She looks terrified. Her hair is wild, her eyes are red, her face is pale, her mouth is twisted and stiff. Something terrible has happened, and without the usual internal debate, without any thought whatsoever, he steps towards her and wraps her in his arms.

The story comes out in stuttered bursts: a man, rough, unkempt, young, let himself in. Probably a drug addict. Threatened violence, took money, left.

Andrew reaches for the telephone to call the police.

‘No, no. Not the police.’ She sounds so distressed. And then, as if she hears herself, adds more quietly, ‘What can the police do? The man took what he wanted. Now he has gone.’

Andrew sits her down and pours her a measure of brandy. Galya is usually so composed, so self-possessed, he has never presumed to know what she is feeling. But this girl in front of him is shockingly exposed. The intruder might not have harmed her physically, but he’s left her distraught.

Over the next hour she calms down, while he provides comfort and distraction. He asks about the food she has prepared, and insists on being shown The Book of Tasty and Nutritious Food. Despite only the flimsiest interest in food preparation, he plies her with questions about this dish and that. It’s late when they eat. The kasha is tasty enough — with lashings of butter and a teaspoon of salt, so it should be — but the consistency reminds him of lumpy porridge and is not at all to his liking. By the time he raises their excursion to the snow, she seems to be back to her old self, so he is surprised by her lack of enthusiasm for a plan which just that morning had so excited her.

‘It’ll be good for you,’ he says. ‘Separate for a few days from this place. Put today’s events behind you.’

It is as if the past couple of calming hours haven’t happened. She is shaking her head, her face is sunk in gloom, her entire demeanour suggests these events will never be put behind her. He doesn’t understand. He knows she’s had a shock, but she has withstood so much worse in her life. Perhaps all the stresses she’s borne over the years have mounted up, and the incident with the intruder has somehow tipped her over the edge. Whatever the explanation, she is clearly in despair.

He slides his chair around the table so as to be seated next to her. The squeal of wood on the concrete subsides in a soft, safe silence. He puts his arm about her, holding her without speaking. A minute more, and she lowers her head to his shoulder. He thinks she may be crying, but doesn’t try to check: Galya is not the sort of person who would want to be seen crying.