And now she had no one to confide in. As she opened the door of her flat Camilla could hear the telephone ringing and she stopped on the threshold, afraid that it was her father. She turned on her heel and made her way back to Brompton Road. It was raining again and she put up her umbrella, not wanting her fringe to part and reveal her scar. She had no idea where to go. It was too early to drop into one of the bars or go to a club. The evening traffic pounded past her. She felt dislocated and unsafe in the midst of it, and she wanted to flee the noise of engines and brakes and horns, and return to the harmony of the African wilderness. As she stood on the pavement, hesitant and oblivious to the curious looks of passers-by, a car pulled up close to her.

‘You look lost. Indecisive at any rate.’ Edward Carradine wound down the window and looked at her enquiringly. ‘It’s very wet. Can I take you somewhere?’

‘Yes. Yes, you can.’

He climbed out of the car in the rain and opened the door for her, settling her into the passenger seat.

‘Where to?’

‘Somewhere. Just like you said.’ Camilla was already regretting the fact that she had accepted his offer. Now that she was in his car, she had no idea where she could ask him to take her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To a film, I thought.’ He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, noting her anxiety, the twitch at the corner of her mouth and the redness around her eyes. ‘If you’re not busy, maybe you’d like to join me.’

‘Aren’t there rules about going out with your patients, Mr Carradine?’ There was the beginning of a smile in her.

‘Not in the normal, social sense. Otherwise half my private life would be spent on my own. And my name is Edward.’ He looked at her directly now. ‘You’ve had a haircut and it looks very good. It would have been a great idea even without the reason behind it. Makes you look like an elf rather than a fairy queen. Gamine is the word, I suppose.’

‘What film were you going to?’ she asked.

‘I was thinking of Jimmy Stewart in an aeroplane crash. Something called the Flight of the Phoenix. But if you’d rather go to—’

‘Jimmy Stewart is fine. I love that flat, twangy voice.’