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‘I’m kidding. It’s, whadyacallit, dark humour.’ Some time passed. ‘You don’t regret it, do you?’

‘What?’

‘Saying yes.’

‘I don’t think I did say yes, did I?’

‘Well, eventually you did. After I’d worn you down.’

‘I did. And I haven’t regretted it for a moment. Don’t let’s talk about it now. I only phoned to say I miss you.’

‘I’m glad. And now I must go to sleep.’

‘And Douglas? I appreciate what you’re doing. I think it’s a little mad, but it’s … admirable. I love you.’

‘Are we still saying that?’

‘Only if it’s true.’

‘Well then, I love you too.’

I did not fall asleep until six, then woke at seven to discover that my knee joints had ossified. My hips ached as if I’d been struck by a car, so it took me some time and a great deal of groaning and sighing to clamber from the sucking maw of my mattress and sit on the edge of the bed. I had sweated feverishly in the night, the bedding now damp enough to propagate cress, and I drained the bedside glass of water and stumbled, hunched, to the tiny sink to drink again and again. On examination, my feet were monstrous, as moist, pale and bony as a vacuum-packed pig’s trotter. Angry water-filled blisters had formed at heel and toe. Clearly it was absurd to think that I could walk the same circuit three times today, or even once. I would have to rethink my plans, find key thoroughfares and lie in wait. The Rialto, the Accademia Bridge, the western entrance to St Mark’s — surely Albie would funnel through there at some point. I stuck useless plasters to the worst of the corns and blisters, descended with a robot’s gait to the breakfast room, filled bowls with tinned peaches and dusty muesli and lowered myself carefully into a chair.

‘Ow … ow … ow.’

‘So, did you succeed?’ said the woman.

‘Succeed?’

‘In seeing all of Venice in one day?’

‘I think so. Which is why I can’t move my legs. How was the … Accademia? Did I say that right?’

‘Beautifully. I didn’t go in the end. Coach parties arrived before me and I hate peering over people’s shoulders. There were just too many tourists. Me included, of course.’

‘The tourist’s paradox: how to find somewhere that’s free of people exactly like us.’

‘Though of course, like every tourist, I think of myself as a traveller.’ We smiled at each other. ‘Perhaps I was naïve, but I really wasn’t prepared for the crowds.’

‘Yes, I’ve only ever been here in winter.’

‘Perhaps August was a mistake. Verona was the same.’

‘Very busy.’

‘You were in Verona too?’

‘Only for two hours. I was changing trains.’

She exhaled and shook her head. ‘I made the mistake of seeing Juliet’s balcony. I don’t think I’ve ever been more depressed in my life.’

‘Me too! I felt the same way.’

‘I practically wanted to hurl myself off it.’ I laughed and, encouraged, she leant forward. ‘You’re on the way to …?’

I’m looking for my estranged son.

‘I’m not sure yet. I’m … following my nose.’

We lapsed into silence for a moment. Then …

‘I feel foolish shouting across the room like this,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Not in the least,’ I said, folding my map to make room.

I suppose this was why some people travelled, to meet new people, though this has always been a vexed area for me. Conversation, the gradual unveiling of oneself, one’s quirks and characteristics, opinions and beliefs; what a fraught and awkward business that is. Connie had always been the gregarious one, and I was inclined to let her meet new people on my behalf. But this woman was sitting diagonally opposite me now, and I had little alternative but to offer my hand.

‘I’m Douglas. As in the fir.’ A weak joke, I know, but one that might have special resonance for a Scandinavian.

‘My name is Freja, but I’m afraid I can’t think of a pun to go with that.’

‘How about Deep-fat Freja!’ I said in time to hear the voice inside my head scream, ‘No!’ We fell into a somewhat shocked silence and, in a panic, I was obliged to comment on her breakfast.

‘Cheese for breakfast — I’ve always thought that was a very European thing, cheese and salami.’

‘You don’t have that in England?’

‘No. To eat cheese at breakfast would be quite taboo. Likewise the cucumber and tomato have no place on our morning table.’ Good God. Talk normally, you bloody fool.

‘Though in fairness, you can hardly call this cheese.’ She dangled the pale, perspiring square between finger and thumb. ‘At home we have this same material tiling my bathroom floor.’

‘There appear to be chocolate chips in my muesli.’

‘The world has gone mad!’

‘It’s not the greatest hotel in Venice, is it?’

Freja laughed. ‘I thought it would be fun to travel on a budget, but roughing it is always more enjoyable in theory than in practice.’ Roughing it; she spoke very good English. ‘I was told my room had air-conditioning but it sounds like a helicopter landing. Yet without it I wake each morning and have to peel the wet sheets off me.’