It was dusk now, but still pleasantly warm. The breeze ruffled her hair as she drove and she wished with all her heart that Max was beside her and that they were enjoying the lovely evening together. It would have been the perfect opportunity to speak to him about all the things causing her disquiet.

Just thinking about him made her heart beat faster. There were another four days before he was due to return to Berlin from Munich and the time stretched out endlessly.

As she turned off the road into the car park of a quiet-looking restaurant on Wannsee’s outskirts she reflected wryly that an awful lot of her life had been spent waiting for Max to return to Berlin. As a child she had kept a calendar on her bedroom wall, ticking off the days to the next school holiday. Now, a decade later, she was still doing very much the same thing.

Smiling to herself, she stepped out of the car. The restaurant had a terrace overlooking the water; it was crowded with tables, all of them covered in bright-red gingham tablecloths. A string quartet was playing Strauss waltzes. Although there were several couples already dining, plenty of tables were still free and as she paused, wondering which one to head towards, she saw them.

Her heart rocketed against her breastbone.

They were dining alone, a bottle of wine on the table. Max was talking, probably telling some funny anecdote, for Lotti was giggling.

She tried to breathe, but seemed to have forgotten how.

He had told her he was in Munich. He had told he was going to be in Munich for another four days.

‘Can I help you, madam?’ a waiter asked. ‘Are you waiting for someone, or are you dining alone?’

She didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. There was no air in her lungs. He was with Lotti when he should have been with her. He was talking to Lotti—sharing things with her—because he had always done so. Because doing so was second nature to him.

And he never did so with her. Not truly.

Blindly, she turned away, terrified of seeing him reach out and take hold of Lotti’s hand; terrified of seeing something so painful she would never be able to live with it.

By the time she reached the car park again, she was running, her breath coming in harsh, shallow gasps.

What she had just seen had confirmed every fear she’d ever had.

She jammed the key in the lock of the car, her hands slipping and sliding on the door as she opened it. What was she going to do? Who was she going to turn to?

The answer came almost the minute her hands touched the steering wheel. As far as tonight was concerned, she was going to go home and shower and change.

And then, with a breaking heart, she was going to go to a birthday party.

Chapter Nineteen

London and Berlin, May 1937

‘You can’t go back. Not by yourself. And as I can’t get leave from the Foreign Office, it means you can’t go to Berlin again until I do get leave.’