‘We lost?’

‘We lost. But it doesn’t matter.’

‘How come there was a game tonight? It’s midweek.’

‘Postponed from the original fixture. Cancelled due to a spot of nastiness engineered by yours truly. So we all had to go back to Ancona. The fans, the player, the manager, the owner…’

‘And we lost.’

Vincenzo roused himself briefly, felt in various pockets and finally produced a bottle of limoncello.

‘Leading at half-time and then pissed it away, with a little help from the ref as usual. Three-one final.’

‘You just got back?’ Rodolfo remarked, to get off the subject of the match before Vincenzo started insulting him as a shitbrained southerner, a Bari supporter whose sister did it with Albanians. It was just a matter of time before Vincenzo twigged that Flavia was from the unfashionable side of the Adriatic and made some remark which Rodolfo would not be able to overlook.

‘Shit happened,’ his flatmate replied with that raffish smile he could switch on and off at will. ‘I was out of it, Rodolfo. Way, way out!’

He took a long, gargling swig of the lemon liqueur. Rodolfo noted that it was the genuine pricey product made exclusively with fruit from the officially guaranteed zones in Capri and Sorrento. Nothing but the best for Vincenzo, even when his goal was oblivion.

‘Well, I’m glad you got back all right,’ he said, making a show of concern before returning to the bedroom and Flavia.

Vincenzo again smiled the raffish smile that he could switch on and off at will.

‘Somebody gave me a lift. And then…’

He broke off, clutching his stomach, then tried unsuccessfully to stand up. Familiar with these symptoms, and mindful of the fact that he would have to clean up any resulting mess, Rodolfo went to help him.

‘And then?’ he prompted, trying to keep Vincenzo’s brain engaged and his reflexes dormant.