Through Ivan’s eyes, she saw it in a more rational light – the beautiful thatched roofs, the walled garden, the church spire piercing the grey sky, as they approached.

He led her through the archway into the inn, watching her to check her reaction.

‘Don’t look surprised. Even we nouveaux-riche Russians are capable of discretion when the occasion calls for it.’

She tried to laugh as he squeezed her hand, moving purposefully towards the reception desk, but her whole body was trembling. Despite the lightness of the conversation, every part of her throbbed with a wary acceptance of what was happening. She was checking into a hotel with a man she hardly knew, a man who was not the father of her children. With every step, she shifted closer towards a point from which there was no return. Here, in this fragile state of purgatory, hanging precariously between before and after, the inevitability of what awaited them hovered just in front of her, though still far enough away that she could claim not to see it. There was an irony in that, or perhaps a twisted logic, given what would follow.

And then they were on the stairs, and his hand rested a moment on the door to their room. With a single step, she was inside and the door behind her closed.

They barely left the hotel for the duration of their stay, moving between the bed and the freestanding bath, safe within the confines of those four walls. Briefly they made it to the dining hall, where the sound of other diners vanished so that all she could hear was the tinkle of cutlery and the sound of the blood pounding in her body.

‘So what attracted you to Russia?’ he asked later that night, stroking her hair, his body cradling hers under the soft cotton sheets.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, her heartbeat quickening at the prospect of another lie. But when she opened her mouth, the truth spilled out. ‘When I was growing up, my mother was obsessed with Russian philosophy.’

Noting his expression, she smiled. ‘Yes, she was deeply pretentious … Like I said, we didn’t have a great relationship – I’m not sure she was necessarily the person you’d want to be stuck next to at a dinner party after a few drinks, but she was … I don’t know, she was a character. I think that’s what you call it, someone who is a clever arsehole? She was impassioned.’

Ivan laughed.