‘What girl?’ ‘Pretty, earnest, Northern. Got drunk and shouted at your father about the Sandinistas.’ ‘That was Emma Morley.’ ‘Emma Morley. I liked her. Your father liked her too, even if she did call him a bourgeois fascist.’ Dexter winced at the memory. ‘I don’t mind, at least she had a bit of fire, a bit of passion. Not like those silly sex-pots we usually find at the breakfast table. Yes Mrs Mayhew, no Mrs Mayhew. I can hear you, you know, tip-toeing to the guest room in the night . . .’ ‘You really are drunk, aren’t you?’ ‘So what about this Emma?’ ‘Emma’s just a friend.’ ‘Is she now? Well I’m not so sure. In fact I think she likes you.’ ‘Everyone likes me. It’s my curse.’ In his head it had sounded fine: raffish and self- mocking, but now they sat in silence and he felt foolish once again, like at those parties where his mother would allow him to sit with the grown-ups and he would show-off and let her down. She smiled at him indulgently, and squeezed his hand as it rested on the table. ‘Be nice, won’t you?’ ‘I am nice, I’m always nice.’ ‘But not too nice. I mean don’t make a religion out of it, niceness.’ ‘I won’t.’ Uncomfortable now, he began to glance around the Piazza. She nudged his arm. ‘So do you want another bottle of wine, or shall we go back to the hotel and see about your father’s bunions?’ They began to walk north through the back streets that run parallel to the Via del Corso towards the Piazza del Popolo, Dexter adjusting the route as he went to make it as scenic as possible, and he began to feel better, enjoying the satisfaction of knowing a city well. She hung woozily on his arm. ‘So how long are you planning to stay here then?’ ‘I don’t know. ’Til October maybe.’ ‘But then you will come home and settle down to something, won’t you?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘I don’t mean live with us. I wouldn’t do that to you. But you know we’d help you out with a deposit on a flat.’ ‘There isn’t any rush, is there?’ ‘Well it’s been a whole year, Dexter. How much holiday do you need? It’s not as if you worked yourself ragged at University—’ ‘I’m not on holiday, I’m working!’ ‘What about journalism? Didn’t you talk about journalism?’ He had mentioned it in passing, but only as a distraction and alibi. It seemed that as he ambled through his late teens his possibilities had slowly begun to narrow. Certain cool-sounding jobs – heart surgeon, architect – were permanently closed to him now and journalism seemed about to go the same way.