The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. The events that had initially followed in the wake of her triumph over Emile Gosse had quite confused and dazed her. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. Something in her lack of embarrassment irritated him. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’.
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