“Sounds like Billy,” said Rupert, “only in his case it’s Gweenslade, Gweenslade, I want you Gweenslade.”

“Shut up,” hissed Billy, shooting a nervous glance in the direction of Lavinia’s mother.

“Not unless you buy me a drink,” said Rupert, handing Billy his empty glass.

“Okay,” said Billy, getting up. “Who needs a refill?”

“Jake does,” said Rupert.

Unable and not particularly wanting to get a word in edgeways while Humpty talked, Jake had had plenty of time to finish his whisky. Having not had anything to eat for at least thirty-six hours, he was beginning to feel very tight. But before he could protest, Rupert had whipped his glass away and handed it to Billy.

“Not as strong as the last one, then,” said Malise firmly. “That was a quadruple.”

“He’s not eighteen, you know,” said Rupert softly.

“How old are you?” asked Humpty.

“Twenty-six,” said Jake.

“Same as me and Rupe,” said Billy, hailing the waiter.

“It’s funny we haven’t heard of you before,” said Lavinia. “Awfully womantic, to be suddenly picked out of the blue like that.”

“I started late,” said Jake.

“But I’m sure I’ve seen you before,” said Billy, puzzled, as he handed double whiskies to Jake and Rupert.

“Pwobably in Horse and Hound, or Widing magazine,” said Lavinia.

No it wasn’t, thought Billy to himself. There was something about Jake that made him feel uneasy, layers of memory being slowly peeled back like an onion, not very happy memories, the kind you tucked into a corner of your mind and tried to forget.

They dined in a taverna a couple of streets away. The walls were covered in fans and castanets and pictures of ladies in mantillas. In a corner a fat tenor in a rather dirty white frilly shirt, and with greasy patent leather hair, was dispiritedly strumming a guitar. The owner rushed out, shaking hands with Malise, Humpty, Rupert, and Billy and showing them their signed photographs on the wall, then going into a frenzy of ecstasy over Lavinia’s blond beauty. Redheads were less rare in Madrid than blondes, and Helen was a little too thin for Spanish tastes.

Jake was beginning to feel distinctly odd. He must get some food inside him. He found himself with Lavinia on his left and Mr. Greenslade on his right. Bottles were put on the table and Rupert immediately filled everyone’s glasses. Completely incomprehensible menus came round.

“What’s gazpacho?” he asked Lavinia.

“Tomato soup,” said Rupert.

That sounded gentle and stomach-settling.

“And polpi?”

“Some sort of pasta,” said Rupert.

“I’ll have that,” said Jake.

Suddenly he noticed Billy’s hand caressing Lavinia’s thigh under the table, where her mother and father couldn’t see. The waiter arrived for their order. Firmly Jake said he’d like gazpacho and polpi.

“I’d like a large steak and chips,” said Humpty.

“So would I,” said Billy, “but not chips, just a salad — my trousers are getting disgustingly tight — and Mediterranean prawns to start.”

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” said Rupert, filling up his glass.

Helen turned to the waiter and started to address him in Spanish.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Rupert irritably, “they all speak English.”

“Spanish is the native language of approximately two hundred million people throughout the world,” said Helen, flushing slightly. “That can’t be all bad.”

“At least she can translate your horoscope in the Spanish papers,” said Billy.

“And jolly useful at customs,” said Mrs. Greenslade, who admired Helen.

“We’ve got Marion for that,” said Rupert. “She’s got big boobs, which is more a language the customs officers understand.”

Apart from his hand stroking her thigh, Billy was studiously avoiding Lavinia for the benefit of her parents, so she turned to Jake.

“How did you get on in Rome?” he said. “I haven’t seen any papers.”

“I got a second and a third. Wupert did best. He won two classes and got a clear wound in the Nations’ Cup. But we were still thwashed by the Germans and the Fwench. I don’t think we’ll ever beat them. Ludwig and Hans Schmidt are like computers: they just pwogwam their horses and wound they go.”

Jake was eating bread, desperate to mop up some alcohol. The fat flamenco singer, after a lot of stamping, launched into some mournful ditty.

“Sounds like Grand Hotel,” said Rupert.

Now he’d had a lot to drink, Jake found his eyes continually drawn to Rupert, like a rabbit to a snake. He still felt the same sick churning inside. Rupert’s whiplash tongue was still there. Soon he knew he’d be the recipient. He realized again what an evil man Rupert was behind his offhand jokey exterior.

It was very hot in the restaurant. Jake was drenched with sweat.

