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.’
    Max shook his head. ‘The amount of pasta you eat, you should be like the side of a house.’
    â€˜I have a good metabolism,’ she returned smugly.
    â€˜Any more thoughts on the Harvey book?’
    â€˜I phoned Eddie and he agreed with you – that I should suss it out, keeping my options open. So I’ve arranged to see Mrs Harvey at ten thirty tomorrow.’
    He sipped his wine. ‘Where does she live?’
    â€˜Over at Cricklehurst; I reckon it’ll take me about an hour to get there.’
    â€˜He’d be a colourful subject for a bio,’ Max commented. ‘He was quite a lad in the early days – brawls, drunken parties, God knows what.’
    â€˜Really?’ Rona looked up in surprise. ‘I hadn’t heard that.’
    â€˜Oh, it was years ago. Either he sobered up or became more circumspect as he grew older.’
    The waiter approached, they gave their orders, and Rona felt herself relax for the first time that day. The candle-lit table, the low murmur of conversation, and the crispness of the wine on her tongue combined to give a feeling of well-being. There was, after all, no reason to feel apprehensive about the biography; no one could force her to write it. If, on investigation, the prospect didn’t appeal, she would politely decline.
    She glanced at Max across the candle flame and felt the familiar lurch inside her. He was an attractive man, with his thick, prematurely grey hair and piercing blue eyes. It was the old adage of not being able to live either with or without each other, she reflected, and there was no denying that their separation during the week enhanced their weekend lovemaking. Which was not to say they didn’t still have rows, stormy scenes of shouting, recriminations and slamming doors. Both of them were strong-willed and stubborn, unwilling to admit to being in the wrong. Fortunately, they were also blessed with a sense of humour, and frequently, when an impasse had been reached and they stood glaring at each other, one of their mouths would start to twitch and the disagreement would end in slightly shamefaced laughter.
    â€˜A penny for them,’ Max invited, breaking into her reflections.
    â€˜Just thinking what an impossible man you are,’ she smiled, and leant back as the waiter set down her plate.
    The meal was, as always, delicious, and served with the panache of which only Italians seem capable. ‘Brandy?’ Max enquired, as their espressos arrived. ‘Or shall we have that at home?’
    â€˜At home, I think.’
    After the warmth of the restaurant, the night air felt damp and chilly. The street lamps were wreathed in mist, and Rona gave a little shiver. ‘At least there won’t be a frost,’ Max said, taking Gus’s lead from her and threading her arm through his. They set off, walking briskly but pausing every now and then to allow Gus his night-time sniff round the lamp posts.
    The houses in Lightbourne Avenue were over a hundred years old, tall and narrow, with a number of steps leading up to the front doors and semi-basements behind decorative railings. The pavements were tree-lined, and in summer one looked out of the upper windows through a screen of leaves. Each house had a minute front garden bordering the path from gate to bottom step, and an almost equally small patch at the rear. The ground-floor windows were uniformly bay, with long narrow panes.
    Max and Gus waited while Rona fitted her key in the lock, the door swung open, and a wave of warmth came to meet them. Originally, the single-fronted house had had two main rooms on each of its four floors, but before moving in, they’d had the dividing walls demolished on all but the first floor, making a through room in each case. The top level had been transformed into Max’s studio, now seldom used, and the basement into a kitchen-cum-dining room, the work area at the front and the table overlooking the