She made herself smile now as she moved forward to help him fasten the top button of his shirt, breathing in the same heavy fragrance she’d noticed the day they met. He seemed to have forgotten about the film she’d claimed to have made and Gabriela was keen to keep his mind on the present.

‘Tonight, there are a couple of friends I want you to meet.’

‘Oh,’ she said, taken aback. Why was she so surprised? As far as Ivan was concerned, they were a regular couple – why would he not seek to introduce her to his nearest and dearest, in his homeland? Yet she felt a shiver as she pictured it; or, she would wonder later, had she drawn that detail in, with the benefit of hindsight, knowing what was to come?

‘Sounds lovely,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘But what will we do with Layla?’

‘My mother will have her. She wants to spend as much time as possible with her while we’re here.’

‘Really? Do you think she’ll be OK?’

Ivan laughed as if her insinuation that his elderly mother might not be capable was so preposterous that it didn’t warrant acknowledgement.

‘She’s had a child herself, don’t forget, Gabriela. She’s perfectly capable.’

Was there a flicker in his eye?

She swallowed. ‘Of course. Well, I’ll just have a quick shower.’

‘No hurry,’ he said. ‘The car will be here in an hour.’

Café Pushkin was exactly the kind of place where the high-ups at the FCO would take foreign visitors when they came to stay: a lavish pastiche of Russian life, heavy on wood panelling and caviar, light on subtlety.

‘It’s Irena’s choice,’ Ivan said as they pulled up outside the peachy baroque façade, the car depositing them directly in front of the doors that opened for them as they approached.

‘As you’ll see, she’s not one who believes that less is more. But she’s an impressive woman. You’ll like her, I think.’

Andrei and Irena were already waiting when they arrived. Irena stood first, dressed in an almost spray-on blue dress with one shoulder strap, draped in a fur stole which brushed against Gabriela’s arm as they air-kissed hello. There was a spark of recognition, and yet Gabriela blinked it away. After all, Ivan had already told her that Irena never came to London.

‘This is my husband,’ she said.

Andrei had put down the phone he had been fixated on and stood to greet them.

‘Irena,’ Ivan kissed her on both cheeks before holding out a hand to Andrei. He was shorter than his wife, with dark hair slicked away from his face.

Turning his attention to Gabriela, Andrei said, ‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you. It’s not often we get a peek into Ivan’s private life.’