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‘I’m sitting at a table, the food’s about to arrive. Not the food, the menu — the menu’s about to arrive.’

‘You said you were walking.’

‘I was, and now I’m sitting at a table. I hate talking on phones in restaurants, it’s very rude. The waiter’s glaring at me.’ With this last detail I had overreached myself, because I could hear Connie frowning.

‘Where are you exactly?’

‘I’m in Castello, by the Arsenale. I’m sitting outside and the waiter’s standing over me. I can send you a photo if you like.’

There was a pause that seemed to last an age, a lowering of her voice. ‘I’m worried about you, Douglas. I think you might be—’

‘Got to go,’ I said and hung up. I’d never done this before, hung up on Connie. Then, to my amazement, I turned the phone off too, and limped quickly towards Freja.

‘I’m sorry about that. Connie, my wife.’

‘I thought, when the phone rang, you were going to leap into the canal.’

‘It startled me, that’s all. I need a drink. The restaurant’s just here.’ And we turned into a tiny campo. No carnival masks or postcards for sale here. Instead laundry hung between the buildings like celebratory bunting, televisions and radios played in first-floor rooms, and in the corner of the square was a small trattoria that, despite my best intentions, looked undeniably romantic.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it looks perfect.’

119. daughters

We were seated outside in adjacent chairs, facing the square. The restaurant had no menu and instead we were brought glasses of prosecco by a small elderly man with suspiciously black hair, then small bowls of marinated squid and octopus and anchovies, sharp and oily and entirely delicious. As if to reassure each other of the platonic nature of the evening, Freja showed me pictures of her daughters on her telephone, two startlingly beautiful girls with very blue eyes, born a year apart, growing in montage form into straight-limbed, long-haired, white-teethed young women, the very embodiment of health and vigour, pictured against a varied background of windswept Atlantic beaches and Thai palm trees, the Sphinx, a glacier somewhere. With shrewd editing it might, I suppose, be possible to compile an upbeat slideshow of even the most grim and Dickensian of childhoods, but on the evidence of Freja’s photo album her daughters had been particularly blessed. They seemed like the kind of healthy, wholesome family who’d be happy to share the same toothbrush. Of course she was far too nice a woman to gloat, but I couldn’t help but be aware that while Freja was usually pictured in the embrace of her photogenic offspring, I could not recall a single photo of my son and me. Perhaps when he was a small child, but in the last eight, ten years? Never mind, here was a photograph of Anastasia Kristensen, swimming with dolphins; here was Babette Kristensen, volunteering in an African village. Here was our pasta, and more wine.

‘Anastasia is a documentary-maker now. Babette is an environmentalist. I’m very proud of them, as you can probably tell. I have an almost limitless capacity to bore people about them. I’ll stop now before you slump forward into your linguine.’

‘Not at all. They seem like lovely girls,’ I said.

‘They are,’ she replied, returning the phone to her bag. ‘Of course when they were younger they could be little bitches …’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t say that even if it’s true — but goodness, we fought! Thankfully those things get easier with time. One more …’ She produced her phone again. ‘I debated whether or not to show you this, you’ll understand why …’

And here was Babette, twenty years old, sitting naked in a hospital chair, a newborn baby girl the colour of an aubergine at her breast, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat. ‘Yes, this year I actually became a grandmother. Can you believe it? I’m a mormor at fifty-two! Good God!’ She shook her head and reached for her glass.

‘Who is this here?’ To the left of the chair stood a lean, distinguished-looking man, a Roman senator, absurdly handsome despite the foolish grin and surgical frock.

‘That’s my ex-husband.’

‘He looks like a film star.’

‘And is all too well aware of the fact, I’m afraid.’

‘He has incredible eyes.’

‘My downfall.’

‘Wait — he was at the birth?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘He saw his grandchild … come out?’

‘Yes, yes, we both did.’

‘That’s very Scandinavian.’

Freja laughed and I peered once again. ‘He really is a very handsome man.’

‘That’s where my daughters get their looks.’

‘I’m not sure if that’s entirely true,’ I said obligingly, and Freja nudged me with her elbow. ‘Are they friendly with their father?’

‘Of course, they adore him. I repeatedly instruct them not to, but they insist on worshipping him.’