I was in the back as the car sped down side streets away from the hotel, down main streets until we were given one final look at the Fred and Ginger building, and once again I marvelled at how the modernity of its entinwing concrete and glass had somehow retained sympathy with the surroundings.
Up the hill. The glorious facade of the station – or was it the museum? – was on the left. Something else for next time. And she jumped on the brakes as the car careered right, into a cobbled street.
“A short cut!”
She always did this, tried to find new routes or short cuts, and claimed that she was making time when I could see the seconds fall away in waste.