“Okay?” asked Malise. “Grub should be up in a minute. That’s one of the maddening things about Spain: no one dines before ten o’clock. At least we get a nice late start.”

“I’m going to spend tomowwow morning sunbathing,” said Lavinia.

“You are not,” said her father. “You’ll sort out that stop of Snowstorm’s. We’re not risking him ducking out again.”

At last food began to arrive. A plate of soup was put in front of Jake. A great waft of garlic made him feel distinctly queasy. God knows what was in it. Little bits of fried bread, green peppers, and cucumbers floated on top.

“This is a most interesting paella,” Helen was saying as she speared a large mussel. Feeling slightly sick, Jake took a mouthful of soup and only just avoided spitting it out. It was stone cold and heavily garlicked. He put his spoon down and took a huge gulp of wine, then a piece of bread to take the taste away.

What was he to do? Was it some diabolical plan of Rupert’s, telling the waiter to bring him cold soup, so he could laugh like a drain when Jake ate it?

“What’s the matter?” said Malise.

“Nothing,” said Jake. He mustn’t betray weakness. He took another mouthful and very nearly threw up. Glancing up, he saw Rupert eyeing him speculatively.

“Gazpacho good?” he asked.

“It’s stone cold, if you want to know,” said Jake. “They’ve forgotten to heat it up.”

Rupert grinned. “It’s meant to be,” he said gently. “I should have warned you. It’s a Spanish national dish, no doubt enjoyed throughout the world by approximately two hundred million people.”

Jake gripped the sides of the plate. For a second he felt such a wave of hatred he nearly hurled it in Rupert’s face.

“I’ll have the gazpacho,” said Billy, leaning over, whipping away Jake’s plate and handing him the Mediterranean prawns in return.

“Then you’ll sleep alone,” said Rupert.

“It seems I have no other choice,” said Billy, smiling blandly at Mrs. Greenslade, and squeezing Lavinia’s thigh a bit harder.

Rupert started discussing bullfights with Humpty Hamilton.

“We’ll go to one later in the week.”

“I’m not going,” said Lavinia. “I thinks it’s vewy cwuel.”

“Have you ever seen one?” asked Rupert.

“No.”

“You’re just like Helen. She was out with the Antis when I first met her.”

She looks like a fox, thought Jake, beautiful, nervous, wistful, with those haunted yellow eyes, a tamed fox that might bolt at any minute.

“The El Grecos are wonderful,” she was saying to Malise. “You look like an El Greco yourself, kind of lean and distinguished.”

Malise, Jake noticed, blushed slightly and looked not unpleased.

“I’m going back tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come too?” she went on.

“Tomorrow, my angel,” said Rupert with a distinct edge to his voice, “you are going to spend the morning in bed with me.”

The second courses were arriving. Jake felt the mayonnaise and prawns mixing unhappily with the whisky and wine in his stomach. Pasta was just the thing to settle it. Next moment a plate was put down in front of him. He nearly heaved at the sight; it was full of octopus.

“I didn’t order this!”

“Sí, señor, polpi.”

Jake turned dark red. “You said it was pasta,” he hissed at Rupert.

“How silly of me,” drawled Rupert. “Of course, polpi, octopus. I’d forgotten. What a pity you didn’t ask Helen or Malise.”

“You’re a shit, Rupert,” said Billy. “Look,” he added to the waiter, “take this back and get some risotto, or would you rather have a steak?”

Jake shook his head. He was feeling awful.

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Have some of my wice and chicken,” said Lavinia, tipping it onto his side plate. “It’s weally good, but I’ll never get thwough it all. Did you know there were two men in the Spanish team called Angel and Maria?”

Dinner dragged on. Jake was dropping now. He picked at the rice Lavinia had given him but didn’t manage to finish it. Once again he was overwhelmed with such homesickness he almost wept. If he was home now, he’d probably have just come in from a show. Tory would be waiting and together they’d go up and gloat over the sleeping Isa.

“Anyone want pudding?” asked Malise.

“I’d love some berries,” said Helen. “Have they any fresh berries?”

“In English you specify them,” said Rupert through gritted teeth. “Strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries.”

“I’m sure there are some strawberries,” said Malise, smiling at Helen.

“What about you, Jake?”

Jake shook his head and got to his feet. “Thank you for dinner. I’m off to bed,” he said. “Can I settle up with you in the morning?”

“This is on the BSJA,” said Malise.

“Well, thanks,” said Jake.

“Sleep well,” said Malise. “Order breakfast from Reception. They all speak English, and for Christ’s sake don’t drink the water in the taps.”