I hooked my fingers over the waistband and eased the knickers down over her bottom, down her thighs and let them fall around her ankles. I knelt down in front of her and lifted the hem of her dress. Her pubic hair was blonde too, and soft, not tight and springy like others I’d known.

I pressed my face into it, breathing in. Her soapy smell was mixed with another, more animal this time. I put my tongue out and licked her inner thigh. The flesh was firm and tasted of salt.

She twisted above me. ‘What are you doing?’

I met her worried gaze and held it. ‘Just stay still,’ I said, ‘I know what you’ll like.’

‘Theo,’ she said again, then looked away.

I licked an outer lip. She was silent now, but she grabbed a fistful of my hair. I parted the lips with one hand and looked at the glistening red form in front of me. I placed my tongue at the bottom, and licked upwards very slowly. I felt her shudder, and she twisted the clump of hair in her hand tighter. I licked again, and again, faster and faster, my tongue flicking around her clitoris until she moaned above me and her legs trembled.

Afterwards, I walked her back to The Norfolk. At the entrance to the hotel she turned to me, blushing.

‘You don’t need to come in,’ she said.

‘Can I see you tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said, and blushed harder.

Chapter Seventeen

Lucy caught a cold after the visit to Sylvie, and I was banished from her sickbed.

The evenings dragged themselves out without her. Most I spent at The Nairobi Club, reading opposite my father. I watched King Kong at the cinema. I didn’t see much of Freddie – he was still busy with Naivasha issues and he and Martha were planning a trip to London. I was glad to think Sylvie would be free of him for a while.

She was always home when I called, but jumpy, never as warm as she’d been at the lunch. We drank whisky sours on the veranda, or strolled around the garden on either side of Tam, the eland, while she pointed out suitable burial spots for herself. Noel told me it was her favourite game. During a visit in late October Rupert showed up at The Farm, drunk. Sylvie trembled when he shouted at her, in fear or anger, or both. Halfway through his rant, he fell asleep on a sofa and relieved himself. I picked him up and slung him over my shoulder.

‘Be careful with him,’ Sylvie said, following me out to my car, Minnie dancing around her ankles.

I bundled him into the passenger side. ‘Why do you care what happens to him?’

‘He’s my husband.’

‘You’re asking him for a divorce, aren’t you?’