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it’s about the war,’ I say. ‘Set in Italy.’
    â€˜Wonderful, wonderful,’ he says.
    Johnny says, from the opposite end of the table, ‘Wonderful. Yes, there is so much to be said. Untold stories. It was a terrible time for us.’
    â€˜I wasn’t here, of course. I came after the war.’
    â€˜But you can imagine. That is the great gift of a writer,’ Vin says.
    â€˜Indeed,’ I say. ‘We are bloody marvellous.’
    Dora snorts. That’s another reason I like her.
    Johnny’s fluency with the language has palled somewhat since his return from New York. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or not. ‘And who is the subject of the novel, Lilian? Do you tell a soldier’s story, or a woman’s story like Moravia?’
    â€˜I really can’t say too much, Johnny, if you’ll forgive me.’ I feel Francesca looking at me. Surprised, I meet her eye and she expresses such hostility that I wish I hadn’t. I agree that I sound pompous about my work. I agree. I hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all. What am I supposed to do?
    Johnny, however, is now a dog with a bone. ‘But which area do you cover? The domestic, or the war front?’
    â€˜Ah, well, not one or the other, in those terms. The main character is a woman, a Jew.’
    â€˜Oh, my God,’ he says. He throws his hands up.
    Dora says, ‘That will be hard going.’
    â€˜Indeed,’ I say. I can feel Francesca’s eyes on me again. ‘Indeed, it’s a hard life being a writer compared to being a Jew in Italy in nineteen forty-three.’ I hope I have succeeded in demolishing myself, so that she might be satisfied.
    Vincenzo says to her, ‘You are too young to remember those days. Even in your country the danger was rife. Lilian has very interesting comments to make. I was not aware myself of the difficulties out there.’
    She says, ‘My father was in the war. He was over here for a while, fighting.’
    I grip my wine glass.
    â€˜You must be very proud of him,’ Dora says.
    â€˜He’s dead,’ she says. She stares at me.
    I am now the one who cannot meet her eye. I didn’t know he was dead. I suppose it was more than likely.
    â€˜Yes, I am proud of him,’ she continues. ‘He was the most wonderful man I ever met.’ She dabs at her mouth with the linen napkin.
    My own throat constricts. I am scared for her. Don’t let hercry, don’t let her do what she does not want to do in front of me.
    And suddenly she is on her feet. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she says. ‘Excuse me, please. I really must ... I’m sorry.’
    I clamber up, too. She rushes into the lobby and I am after her. She grabs her bag from the side table and her jacket from the chair beside it. ‘Shouldn’t have come,’ she says. There is a tear sliding down the side of her nose. What can I do for her? I cannot put my hand on her. I rush back to the sitting room.
    â€˜Jim!’ I say. I am like a mad hen.
    She is out the door. It closes shut behind her before I reach it. ‘Oh, my God,’ I say to it. I hear her running down the stairs. Jim is in the lobby behind me. ‘Go after her,’ I say. ‘She doesn’t know the area. She’ll get lost.’
    He doesn’t say, ‘What is wrong with you both?’ He doesn’t say, ‘What did you do to her?’ or ‘I thought you didn’t want me to even finish a sentence to her.’ He picks up his coat from the chair, opens the door and takes the stairs two at a time. I hear the lift door closing. He is going to miss her.
    I hear him shout, ‘Hold it.’
    I stand in the doorway. I am clinging to the architrave. ‘Hurry,’ I mouth. And then the doors slide open again, and I hear his voice. I am absurdly relieved.
    If my other guests would now kindly leave without a word, I would be grateful.
    However, there