Leonard’s factory was situated on the corner of a lane. It was a two-storey, cream-brick building at the front, with a single-storey addition behind. A smallish concern, she thought — but small compared with what? Soviet industry, where all the factories were gargantuan? How long would it take, she wondered, before she acquired new standards of comparison? Not that she wanted to lose her Russian experience, she just didn’t want it to dominate. She wanted to choose when to apply it. And why not? Choice was, after all, one of the West’s major gifts.

A small laugh escaped: a little self-mockery would save her from being a miseryguts. And with this came another snort of laughter. She loved the blunt, irreverent Australian additions to stiff-upper-lip British English. ‘Miseryguts’ was a favourite, and, she noted with satisfaction, perfectly executed in the present context.

She smoothed her hair and straightened her dress — the same dress she had worn to the Morrow dinner, she suddenly realised, but nothing she could do about that now. She entered the building and followed a sign directing her upstairs to the office. There she was greeted by the receptionist, a good-looking woman of about forty. She wondered if Sylvie minded Leonard having such an attractive assistant, then quickly dismissed the thought: she’d never seen a closer nor more compatible couple than the Morrows.

As the receptionist picked up the phone to buzz Leonard, Winston Yeung appeared. He approached with his hand outstretched.

‘Welcome to our world,’ he said with a smile

He smelled heavenly, an aftershave cologne more floral and less piercing than Australian men tended to favour — not that she would complain about any cologne: she loved the way men smelled here. As she shook his hand, she breathed him in.

‘Leonard apologises. He was planning to show you around himself, but he’s running behind and asked me to do the honours instead.’ Winston checked his watch. ‘By the time we’ve finished, he should be free.’

Regularly when she was growing up, Galina, like all Soviet children, toured factories to witness firsthand the power and might of Soviet industry, but Morrow & Son was the first privately owned factory she had ever seen. It was so clean, both the building and the machines; even the workers looked clean. Different areas were designated for different functions, including an entire section for welding. As they walked through the factory, Winston revealed his familiarity with the workers by asking one man about his wife, another about a forthcoming baby, and a third — Asian, like Winston, but maybe one of the new Vietnamese she was yet to meet — whether his family had joined him yet.

‘It’s a big enterprise,’ Winston said, indicating the scene before them. ‘Ten times larger than when Leonard took it over.’

‘And the son?’ Galina asked.