “Every day, someone comes up to tell me about their dog and how they’ve given it my name. They say it as if I should be happy. They haven’t the first idea.”

Harold agreed this was unfortunate, although secretly he thought it must be flattering. He couldn’t imagine anyone calling their pet Harold, for instance.

“I spent years doing serious work. I did a whole season at Pitlochry. Then I make one costume drama, and that’s it. Everyone in the country thinks it’s original to name a dog after me. Did you come to Bath for my book?”