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if they were a drunk asleep on his doorstep or a suspicious parcel lying there, he prodded at them with his foot. Nothing happened. He looked at Flavia and shrugged, then bent and picked them up. He was all but invisible behind them.
    ‘Yellow roses,’ he said unnecessarily.
    ‘My favourite.’ As she spoke, Flavia realized this was no longer true.
    ‘Do you want me to take them inside?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘I don’t want them in the house. Give them to Silvana. Or put them out in the calle .’ She heard the note of panic rising in her voice and leaned back against the wall.
    ‘Wait here,’ Freddy said, passed in front of her and started down the stairs. She listened to his diminishing steps, then a different sound as he crossed the entrance hall, the door opening, closing, and then his returning steps.
    ‘Will you come in with me?’ she asked. Seeing his surprise she added, ‘And have a look around. I want to be sure . . .’
    ‘That the downstairs door was the only one they opened?’
    She nodded.
    ‘Has this happened before, Flavia?’ he asked.
    ‘A few times, but in theatres. Flowers tossed on to the stage, and tonight dozens of bouquets in my dressing room.’
    He looked at her empty arms. ‘You left them there?’
    ‘I didn’t want them. Don’t want them,’ she said and heard the horror in her own voice. She looked at him, motionless, considering, and she exploded. ‘For God’s sake, help me, Freddy.’
    He walked across the landing and put an arm around her shoulders, and then both arms, and then she was leaning into his chest and sobbing. ‘Freddy, how did he get in here? How does he know where I live? Who is he?’
    He had no answers to give her, but the familiar feel of her body against his brought back the turmoil of emotions he had once felt for her: love, jealousy, anger, passion, as well as the ones that had not been burned up by her abandonment of him: respect, friendship, protectiveness, trust. He both loved his wife and was in love with her, but he had never lost the power to think about anything but her. Now Flavia had two almost-adult children, and he had three, as well as a wife: their well-being was the central focus of his life.
    He pulled back a little, careful to keep one arm around her. ‘Give me a minute, Flavia, and I’ll go in and check,’ he said, then added, ‘If the flowers were outside the door, it’s not likely anyone’s inside, is it?’ He smiled at her and shrugged. The bodyguard in the silk bathrobe, she told herself: perhaps he can take a slipper off and hit them with that.
    She moved back from him, and he found the right key and turned it four times, hearing the bolts pull back from the steel frame. If someone were inside, then he’d locked himself in, she thought. Freddy pushed the door open and reached in to switch on the lights. He took two steps into the hallway and stopped. Flavia went in behind him.
    ‘I thought you wanted me to look,’ he said, almost as if he feared her presence would compromise his courage.
    ‘It’s my problem,’ she said.
    ‘It’s my house,’ Freddy answered, long familiarity with the feeling of the apartment telling him there was no one there.
    Flavia surprised him by starting to laugh. ‘We’re together again five minutes, and we have a fight,’ she said.
    Freddy turned to face her, as if wondering if this was another example of her dramatic skill. But there were still tears on her face and she still had the frozen look of a person who has had a shock. ‘Stay here,’ he said, ‘and don’t close the door.’
    He went from room to room, even ducking down to look under all of the beds in the three bedrooms. He opened the closets, looked into the guest shower, and opened the door to the terrace. There was no one, nor was there any sense of the presence of another person.
    When he returned to the hallway, he found her leaning against the wall beside the door, head back, eyes closed.