Marcus looked up slowly. ‘Remember that day, all that time ago, in the Café Positano, egg-and-bacon sandwiches: you gave me pocket money? To buy toothpaste, and soap, you said? Remember?’

Desmond nodded, lips pursed. ‘Well then?’

‘That’s what I say now. What I said then. Thanks. Thanks. Des.’

‘That’ll do. Good. I’m glad.’

‘And, by the way, won’t go into it now, but Gus Bender’s out. Finished.’

‘He is?’

‘No. I am. Never again, that was a long time ago. When I was a kid.’

‘Glad to hear it. You really wouldn’t have the time anyway, not now. And it wouldn’t be – fitting. Tell me all about it later. Can’t leave the doxies sitting out there much longer, just wanted to get your reaction before I went any further. Shall I tell them at dinner? You wouldn’t mind? How about Leni?’

‘She’ll flip.’

‘Still happy, you two? Holidays can bugger up a relationship, I know.’

‘No. A lot to tell you one day. But we’re through the maze. She’s mine all right.’

‘Well, that’s nice. Now then …’ He looked at his watch, called for the barman, sorted out his money. ‘Booked a table at Le Casbah, marvellous couscous. We ought to be off in a moment. You like couscous?’

‘Never had it.’

‘Must try everything; once.’

‘And we leave Friday morning?’

‘I’d like to, Saturday boat. Sunday to sort things out, Monday a big sale up in Harrogate. Art Deco stuff, might be junk, but can’t afford to risk it.’

‘So it’ll be dinner Thursday night at the villa. She’s very anxious, Cuckoo, longs to meet you, and if you’re in Mougins all day tomorrow …’

‘Well, it’s very kind,’ Desmond had put the invitation which Cuckoo sent by Marcus into his wallet. ‘All right if you accept for me? I don’t have to write, do I?’

‘No. No, I’ll say. Thursday evening? She said come about six-thirty. Swim first if you like, but I know you.’

‘No swimming thanks. Six-thirty is fine. We ought to make it an earlyish night … sparrow-fart on Friday; like to get to Barbizon that night.’

‘Christ!’ said Marcus almost to himself. ‘Christ! It’s all suddenly coming to an end, just like this.’

Cuckoo’s room was, apparently, empty. Bruna closed the door quietly, carried a flat basket of ironing to the chest by the windows.

‘Bruna?’ Cuckoo from the day-room.

‘Yes. Me. Your ironing and the menus.’

‘I’m in here. Putting my feet up. Terribly hot. Like July.’ She lay, amidst a flurry of lace and broderie Anglaise, on a chaise-longue, a small table beside her; one rose in a fluted vase and a silently ticking travelling clock.

‘The menus,’ said Bruna, handing them to her.

‘You are kind. You write so prettily. And that lovely violet ink.’ She looked at the small cards. ‘“Filet de Daurade Royale froid, avec un sabayon de langoustine”. It sounds good, doesn’t it. But Thursday. I mean the daurade? Really fresh?’