‘I’ll get a taxi.’ Already she was moving away.

I didn’t take my eyes from her, and when her shining bright head was gone, I felt as if the light in the room had dimmed, and I wanted to cry.

‘You changed your clothes,’ Zac said.

‘Yes.’ I’d been wearing one of the elegant tweed shifts Zac bought for my birthday, along with a silk blouse and cashmere cardigan he’d also stuck in the package.

‘Why?’

‘I felt like it.’

‘I thought you loved the things I chose for you. It pleased me that you did.’

‘I do love them. But I love the things I choose for myself, too.’

To my relief, he let it go. ‘Your friend hates me.’ He sounded hurt.

‘She doesn’t.’

‘Her parents hate me too.’ He jutted out his chin, and I saw again why he wanted me to move into his rented house – why he was so passionately averse to living next door to James and Peggy. It seemed fair, too, when he was only staying in Cornwall for me. He went on. ‘They’re too possessive of you.’ His feet were flat on the floor, his elbows on the table.

Since that failed MI5 interview three and a half years ago, I had tried to shut down every bit of tradecraft I ever learned. But just as my Spanish resurfaced with the name Molinero, Zac finding me in the pub pricked at me too. I weighed it alongside something else I’d repressed. The way he turned back from his journey to London and caught me looking through his old suitcases.

I made myself say the difficult thing. I couldn’t turn away from it. ‘How did you know I was here, Zac?’ I watched him carefully as he answered.

He coloured slightly, and flattened the tone and speed of his speech. ‘I saw your car. I was worried about you being out on a night like this. I wanted to find you and get you home safely.’

‘You were on nights tonight. Milly saw you at the hospital.’

‘What? Is she a private detective now?’ Though his upper body was still, he was vibrating his knees together.

I didn’t understand how he’d got away from the hospital, but all the data was processing through my brain and coming up with one conclusion: he wanted to see what I’d do and where I’d go when I thought he was safely at work.

‘I brought this for you.’ He held out a card. ‘It came to the hospital.’

I studied the envelope. Sent from London, no return address, and obviously opened and then resealed. ‘It’s addressed to me. Why has it been opened?’

He shrugged. ‘Looks like a Christmas card you missed. Hardly top secret.’

‘You chased away my friend, my best friend.’ I swiped at tears, and realised they were made by rage as much as distress.