‘Hey, c’mon, he’s not really to blame.’

‘He is to blame,’ Helen said firmly. ‘Simply by existing he darkens the earth, and I’ll be doing everyone a favour by exterminating him.’

He looked nervous. ‘Have you decided exactly how?’

‘Well, I thought of boiling in oil, but it’s probably too good for him.’

‘And very unimaginative.’

‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘Something with scorpions and spiders would be better.’

He shuddered.

‘Aren’t you being a bit hasty? You might fall for him and want to marry him.’

She gave him a speaking glance. ‘Death would be preferable,’ she said firmly. ‘Mine if necessary, but his for choice.’

‘Why have you got your knife into this guy? Is being Italian really so bad?’

‘Being an Italian man is like being the devil,’ she said firmly. ‘They’re old-fashioned, domineering, unreliable and faithless. Especially faithless.’

‘Why especially faithless? I mean, if you’re going to do them down, do them down on all counts, not just one.’

‘It’s the chief one. Do you know what they called Italian husbands? Married bachelors. It’s expected. A faithful husband is a considered a wimp. Creeps!’

‘But apart from that, you think they’re OK?’ he asked wryly.

‘Look, I know exactly what’s going through Lorenzo Martelli’s head at this minute.’

‘You don’t,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Nothing. Tell me what’s going through his head.’

‘He’ll know that there are four unmarried daughters-Patrizia, Olivia, and Carlotta-and me. And he’ll be expecting one or all of us to make a play for him.’

He didn’t answer, but he ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

‘The Martellis are rich so he’ll think he’s a god of creation,’ Helen said, warming to her theme, ‘loftily waiting while we parade before him and he takes his pick.’