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The day’s third hotel suite faced westwards across the harbour, its picture window looking down over the boats and yachts of the marina, up to the minarets and phone-masts of the old town No curtains or blinds; instead, a console set into the wall Routh touched an icon, and the boats and cupolas disappeared He touched it again and the minarets and phone-masts faded back in There again, gone again, in a slow-blinking eye Were there not responsibilities, Routh would have stayed there for hours, robed and tapping the console The things he could see, the things he would miss He stroked the console one last time The harbour looked gleeful in the evening light He took off his robe and walked to the bathroom   The bath was kidney-shaped, the colour of ewe’s milk, the walls tiled with what looked like flint The shower had room for two, the bath for three Another picture window, this time facing eastwards, looked out over the business district, its red-tipped towers, its white-light blinks, the names of banks as tall as cathedrals Routh turned off the water and climbed into the tub There were bubbles, so many bubbles, like a child’s wild dream Routh closed his eyes He relaxed The other suites – at the Juniper Sky Hotel and the Clavier – had disappointed: the Juniper’s decoration was too fussy for Menah’s taste, the Clavier’s rooms strangely narrow But the Excelsior would meet her expectations He could see Menah there, disrobing, bobbing in the water, lying back and closing her eyes   After nineteen minutes, Routh got out The key to success is practice and routine The longest Menah ever spent in the bath was nineteen minutes, the shortest sixteen He had asked her, years ago, to time her bathing She had been surprised to discover she had such an unconscious consistency, but he’d told her this was normal, that we know nothing of the rules that silently bind us: the internal timings, the very grammar of them Over the years of their association, he’d told her many things were normal, of which most, he