Once, in what now seemed to be another life, she had been in the countryside outside Leningrad in January, on an expedition with her Pioneer group. It was a cold day, minus ten or less, and during the early afternoon she had gone for a walk by herself. Fresh snow lay all about: smooth mounds shaped by thick undergrowth, slender pipes traversing the bare branches, and large dollops weighing down the foliage of the conifers. The air was very still. There was that special light of winter — no sun, a white sky, no shadows, and no depth to the landscape. She had walked along a pathway that someone had recently cleared; it was like moving through a black-and-white photo that had been rinsed in blue. As she walked, she was aware of a peace she’d never experienced before. And now on the other side of the world, another January, another countryside, and in summer not winter, she recognised that same feeling. Fully alive and steeped in bliss.

At half past five she roused herself and pulled on some clothes, keen to have her coffee in the peace and quiet before Andrew entered the day. This was nothing specific to Andrew: it had always been her preference to start the day in solitude with a book and coffee.

She walked into the kitchen. The kettle was warm. Surely Andrew had not already emerged? She checked the water level, flipped the switch, and crossed to the window. Outside, the air was filled with a soft pink-grey light — the colour of a galah’s plumage, it occurred to her. Perched on a low brick fence about fifty metres from the building, gazing out over one of the ski slopes, was Andrew. He was inhabiting the early morning, the huge awakening sky, the silent slopes. He had the mountains to himself.

She made her coffee and brought it back to the window. She watched him. He did not move, neither did she. How very connected to him she felt, the two of them awake when no one else was, a time when the day ahead was a blank page. She sat by the window, he sat on the low fence, the sun rose, the sky brightened, and only when he turned to come inside did she, too, move. She remained in her bedroom reading until seven o’clock, when she emerged as if for the first time.

They walked throughout the day. The sun shone, but not too hot, and the hats protected them from the flies. They followed tracks over grassy slopes peppered with wild flowers; they ate their picnic lunch in a wooded glen, and when they’d finished they walked some more. It was a day marked by contentment, and she decided not to spoil it by raising the issue of their relationship.