‘And I thought it was just us Catholics who felt guilty for impure thoughts,’Dermot said.

Shona had said that they would talk afterwards, but was surprised at how much Dermot talked to her as they made love. With Parvez, their lovemaking was animal, instinctive and silent, there was no need for words. With Dermot, he admired her, reassured her, asked if she liked this, or liked that, and asked how this or that felt; he was exploring her, learning about her, and in a strange way this vocal, intellectualized lovemaking felt much more intimate, almost uncomfortably so, as he asked her to admit all her likes and feelings and thoughts, so nothing was left hidden or secret. As they moved together, he asked her to look at him, and she opened her eyes to find herself looking straight into his, and their eyes remained locked, connected until the end; she had never noticed the colour of his eyes before - they were grey-blue. Afterwards, Shona lay back, her arms behind her head, and reflected that it was either the best or worst sex she’d had in her life; she was unable to decide which.

Despite the cold of the evening outside, the flat was warm, and Dermot, naked above the duvet, stroked the insides of her arms. ‘Would you like that wine, now?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please,’ Shona answered politely, as though nothing at all had happened, and he had offered her a cup of tea in the staffroom. He got up unselfconsciously and still naked, walked through to the kitchen. Parvez would have put his shorts on before he left the bedroom. Shona noticed how pale his skin was compared to Parvez’s. It glowed in the low light of the flat. She looked around at his room for the first time. It was filled with books. Huge numbers of books. There were books on literature, books of literary criticism, books on language and grammar, huge coffee table tomes on Dali and Catalonia, books on Spanish regions, books on philosophy. She saw Voltaire, Rimbaud, Molière, Hugo, and a new copy of Racine, all in translation. She felt instantly comforted. It was the sort of bedroom she would have liked, if only she had the shelf space. It was like her father’s study in Dhaka before he repatriated all his books to London.

Dermot walked in with two glasses of dusky red liquid. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Shona, ‘I thought you knew, I never drink red wine.’

‘You said you never drink red wine unless it’s a really, really good one,’ answered Dermot. ‘This is a Château-neuf du Pape.’ He passed her a glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking lightly.

‘Gosh,’ said Shona, sipping it appreciatively. ‘This is wonderful. Do you normally keep fine red wines at home to drink by yourself?’