Sylvie sat in the middle of the sofa at The Farm with Maud and I on either side of her, the dogs at our feet. She was wearing a black silk kimono with green leaf-prints on it, and a dark red lipstick that left its mark on anything it touched – her cigarette, her glass, my cheek. Outside, the ground was arid and the sky looked like a bedsheet hung up above us to dry out. 1934 was the driest year yet, the local farmers were saying. Water tanks had run out a month ago, at the end of June, and Nairobi was dusty and dirty and irritable. I’d already been escaping to The Farm every weekend since April.

Maud bent forwards to pat Louis. ‘Really?’

Sylvie blinked slowly at me. ‘Who says he won’t introduce it? I didn’t know you were getting into politics, too.’

She smelled like sex and I wondered if she’d washed since I’d visited the previous afternoon. I hadn’t wanted to clean her saliva off my penis, wash away the memory of her kneeling before me, cupping my balls and squeezing gently. I remembered that afternoon on the lake, how I’d wanted, almost willed this relationship with Sylvie to happen. Now I’d tasted this happiness it was even more delicious than I’d imagined.

‘Well?’

I reached for Sylvie. ‘I can’t think of politics now.’

I saw her look quickly at Maud then she laughed, wriggling away. ‘You’re changing the subject.’

‘It was Freddie, actually. We’ve been in touch. I brought his letters in case you wanted to read them.’

I searched the pockets of my trousers and pulled out two neatly folded pieces of writing paper. They smelled faintly of pomade. ‘See what you think.’

Sylvie lit a cigarette and spread the letter out on her knee. Maud sat back to read it with her.

Freddie and Martha had left for London in April. The day before his departure, we’d run into each other at The Norfolk. ‘I have a feeling I’ll be even busier when I get back,’ he’d said, winking at me. ‘I’ll let you know my news.’

The first letter told me they’d arrived safely, and set themselves up in an apartment in Westminster.