‘What on earth are all these beaded things on your bed?’ Marina asked. ‘They smell quite dreadful.’

‘I bought them in a Samburu manyatta. I thought I’d try to design some clothes and use them as decoration. Jackets or skirts in suede, with beaded collars and sleeves, or hems. Traditional African beading with expert European finishing.’ Camilla hesitated. ‘I thought I could even open a small workshop in Kenya. At Langani, perhaps. I could do it with Hannah. I’m sure I could sell things like that to boutiques here and in Paris and I have ideal connections.’

‘But you wouldn’t think of returning to Kenya, Camilla.’ Marina was appalled. ‘Not after what has happened. It would be madness to go back there.’

‘It was a terrible thing, Mother, and very frightening. But it was an isolated incident. There’s just as much violent crime in the East End of London as there is in Nairobi.’

‘Yes, but we don’t go to the East End of London, Camilla.’ Marina’s eyes were wide with alarm, but she did not want an argument at this moment. She tried a conciliatory tone. ‘Let’s discuss this later, darling. What you need to do now is get some sleep, and then we’ll go out for tea or an early supper. Depending on the time and how you feel.’

Marina bent over the bed and kissed her daughter, stroking her hair, an odd expression on her face. There was something unfamiliar about her, an unknown element that puzzled Camilla. But she was too tired to think about it so she lay back and closed her eyes, grateful that she was not alone. On the edge of sleep, she realised that Marina had not reprimanded her for visiting Langani, nor had there been any disparaging mention of Sarah, or even the van der Beers. As she sank into an uneasy sleep she felt relief for her mother’s uncommon restraint. Marina was in the sitting room, reading a magazine, when Camilla woke up. They had dinner in a local restaurant and then returned to the flat.

‘I’m going to sleep here,’ Marina announced. ‘You’ll have to lend me some night things, but I’m staying here because I don’t think you should be on your own.’

To avoid any discussion on the subject of Kenya, Camilla turned on the television and they sat on the sofa in companionable silence, sharing a pot of tea and watching the portly, authoritative figure of Richard Dimbleby putting the world to rights.