Earlier that day, he had washed his hair with dye to darken it, and now, curled by Hilde, it looked almost like my own. He’d darkened his eyes too, with a smudge of kohl, shaded his cheekbones to make them more like mine. It changed his face, made it seem less formal, less English. Looking at him, I managed a smile. Was that how he saw me?

‘What will your guests say?’ I asked, touching his cheek. ‘Won’t they think it strange?’

‘Strange?’ He snorted. ‘Everyone is strange in this city.’ He smiled a little. ‘If anyone asks, I shall tell them it is part of our party theme. A good, white English suit, hiding a red-blooded Andalucían.’ He reached out, and slid the robe from my shoulder. ‘Shall we?’ he murmured.

Article by article, we dressed. I smoothed silk underwear over his hips, he pulled the brassiere down over my head and laced it tight. Face to face, we fastened each other’s shirts, finding excuses to touch, to linger. When it came to the trousers, I thought we should never manage to dress each other, but eventually, we did, settling the white flannel creases in place. Jackets, ties; his fingers took their time straightening my collar, brushing against my neck. Finally, I sat before the mirror and he dressed my hair, his face serious with concentration. When he’d finished, he let the comb fall to the table, and sat down beside me.

We were reflected, shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek. The same suits, the same hair, the same sober, watchful expression. The same man, almost. Enough to fool a casual glance.

‘You said you wanted to be like me,’ he whispered into the glass.

Eventually, he stood up. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘the final touch, for later.’ From the bottom of the wardrobe, he took two hatboxes. Inside each was a hat, two identical straw boaters, each with a wide red ribbon. ‘It should be your size,’ he said, and placed it on my head.

At any other time, Hilde would have clapped and laughed to see us walking down the stairs, hand in hand, the spitting image of each other. As it was, she only watched us solemnly, as if we were descending into the trenches.

‘This is it, then?’ she asked, as she fixed a hibiscus flower into each of our lapels. She too was wearing white. Her eyes looked heavy with make-up, and from whatever she had taken, for courage.

Langham squeezed my shoulder once, and let go. ‘This is it,’ he said, and nodded to Bouzid, who threw open the front doors.