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belly.
    Lara froze. She tried to draw herself up and away from him but he kept his hand against her skin.
    ‘Stay relaxed,’ he said, ‘hold your legs straight, concentrate on your arms.’
    The fingers of his left hand were seconds from the flimsy elastic of her pants. Arms, she told herself. Arms.
    Lambert was moving her slowly forward, walking beside her as one would lead a horse, urging her to point her hands, turn them, push the water away. ‘Now join in with your legs,’ he encouraged, and in her effort to free herself she pushed away so vigorously that she slipped out of his grasp and sped off across the pool. ‘Good,’ he said when she reached the other side.
    It was clear he wanted her to turn and swim towards him. Lara pointed her hands, took a deep breath and with such serious determination to get it right she moved through the water like a professional, her face half submerged, every sinew in her body flexed.
    ‘Do you feel the difference?’ He was heaving himself out.
    She smiled at him, the water glistening in drops before her eyes. ‘Yes.’ She felt quite euphoric with relief. ‘I do.’
     
     
    All through the early evening Lara practised her stroke until the air began to cool and she saw Caroline on the terrace above, dressed in pleated trousers, a drink in her hand. Supper, it must be nearly time, and almost weak with the thought of it she ran, dripping in her towel, up the steps to get changed.
    The table was laid for three with side plates, glasses and a double setting of knives and forks. Ginny had made them a dish of thick spaghetti, heaped with basil sauce, creamy and rich with nuts and cheese. I’d eat this every day, if I could, for the rest of my life, Lara thought, the flavours mashed together, but still separate, the texture of each one intact.
    Afterwards there was steak, a strip of rare meat along the centre, and a bowl of peppery salad. Lara looked down at her plate. She should have mentioned she was a vegetarian. Had been one for two years – since a trip to the zoo where the sight of the polar bear, tracing a figure of eight the length of his yard, throwing himself on the last arc into the stagnant pool, had pained her so deeply that she’d felt compelled to do something to help. But had it helped? Recently Lara had been back to the zoo and the polar bear was still there, a little thinner, even more desperate, and she couldn’t pretend, even to herself, that her protest had worked.
    ‘Is everything all right?’ Caroline asked her, and she saw that she was being watched.
    ‘Yes,’ she said and, treacherous, she cut into the steak.
    The taste of the meat exploded in her mouth. Chewy and tender and oozing with herbs. This doesn’t count, she told herself, eating meat in Italy. It would be rude not to, after Ginny’s worked so hard, and she looked up to tell her it was delicious. But Ginny wasn’t sitting down with them. She was in the kitchen, preoccupied, subdued, and Lara didn’t know if there was praise that should be kept in check.
    ‘That was awfully good,’ Caroline said finally when Ginny came to clear, and Lara almost knocked over her glass in her relief at being able to agree.
    ‘Thank you.’ Ginny lifted her plate.
    Paralysed with indecision, Lara wondered if she was allowed, or possibly expected, to help. In the end the suspense was more than she could bear, and she got up just in time to bring in the oil and vinegar decanters in their silver holders and place them on the side.
    ‘They go there,’ Ginny told her, indicating the larder, and although Lara could tell by her tone she wasn’t pleased, she had no way of knowing how she was at fault.
     
     
    That night Caroline and Lambert sat up exchanging news. They mentioned a long succession of people of whom Lara had never heard and occasionally, she was sure, Caroline glanced at her doubtfully, as if maybe she was there under false pretences, maybe she wasn’t Lambert’s daughter at all.
    ‘How do you