Lindsay rolled off the couch and poured herself a whisky, wandering through to the kitchen to top it up with water. She felt restless and uneasy. Until she had more information, she was deadlocked. She glanced at the kitchen clock. Ten past eight. Too late to go to the theatre or the cinema. Idly, she wondered where her friends were. Helen was probably out socializing or talent-spotting at some avant-garde play in a church hall with an audience comprising three old biddies and the cast’s lovers. Sophie would be at the hospital, dealing somehow with a level of human misery Lindsay could only guess at. How she coped with the tragedy of the AIDS babies without cracking up Lindsay couldn’t fathom.

“A good read, that’s what I need to take my mind off all the hassle,” Lindsay told herself, striding through to Sophie’s study. The small, high room was lined with built-in bookshelves filled with medical textbooks and modern novels. It also contained a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, and a single divan bed. Lindsay started looking for something appealing that she hadn’t read. Her absence from Britain for so long meant there was a considerable backlog of new novels for her to work her way through, and Sophie was always well-supplied with the latest fiction. As she scanned the shelves, one book seemed to leap out to catch her eye. In bold black capitals on a gold spine, Lindsay read IKHAYA LAMAQHAWE: CORDELIA BROWN. As if she were mesmerized, Lindsay lifted her hand slowly and took the book from the shell. Lindsay stared bleakly at the dustcover with its embossed three-quarter profile of a black woman, head back, fear straining her skin taut over her jaw and neck.

Lindsay subsided on to the divan and forced herself to open the book. Carefully, as if she were handling a delicate mediaeval manuscript, Lindsay turned the pages. She read the dedication with a wry smile. “To all those who have the courage to fight for truth and against oppression wherever it is found, no matter what the personal cost.” Perhaps she hadn’t been so far from Cordelia’s thoughts after all.

Taking a deep breath, Lindsay began to read the novel. She knew ten pages into it that it was good, no doubt about that. The writing was taut. Not a word was wasted. And the atmosphere was extraordinary. Lindsay could almost smell the world that her former lover had created so painstakingly. She shook her head in amazement. Cordelia had somehow managed to get under the skin of South Africa from thousands of miles away.