‘Ah!’ said Scarlatti looking for an ashtray and stubbing out her cigarette as if she was pestling anchovies. ‘Pretendere! They begin “Once upon a time…”?’

‘Exactly. Fairy stories. They usually end with “And they all lived happily ever after”. Do you remember?’

Scarlatti put her bamboo hat firmly on her head. ‘Ah yes - but those are fantasy,’ she said.

‘Skin-tight white leather pants and a shirt open to his belly button. At his age!’ Marcus pulled the sheet from his bed, folded it. ‘Too hot for sheets.’

‘But what did he say to you?’ Leni was brushing her hair.

‘Oh the usual stuff. You know, the I’Aiglon bit. God! I’m so bored with that old spiel. Then, could I ride? Could I swim? I said yes. Could I fence? I said a bit… at prep school, very junior, nothing. He’s going to give me lessons…’

She turned on the stool, brush in hand. ‘But what for? Lessons?’

‘Thinks I’d be a very good double for your Kraut mate. Hagel.’

‘For Wolf? A double? What is?’

‘To do all the bits he can’t… I gather he isn’t exactly Superman.’

’Are you?’

‘No. Wants me to go to Vienna. How does that grab you?’

‘Vienna .. . why, when?’ A thread of panic in her voice.

‘Making the film there. I don’t know when. September, I think. Asked me to have lunch with him on board, so we can discuss it all. I don’t know.’

‘And you will?’

‘Might. Mind?’

She turned back slowly to the mirror, tapped the brush in her hands. ‘If you want to…’

‘Free lunch.’ He sat on the edge of the bed, switched on the radio, very low.

‘But Uncle Desmond,’ she said. ‘The Studio… we have to go back soon, don’t we?’

‘Canteloupe Road, soggy schnitzels, one bath a week… two floors down?’

She dropped the brush, covered her face with her hands, started to weep.

‘Leni! Leni!’ He slid off the bed, knelt at her side, pulled her hands from her face. ‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’

She shook her head, tears spilling, nose running. ‘You’ll go away. ’

‘Where to?’

‘Vienna.’

‘Who said?’

‘You.’

‘Lunch, I said.’

She pulled her hand from his, wiped her mouth. ‘Not to Vienna?’ She hiccupped, sniffed, rubbed her eyes.

‘You saw him? Grottorosso? The leather pants? Know the kind? Seen them often enough at the Studio, haven’t you? Eyeing “the goods”, suggesting the “poses” to old Gus… waving the pound notes about. “Chains, Mr Bender, perhaps a whip? It’s discipline I want… I am sure you understand.” Know the kind? Remember?’

‘And he is that kind?’ Her teary eyes wide.

‘He may not know it, but he’s as bent as a tin spoon.’

‘How is it possible?’