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scrambled into the high scallop shell. It was full of water, just as cold as that down at the bottom. I stood upright cautiously, ankle-deep, and looked down at my audience. I raised one hand to punch the air.
    Amid the chatter a loud whistle rang across the lawn. I looked around, wondering if we’d been spotted by an angry hotel manager.
    Then the water started up. It came out of the conch and struck me in the face, such a shock that I staggered and hunched to my knees. All around my scallop shell little jets sprang up vertically. From the figures below, from pursed lips and gaping fishy jaws and even the breast of one amply endowed Nereid, long plumes arced into the night, all converging around the highest point of the edifice, all gushing over me before falling in a curtain from around my feet. In seconds I was absolutely drenched, and it felt icy cold. The only thing I could hear over the splash of the water was the howls of laughter from the crowd below.
    I realised what had happened at once; this whole thing had been a set-up arranged by Simon. He must have got some of the hotel staff in on it too, to time my humiliation so precisely. I spat water, speechless with shock and rage. I realised that my soaked dress must be translucent, that the cotton was clinging pore-close to my skin, that my body was exposed before a score of shrieking drunks as if I were a contestant in a wet T-shirt competition.
    And as I ground my teeth I realised something else too: that I could shriek and attempt to cover myself and submit to the humiliation and become the victim they wanted, or I could face up to them. So I straightened my back and stood up tall, my back taking the blast of the main jet of water, my hands clenched at my sides, my body held proudly. I looked down on them with my hair – which always goes to rings when it’s wet – hanging around my face and all the contempt I could muster in my eyes. My gaze swept the crowd.
    It fell on Michael Deverick. He hadn’t been in the audience to start with, I was certain of that, for I’d have noticed him. But there he was, a little way across the grass, alone now, watching me. He wasn’t laughing. His expression was watchful and intense. I forgot the others for a moment as my eyes met his. My chest was heaving with the strain of drawing breath. I must have been one hell of a sight.
    The laughter died away to muffled giggles.
    ‘Enjoying your shower, Av?’ Simon called.
    I wrenched my gaze back to him. ‘It’s fine,’ I declared. ‘Have you got the balls to join me?’
    He must have been a lot drunker than I was. He passed his bottle to friend, dumped his jacket in one motion and scrambled into the water without a word. I could see the furious determination in his face as he approached: I’d really got his back up. It took him two attempts to find a footing on the statuary, which was ten times more slippery now that it was running with water, and that just made him madder. On the third attempt he scrambled as high as the triton’s waist, reached out to grab at the arm and struggled to his feet.
    The triton shrugged. That’s how it looked to me, watching from above. The metal flesh rippled and danced under the cascade of water and Simon lost his grip. He lurched, trying to make up for lack of balance with his feet, but the fool had kept his shoes on and the surface was too slick for purchase. His feet slid from under him and he fell face forwards. I heard the wind being knocked from his lungs as his stomach made contact with the bronze, then he was suddenly sliding away, arms spread wide. He bounced off the lowest tiers, tumbled sideways and clipped his head as he hit the pool. When the splash settled he did not get up. From where I was, looking down on his body floating there limply, I could see a mist of dark blood spreading out around his head.
    Several people in the crowd shrieked. Others started to climb into the pool.
    I made no cry. I don’t remember there being