Afterwards they had dinner and Edward was full of charm, questioning her about the fashion world. In turn he told her about his visits to Kenya, and to Nigeria and India, describing with real compassion the ravaged bodies he had tried to repair. He watched her carefully as they talked, seeing her beautiful face light up when she laughed at his stories, observing an underlying sadness that she did not seem to recognise herself. When he asked after Marina she shrugged.

‘In case you feel obliged to make any further polite conversation about my mother, I’ll save you some time,’ she said. ‘You might as well know that I’ve never been particularly close to her.’

Later he mentioned her father. She stiffened and the hand that was holding her wine glass trembled so that she had to put it carefully down on the table. He was busy, she said flatly. Away most of the time. She had not seen him since her return from Kenya. He thought he could see a hint of tears in her eyes, and changed the subject. He refilled her wine glass several times and understood that she was drinking herself steadily out of whatever it was that haunted her.

‘What about you – do you have a family?’ she asked, as they ordered dessert.

‘I was married once,’ he said. ‘But that was a long time ago. Would you like a coffee? And a sambuco perhaps?’

‘Too cloying. But I’d love coffee.’

He drove her home and accompanied her up the stairs to her door.

‘This is where I’m supposed to ask you in for a drink,’ Camilla said, as she searched for her key.

‘It’s not obligatory.’ He was smiling.

‘But is it acceptable, as one of your patients?’ She was teasing him, aware that he wanted to come in.

‘I’d love a drink,’ he said, himself reluctant to let her go.

In the living room he looked around at her books, at the paintings and prints and the stylish decor. It was a sophisticated room that offered no clue to her personality. He could not see any photographs of family or friends. He wondered if she kept these things in her bedroom, but something in him doubted it. Camilla returned with a tray and sat down opposite him, her face tranquil and childlike as she poured coffee and a snifter of brandy. When she looked up and smiled at him, holding out the small cup, he knew that he was falling in love with her. It was a ridiculous admission, and his reason told him that there could not be anything real in this facile, instant tumbling into another’s orbit. He reminded himself that he had just turned forty-two, and that this must be some preposterous, mid-life crisis that had taken hold of him. She was hardly more than a child, for all her worldly mannerisms. Besides which, she was probably involved elsewhere.