‘I should say so.’

‘I’m sorry. I suppose you’re single again.’

‘I suppose I am.’

The silence that followed this reference to the fallout of Stuart’s betrayal was awkward enough to have both of them avoiding each other’s eye. In the immediate aftermath of Stuart’s admission of his affair with Imogen – or, rather, their episodic trysts, since both denied it had ever been more than that – she had bombarded Kate with phone messages containing ever more profuse and abject apologies. They had been followed by letters, then unannounced visits.

Kate knew then as she did now that she should have been angrier with her erstwhile friend, but she couldn’t quite summon the bitterness the circumstances seemed to demand. Imogen was every clichéd politician writ large: engaging and entertaining, but unfaithful and untrustworthy. Kate had never laboured under any illusions regarding her, but Stuart was the rock she herself had built her life on. She reserved her rage, therefore, for him and allowed herself to be bludgeoned into submission by his former boss, knowing that Imogen’s desperate attempts to preserve some vestige of their friendship were nothing more than an attempt to salve her own conscience. ‘So, what do you think?’ Imogen asked, still staring at the TV screen. Kate quickly turned it off.

‘About dragons?’

‘No! What’s going on in Estonia.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘What do you mean, “Oh, that”? What else would I be talking about? I’m surprised you’re not stuck at your desk.’

‘I’ve just come back from seeing Meg Simpson.’

‘What did she have to say?’

‘About what?’

‘The prime minister’s response, of course! I mean everything we said – you said – during the leadership election looks like it must have been true. He’s a Russian spy, isn’t he? How else do you explain his utterly bizarre reaction unless he really is working for the Russians?’

‘Innate caution?’

‘But he isn’t a cautious man, is he? In fact, we’d probably agree he’s reckless by nature – and pretty bellicose when it suits him.’

‘I suppose so.’ Kate wanted to get out of this conversation. She was relieved to see the wine disappearing at a rate of knots.

‘What are you going to do?’

Not refill the glass, she thought. ‘About Estonia?’

‘The suggestion that he’s a Russian spy!’

Kate sat down on the arm of the sofa. She suddenly needed to. ‘There’s nothing we can do. We have no evidence. The case is closed. He’s the prime minister, after all.’

‘Have you spoken to Meg about it?’

‘No.’ Kate avoided Imogen’s penetrating gaze.

‘Are you all right?’ Imogen asked. ‘You don’t look well.’

‘Just tired.’

‘I’m sorry. I know the past six months have been . . . very difficult.’

Kate smiled weakly. She had forgotten: Imogen also had a gift for understatement. ‘I should probably get some rest. I understand what you’re saying, but I honestly don’t think there’s very much we can do about it.’

Imogen drained her wine and stared at the floor, deep in thought. She started waving the glass in a circle, and Kate worried that she would ask for a refill. But she placed it decidedly on a side table. ‘I’m going to have a word with Meg myself. I won’t mention you – don’t worry – but I think I should at least raise it with her. And perhaps the home secretary as well.’