June slid into July like butter on a hot plate. I was used to Andalucían summers; the fierce sun and the darkness of shuttered rooms, the constant thirst of those who cannot escape the city for mountain or coast, who only emerge in the greyness of dawn to crawl to mass and pray for rain. But Tangiers heat was different. It was the heat of the desert, come to try its luck by the sea. It was an old god, one who laughed to see us sweat and swoon. It found me wild with anxiety and joy and fear and desire shaken up together.

The night with Langham turned into another, then another. My morning meetings with him – ostensibly to discuss the day’s menu – would more often than not descend into a frenzy of fingers on buttons and loosened garments, up against the locked door. There was no hiding it from Bouzid, of course, or Hilde. Early one morning she had walked into Langham’s room and found me there, in my strange collection of male underwear and the tight brassiere. She had laughed, and I felt a huge wave of relief. I wanted her for my friend.

‘I see he took your news well then,’ she said, helping herself to a cigarette from the box on his dresser. By the time Langham emerged from the bathroom, Hilde and I were standing at the wardrobe, holding up suits, trying on hats, Hilde with a cravat looped about her neck.

‘What’s this?’ he said, with his secretive half-smile. ‘A pantomime?’

‘Tell del Potro,’ Hilde said around her cigarette, ‘that a gentleman must have a flannel suit for days like this. A gorgeous, white flannel suit, with –’ she rifled through the shelves ‘– a pale green shirt, or a rose pink.’ She held one up beneath my chin. ‘Yes! Just like that. You’ll look a dream. And a sprig of jasmine at the lapel. The ladies won’t be able to keep their eyes off you. Or the men,’ she added slyly.

‘No, no.’ Langham came forwards, his robe brushing against me, his hair still gleaming with water. ‘A gentleman is never ostentatious.’ He was quoting from The Gentleman’s Guide, and I smiled at him. ‘He does not covet attention but attracts it by way of an engaging ensemble.’ He pulled out a saffron-coloured shirt and held it up to my chest, with his arms around me. ‘One that defies analysis,’ he finished, his eyes on mine in the mirror.

Smiling, I took the shirt, and slid my arms into it. Langham followed every movement. ‘This one,’ he murmured, pulling a suit from the rows that hung there. ‘Try this.’

It was white flannel, just as Hilde had suggested. I pulled the trousers over my legs, felt a rush of delight as I adjusted the waistcoat and settled the jacket over my shoulders.

She clapped when I was dressed.

‘Perfect. Just perfect.’