Leni stood uncertainly in the wide stone arch of the front door: Hungarian blouse, cut-off jeans, hands in pockets, bare feet curling over the edge of the marble steps, watching the dark Mercedes sweep up the curve of the drive taking Marcus to his rendezvous on the Papageno.

She watched all the way, until it was suddenly almost lost to view, became a vague flickering through the heavy leaves of the fig trees; and then had gone.

And silence.

Well: an almost silence. The Triton spouted water into the fish-pool at his tail, a warm eddy of wind rustled through the courtyard, jostled the spiky leaves of the oleander, rippled along the broad banners of the banana, spiralled a Catherine-wheel of dust and dead petals into a corner of the arches, and then faded away. But these were whispering sounds and they only served to emphasize her unease and disquiet; the great silence pressed all about her like fluid.

She was alone.

It was the first time, apart from the trip to Lübeck, that she had been without him and on this occasion he had chosen to leave her, quite willingly, not she him. He had made no suggestion that she should join him on the trip to the ship, even though she was not invited in the note from Grottorosso: but he could have taken her, surely? If he’d wanted to. Or suggested that she go with him? It seemed that it had not occurred to him at all.

Of course he had been extremely preoccupied dressing himself: and had paid scant attention to her veiled hints, only saying that he wouldn’t be long, the house was jammed with people, so how could she possibly be lonely? So she had nodded glumly, half agreeing, and sat in silence watching him prepare. Polishing up the black boots unworn since London, combing and arranging his hair with the diligence of a girl preparing for a dance, easing himself into his best white jeans, complaining mildly that he had put on weight, tucking shirt-tails carefully round his backside with the comb so that there were no ‘unsightly ridges to spoil the line’. Amusing: if she hadn’t felt so wretched.

Eventually he gave himself one final look in the long bathroom mirrors, turned this way and that, declared himself satisfied, gave her a fairly absent-minded kiss, hurried down the staircase to the waiting car: long, low, sleek, with black glass in the rear windows so that when he slid into his seat she could no longer see him. Only the vague shadow of an arm waved in a half salute as they went silently up the drive to the road.

Leaving her where she presently was: hands in pockets, toes curling on the step, alone. She shrugged, crossed the sharp gravel on her heels to the fish-pond, sat heavily on the raised stone rim, wrapped her arms around her knees.