‘I think that would be best.’

I look up at Katarina. ‘She is going to die soon, isn’t she? She isn’t going to wake up.’

‘I think that is probable.’

Katarina has arranged my grandmother’s white hair on the white pillow, and applied salve to keep her lips from drying out. She has dressed her in the lavender nightgown I bought for Christmas. ‘You are so good, Katarina,’ I say.

I climb onto the bed and lie beside my grandmother, my head next to hers. I tuck the sheets around her more carefully. The gesture triggers a memory of something my grandmother used to do when I was little. Every night after my bath, she would snuggle me into a towel that she’d warmed on the radiator. I drape my arm over her. She seems even more shrunken. I turn my eyes towards Katarina, who is standing on the other side of the bed, radiating sympathy and kindness. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say. ‘There’s something urgent I need to take care of but I don’t want to leave her. How can I?’

Katarina smiles. ‘Your grandmother knows you are with her. She knows this even if you are not in the room. You must live. She told me to tell you that. But you look puzzled, Helen. Am I not making sense with my English?’

I decide to believe Katarina, though I know she may be making this up to be kind. ‘Your English is beautiful.’ I give my grandmother a kiss, and another and another. I get halfway to the door, then run back to give her one more, knowing that it is likely to be the last.

George’s flat is as messy as ever. I think it must be that his head is too full and his life is too busy to be able to cope with cleaning, and this is a position I respect. George is calm in himself but chaotic all around, the reverse of Zac.

While George hurriedly transfers piles of clothes and paper and assorted objects from the sofa to the floor so I can sit, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above his cluttered chimney piece. There is grass in my hair, which is straggling out of a rat’s nest ponytail. My cheeks are dusty, but with snail trail streaks that I think must be from tears. The bottom of my dress has ripped, so it dangles jaggedly beneath what used to be the hem.

‘Which is the real you?’ I ask him. ‘The spy or the man?’

‘Whichever you like best. Which is the real you? Now, or then?’

‘Both.’ As I say this very true thing, I see that there is no division between my past and my present, between who I was and who I now am, whatever my name may be.

‘Can I change my answer to “both” too?’ George is trying to stop the contents of an overstuffed carrier bag from spilling out. ‘I prefer that answer.’