By the second week she stopped thinking that it was about their not-quite-tiff about Ilu, Ilu! but something much more serious. Perhaps he was ill, perhaps he was so cross with her he’d run off to join Omar in Ibiza. But if he was ill, he’d let her know, wouldn’t he? Unless he was in hospital with something terrible. But then Omar would tell her if something had happened; he was the only member of Sharif’s family who knew that they were still together. She decided to text Omar, and was appalled and embarrassed by his delicate, walking-on-eggshells reply. Sharif was definitely still in London, Omar texted back, and was definitely fine. He was working on some new material for the band, for some big concert in the autumn. The subtext to the text was unmistakable: Omar obviously thought she’d been dumped, probably in the same abrupt way as Sharif’s legion of previous girlfriends, and that she was too vain, or not quite bright enough, to have worked it out yet. Candida couldn’t believe it. Sharif loved her, didn’t he? She began to doubt herself - perhaps she was too vain, and had tested his patience too much by keeping their relationship a secret for so long. She decided, like her father before her some four decades previously, that the only way out of this sea of troubles was to take arms against it, and confidently stride in.

She went to Sharif’s flat the next morning, arriving early to avoid the chance that he might not be in. Sharif never got up, much less left the house, before ten a.m. if he could possibly help it. Confident that she was looking her fragrant, glowing best, her newly washed hair shining lustrously in the morning sunshine, Candida pressed the bell. Micky from the band answered, his voice crackling on the ancient intercom. ‘Who is it?’ he asked suspiciously.

Candida, who almost never lied about anything, paused for a moment, before saying, ‘Postman.’

She heard some muttered expletives, before he said, ‘OK, I’ll come down. Is it a package or something?’

’Mmm-hmm,’ she assented, feeling a bit foolish.

When Micky opened the door to see Candida, looking both radiant and nervous, the only words he could spontaneously muster were, ‘Focking hell.’

Candida walked past him and up the stairs, ignoring him as he ran up behind her, whispering urgently, ‘Candida, he doesn’t want to see you. He’ll be furious that I let you in.’

‘Well, I want to see him,’ she said resolutely, her lips very tight to avoid them trembling. She got to the door of the flat, and pushed it wide open before Micky could get to it, or any other fellow conspirators hiding in the flat could shut it in her face. She stood in the narrow hallway. ‘Sharif?’ she called.