‘You know what they think of divorced career diplomats. So many wives stay on, work out a different way of living their lives, take a little love where they find it. And being . . . being the other thing is still judged as a crime.’ Marina’s voice was pleading. ‘Your father isn’t a criminal, Camilla. He’s not the same as other men, well, most other men. But he’s not a criminal. We couldn’t have survived a public accusation. That would have ruined him. I had to stand by him. I had to go on as though he was my husband like every other husband. I found some letters one morning, when I was sorting out his suits, changing over from our winter to summer wardrobes. They were from a boy, a kind of prostitute, who wanted money. At first I couldn’t believe what the letters were saying. And then he promised. He said it would never happen again, that he would put it all behind him. He cried, and he told me he loved me. That you and I were all that mattered in his life. Then we left for Nairobi. We got through it together, in spite of the cost.’

‘The cost? What about the cost to me? Living through your rows and your scenes and your loathing of him.’

‘I’ve never even disliked him. Only what his life forced us to become.’

‘So he stayed because he owed you something. You bailed him out, and he’s had to pay for that, and will be paying for ever.’ Camilla felt only contempt for them both. ‘And neither one of you gave a thought for me. About what your twisted lives would do to me.’ She took hold of Marina’s arm, pressing hard until she saw her mother wince with pain. ‘Get out of my flat, Mother, and stay away from now on. Both of you. Just leave me alone. You’ve done enough harm to last me all the way to hell and back.’

‘Camilla—’

‘Here’s your coat, Mother. Go now. Please.’

For an hour Camilla sat trancelike in the empty room, a trace of Marina’s perfume still in the air. Dusk approached, filling the room with a chill, yellow light and the wind rose, whispering at the window ledge. At last she stood up and went to dress for the evening. She bathed and smoothed cream into her arms and legs, made up her face with all the professional knowledge and care she could summon. She brushed her fringe down over her forehead and sprayed it into place. Then she chose a dress that was tight across her breasts and had a hemline just above her knees. At the Savoy Hotel she smiled at the barman and ordered a vodka.

‘Haven’t seen you around for some weeks, Miss Broughton-Smith,’ he said. ‘Are you meeting your father? Do you want a table for dinner later on?’