‘What have I to apologise for?’

‘Ditto.’

‘For cruelly mocking me when I fell over! You just lay there cackling instead of even offering to help me up or ask whether I was hurt. And the only reason it happened was because I got out of the shower to wake you for your stupid phone call.’

Zen slipped several strata of socks into a spare corner of the suitcase. He seemed to have only one clean vest. Oh well, he’d buy more in Bologna and then have them washed at the hotel. With the situation the way it was, the last thing he wanted was to raise the question of dirty laundry.

‘You’re leaving?’ Gemma went on, still hovering in the doorway.

Zen nodded. No, not that green horror, he decided. He hadn’t worn it for years, but the laws of thrift inculcated by his mother died hard. He laid the rest of the shirts flat on top of the other garments, then closed the case.

‘So where are you going to go?’

‘Bologna.’

The first flicker of some expression appeared on Gemma’s face, but was instantly suppressed.

‘Why Bologna?’

Zen was about to tell her, but then decided to let her twist in the wind for a while. It was the least she deserved after the way she’d treated him.

‘Years ago I was stationed in the city,’ he replied airily. ‘I loved it, and I’ve always wanted to go back.’

Gemma regarded him levelly for some time, then gave a light but studied laugh.

‘I could stop you, you know.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, not stop you leaving. But I could certainly ensure that you enjoy this visit to La Grassa a lot less than your last. A single phone call would do it.’

He laughed mirthlessly in turn.

‘I doubt that one more of your tirades could ruin my stay. At least I won’t be in the same room to listen to it.’

‘Oh, the phone call wouldn’t be to you.’

Zen set the suitcase on the floor, straightened up and confronted her. She scrunched her face up and narrowed her eyes.