In the bedroom Camilla chose clothes for the evening, insisting on flared trousers and a tight-fitting top for Sarah. Then she chose a dress with a very short skirt for herself. It appeared to be made from some kind of shiny, plastic material, with a pattern of circular holes punched along the hemline.

‘Well?’ she asked, as she hunted for accessories.

‘Well what?’ Sarah made no attempt to disguise her disappointment. ‘He’s only here to see you. He doesn’t give a damn about me, except as some kind of kid sister. And you know it.’

‘He has a schoolboy crush on me, but he knows in his heart that it doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Promise me that you’re really, really not interested in him. Tell me the truth, so I know for sure.’ Sarah was pleading, on the verge of tears that she brushed away with the back of her hand. ‘Oh shit! Now look at me.’

‘I’m not interested in him. I never was. I’m not in love with him, or with anyone for that matter. And that’s the truth,’ Camilla said. ‘I don’t know if there could ever be a man I might really love. I’ve hardly been groomed for lifelong bonding. But if there is, it certainly won’t be Piet van der Beer.’

Within an hour Tim had arrived from Dublin, embracing Camilla, slapping Piet on the back with enthusiasm. He dug in his battered suitcase for packages of smoked salmon, soda bread and Irish whiskey. In the pub around the corner they planned their evening. Piet leaned against the bar and regarded Sarah with new admiration.

‘Man, you look beautiful,’ he said. ‘Your hair is all streaky like a lion’s mane, and your eyes are so green and shining. Little Sarah – who would believe it?’

She put up her hand and placed her palm on the side of his face, and he smiled down at her with tenderness, so that she had to take her fingers away because they had begun to tremble. They ate in a French brasserie where Camilla was immediately shown to the best table. She waved the menu away and ordered for them all. Soon they were devouring oysters and white wine, and large sirloin steaks with perfect pommes frites. Blue cheese and red wine followed, and Piet put away half an apple tart with a glaze like golden glass. They drank double espresso coffee that made Sarah’s head buzz as they smoked and talked without a break, filling in the time spent apart, reminiscing over their days at Langani and on the white powdery sand of the Kenya coast. At last they rose from the table, laughing and a little drunk.

‘We’ve got to walk back from here,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m on overload, and if I don’t get some exercise and fresh air I’ll fall over.’