‘You’re a long way away,’ I observed.

‘Let me know if you need anything, okay?’

‘Okay. Can we just discuss your work for a while?’

‘I hoped we could. I gave a speech at the Rome conference. An impromptu after-dinner thing. A few statements comparing today’s USA to Rome. Dictatorships. Tyrants.’

He’d always been a political loudmouth – funny, inclined to find trouble. ‘People enjoyed it. I’ve been asked to write a human-interest piece about Nero and fake news. We wrote these pieces together back in uni.’

He remembered. ‘We could still do something like Horrible Histories for adults.’

‘Maybe. How does this sound? Fake news isn’t always fake, and certainly isn’t new, argues archaeologist Marco Ossani.’

‘You might have a point. What will you say?’

‘I haven’t got it all worked out yet.’ Marco hadn’t changed. He was still all ideas and objects, wanting someone else to do the boring textual research. ‘I want to mention ancient equivalents of Twitter and Instagram.’

‘Equivalents?’ He was an escape. ‘Most Romans couldn’t write.’

‘People knew what was going on. I’ll argue Twitter’s the modern equivalent of speeches in Julius Caesar.’

I only used Twitter to check on Caleb. ‘You’re confusing Shakespeare with Cicero,’ I say. ‘And those were long speeches. Not 280 characters.’

‘All right. How about, people once read Tacitus like today’s sensational novels. Fifty Shades of Ancient Rome. People just want a good story. It’s never been different.’

‘Tacitus wasn’t a popular novelist. Maybe more an investigative reporter.’

‘That’s it!’ Marco exclaimed, excited. ‘Tacitus’s history as a 60 Minutes story, not a novel. He combined oral history with research. An investigative report. Thanks, Phoebe. I knew you’d help.’ He stopped, peered at me. ‘Phoebe? Are you all right?’

I forced a smile. ‘I’m fine. I haven’t slept well.’

‘All right. But keep in touch. I’ll call again if I don’t hear from you soon.’

We disconnected.

‘Phoebe? Are you in there?’ Stephen’s voice, impatient – perhaps he’d been calling for a while. My hair was a wet mess under my face, dampening my pillow. I pulled myself up and gazed at the bedroom door.

‘I’m here.’ How had he passed the roadblock? The answer had to have something to do with his legal contacts. Although he worked in commercial law, he knew a lot of police officers.

‘Will you come out?’

I closed my eyes again. This had been our shared bedroom, during summer holidays. Way back when…

‘I’m coming.’

He waited in the sitting room, in his once-usual chair, elbows on his knees, wearing his customary off-duty chinos and rumpled linen shirt. He was tired. His hair was shorter than usual. He was unsure how long to maintain eye contact. Our twenty years of familiarity had disappeared into unease.

‘I’ve got the kettle on.’

‘Thanks. We need to decide… about Caleb.’

‘Genevieve is hiring him a lawyer.’

He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Are you all right with the kind of lawyer Genevieve will choose?’