He was a historian, of the modern period. On one occasion, she had sat at the back of an auditorium while he lectured on the Russian Revolution. She found herself wishing that Galya was with her, and in the next moment so pleased to be alone. This lecture, this lecturer, indeed everything about Mark was separate from the rest of her life. Separate but ever-present. She could feel him against her, even though he was at the lectern more than twenty metres away. He was a dynamic and engaging lecturer. She gazed around at the students: she was not the only person who was enjoying Mark Asher.

She’d never had an affair before, she’d never discussed the affairs of others, she had no idea how she knew the protocol, but somehow she did. She knew that affairs had to remain separate from regular life, that they were in addition to that life; she knew you had to keep turning up the heat in an affair; and, crucially, she knew you must recognise when to finish. As for knowing this was an affair: she was a woman in her fifties, she’d been married for thirty-two years, she knew. However, she hoped the end was a good way off.

They had returned an hour before from their shopping expedition, and were sitting at Mark’s kitchen table drinking coffee; the remains of their deli brunch were scattered across a teak platter. Sylvie was aware that relations with his daughter were thawing, so much so that Zoe would definitely be moving into the stables once the renovation was complete.

‘When do you expect the stables to be finished?’ she asked.

Mark stood up and led her by the hand to the large glass windows at the back of the house. He nodded at the stables beyond the courtyard. ‘The bathroom is nearly finished,’ he said, ‘and the kitchen is being installed next week. Painters come in after that. I’ve suggested to Zoe she might like to choose the rugs and furniture, make the place more her own.’ And then, guessing what had prompted her question, ‘I don’t think Zoe’s being here will affect us. She’s working and studying. She’ll hardly be home, and certainly not during the day.’

They stood gazing through the glass to the stables a few moments more, then he turned to her. She thought he was struggling to say something, the muscles around his eyes and mouth would not keep still, but he remained silent.

‘Come to bed,’ she said, slipping her arm around his waist. ‘Come to bed, my love.’

In her saddlery, not far from Mark Asher’s house, Galina was working on her Aussie English picture book. With the Australian vernacular showing a marked preference for the risqué, Galina was thinking it might well be a picture book for adults. Whoever the audience, she was enjoying the work. The hours slid past, and it was early evening when she packed up for the day. With Andrew due in an hour to discuss their High Country holiday, she turned her attention to dinner. There was no time to go to the shops, but she was Russian, and Russians can make a meal out of crumbs.