Ian nodded. ‘We’re in good shape,’ he said, then ordered more wine and embarked on a long soliloquy about how Georgians made theirs differently.

Kate took another double dose of zopiclone when she got back to her room in the hotel and undressed quickly. She asked herself when she would next dare to attempt to sleep without chemical assistance, but knew that this was neither the time nor the place.

Her head had been down barely five minutes when an argument broke out down the corridor. She heard Julie’s voice and hauled herself out of bed to intervene.

Julie was in the doorway of her room, leaning against the frame in a black, see-through nightgown. Ian stood before her still fully clothed, part supplicant, part bull in a china shop. ‘Ian!’ Julie shouted.

He had his foot in the door. ‘I just want to talk,’ he pleaded.

‘Hey,’ Kate said. ‘Come on . . .’ It was like her friend to answer the door without bothering to put on a dressing-gown just to provoke him. She felt a flash of resentment at having to be the grown-up in this equation.

‘I’ve told him a hundred times,’ Julie said. ‘He just won’t listen.’

‘We owe it to each other to talk,’ Ian said, ignoring Kate entirely.

But Julie kept her eyes on her friend. ‘You tell him!’

‘Keep your voices down, both of you,’ Kate said. ‘This is not the time or the place—’

‘Why does she answer the door like that, if not to make a point?’

‘Ian,’ Kate said. ‘No woman is required to dress in one way or another when you bang on her door in the middle of the night.’

‘It’s only just past ten.’

‘Go to your room.’

‘After everything that has passed between us, it’s just bizarre she won’t agree to sit down and talk things through for a few—’

‘What do you mean, “everything that has passed between us”?’ Julie asked. ‘You mean sex, normally in the missionary position, which is about as far as your imagination ever seems to stretch.’

‘For God’s sake . . .’

‘Stop it, Julie.’ There was steel in Kate’s voice now. ‘I mean it.’

‘I’m going straight to HR when I get back from this trip. I’ve told him a hundred times I do not wish to talk to him about this ever again. I don’t know what part of his tiny brain can’t grasp—’

‘You think I give a damn if you report me? You can stick a copy of your complaint in the post to King Charles Street and Downing Street as well for all I care! All I am asking for is a bit of respect. Like it or not, we have been in a relationship for more than a year and—’

‘It was just fucking sex, Ian, and lousy sex at that.’