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looking forward to getting away from her own domestic problems, on the other she was already concerned about those that might await her at the other end. She could think of at least three main possibilities, none of them good. But they would have to be faced anyway, and a change of scenery was a definite bonus.
    The echo of a door shutting in the stairwell, followed by a series of trudging, faltering footsteps, warned her that her significant other had returned. She quickly turned off the light, dived into bed, pulled the covers over her face, and was to all appearances deeply asleep by the time that Aurelio Zen hesitantly pushed open the door.

5
    Flanked by two beaming bimbettes wearing smiles as big as their boobs and very little else, Romano Rinaldi grasped the wooden handle of the Parmesan dagger and held it dramatically above his head.
    ‘And now, like an Aztec priest performing the ultimate sacrifice, I open the heart of this cheese, the very heart of Italy!’ he cried, plunging the cutter home and simultaneously bursting into a rendering of Verdi’s ‘
Celeste Aida
’ that went on, and on, and on.
    In the soundproofed control booth, Delia’s glance met that of the director.
    ‘Coked again,’ she muttered.
    ‘You amaze me,’ the director replied drily.
    He touched a button on the console before him.
    ‘Technical edit,’ he said. ‘Romano, the teleprompt script to camera three, please.’
    He switched off the microphone link to the studio beyond the triple-glazed window.
    ‘I’ll cut in some of that promotional footage the producers’ association sent us,’ he said with a brief, harsh laugh. ‘Maybe one of those scenes with lots of cows. Then lay Lo Chef’s big aria under, fade it out and meld to the teleprompt VO with cutaways to him gabbing to camera.’
    ‘You’re a star, Luciano.’
    ‘Thank God for digital is all. The trailer segment has to be ready to air tomorrow. In the old days, that would have taken Christ knows how many man-hours. Even with the money the
parmigiani
are slipping us under the table, we’d still have had a hard time costing out.’
    Delia nodded vaguely. She looked, and was, preoccupied.
    ‘How much longer till wrap-up?’ she asked.
    ‘Where our Romano’s involved, who knows? The studio’s booked till noon, just to be on the safe side. As long as he doesn’t manage to eviscerate himself with that Parmesan cleaver, we should be finished by then.’
    Lo Chef’s voice boomed out over the speakers set against the padded wall.
    ‘…sixteen litres of the finest, richest, freshest milk to make a single kilo of this, the Jupiter of cheeses lording it over the rabble of minor gods. And then as much as two years of completely natural ageing, according to traditions handed down over seven centuries of continuous production, with no artificial manipulation to influence the process…’
    Delia walked over and kissed the director lightly on the forehead.
    ‘Do me a favour, Luciano. Keep him at it for at least another fifteen minutes. I’ll have to hose him down and mother him when it’s over, but I need a coffee first.’
    ‘No problem. If he goes all speedy and rushes through the rest of the script, I’ll just tell him he was a bit flat on a couple of bars of that Verdi aria and get him to repeat the whole thing.’
    Delia smiled her thanks.
    ‘Hey, did you see that thing that Edgardo Ugo wrote about him in
Il Prospetto
?’ Luciano added. ‘Got him bang to rights, no? I laughed myself sick!’
    Without answering, Delia went out to the corridor. Almost immediately her mobile started to chirp. She checked the screen and said ‘Damn!’ before answering.
    ‘Have you told him?’ the caller asked.
    ‘Not yet,’ she replied, ignoring the stairs down to the street. ‘He’s in one of those moods this morning. You know what he’s like when he’s taping.’
    ‘Delia, he’s going to find out sooner or later, probably within a few hours. The damn magazine is on the