They ordered Diet Coke and sat soaking up the sun. A crisp wind whipped away the last remnants of cloud to reveal the summit of Mount Kazbegi, the legendary heart of the Caucasus, to whose flanks Prometheus had allegedly been chained.

Gergeti Trinity Church, which sat atop the hill directly opposite, was bathed in sunlight, the landscape a riot of brilliant green meadow. ‘This may very well be the most beautiful place I have ever been,’ Julie said.

‘It is awe-inspiring,’ Kate agreed. They ordered food, which appeared promptly. ‘You shouldn’t provoke Ian,’ she said.

‘You’re not my mother.’ Julie was eating an enormous slice of traditional Georgian cheese bread, as if it was set to be her last meal on earth.

‘No, but I am your boss.’

‘I didn’t ask him to come to my room in the middle of the night.’

‘And you definitely shouldn’t be answering your door in a see-through nightie.’

‘If he’s going to shag Suzy, I might as well remind him of what he’s missing.’

‘I thought you didn’t care.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Well, you sound as though you do.’

‘No, I’m just being mean. Given what a twat he is, I’m entitled to punish him.’

‘It’s beneath you.’

‘It so bloody isn’t and you know it. Besides, wouldn’t you relish the chance to rub Stuart’s nose in it?’

Kate thought about this. The complexity of Julie’s emotional landscape was a challenge much too far for Ian’s schoolboy simplicity, though perhaps that had been why he’d fallen for her so hard. She could be quite cruel when she wanted to be, and Kate wondered if Danny knew what he was getting into.

She watched Julie finish off the last of the cheese bread. ‘I need some pudding,’ she said.

She ordered Soviet cake and Kate sat back, stared at the mountain and thought about what her friend had just said of Stuart. With the benefit of some distance – geographic and with the passage of time – she had started to regret her recent commitment to Stuart and the children. She was by no means convinced she wanted to give her marriage another try or would be able to. She thought of Ian’s childish petulance last night, the plaintive cocktail of wounded ego and bruised pride. How was it so many men seemed not to have progressed beyond the emotional maturity of small boys? Were they just spoilt, mollycoddled, smothered?

She wondered if that was what she was doing to her own son. It was hard to imagine, since he rarely let her close enough to love, let alone smother him.

The Soviet cake came. It was a grey sponge made from condensed milk, so sweet Kate almost gagged. ‘How can you possibly eat that?’

‘It’s delicious.’ Julie wolfed it down.