‘I’m going to see Tom Bartlett later this morning,’ she said. ‘He’s not our agent just for the good days. I’m sure he’ll have a dozen dolly birds only too ready to take my place on this shoot. And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t carry on with the project. You weren’t chosen as a minder for me, Ricky. You got this job because they like your work. If you don’t believe that, you’ve got a problem that’s nothing to do with me. Thanks for your sympathy and concern and the cup of coffee you haven’t offered me. I’ll phone you later, when I’ve talked to Tom.’

‘Don’t do me no bloody favours,’ he said, sulky and petulant.

‘And don’t bother to call me ever again, Ricky, not for anything.’

He did not make any move to see her downstairs. Camilla retrieved her suitcase from the hall porter and lugged it out of the building. It was rush hour and it had started to rain. She stood for half an hour on the cold street before she could find a taxi, and she was close to tears of gratitude and exhaustion when the driver climbed out and helped with her bag. It was too early in the morning to appear at Tom Bartlett’s office and she needed to go home and rest for a while. In the flat she made herself coffee and sat down on the sofa where Anthony had made love to her a million years ago, and where she was now sitting alone and incomplete and adrift without him. She smoked a cigarette and developed a pounding headache. As she swallowed two aspirins she wondered if it was the tobacco or the long gash on her head that was causing her such misery. When she lay down in the bedroom and tried to sleep, her mind raced like an overheated engine. Outside in the square a car backfired, and she bolted upright in a state of panic.

Sarah had flown as far as London with her, offering to stay on for a day or two, in spite of having problems of her own that needed to be resolved quickly. On the plane she had been quiet, but her hands shook noticeably when she picked up her book or her knife and fork, and she had woken with a start each time she tried to doze and to put the horrible images of the raid behind her. Camilla had refused the generous offer, but now that Sarah was not with her she felt cast off, left to navigate her way through the after-effects of terror and injury, with no map or guidelines that might lead her towards recovery. She picked up the telephone and dialled her father’s number, only to hear the lonely sound of the instrument ringing in an empty space. When she replaced the receiver she fought the self-pity that threatened to bring on tears. Then she remembered the phial of tranquillisers that the doctor in Nanyuki had given her, and she rummaged in her vanity case. The yellow tablets looked comforting and she swallowed one with a glass of water. In the bedroom she sat down in front of her mirror and took a pair of sharp scissors from the drawer of the dressing table. It was surprisingly difficult to cut a fringe, but she tried to shape the hair so that it fell in a straight line, hiding the dressing on her forehead. By the time she had showered and put on a warm sweater and trousers she felt calm, ready to face the London morning in a reasonable frame of mind. She found a jacket and umbrella, and went out into the grey drizzle.