WHEN THEY WERE all in their twenties and getting to know one another, it was Lydia Smith who was in love first with Alexandr. He was married at that time, in the mid-eighties, to his first wife Juliet. Sandy was three or four years old. Lydia and Christine had only just graduated, they were still living in a shared house with a couple of other student friends; Christine had embarked on the PhD in literature which she never actually finished, Lydia was working part-time in a bar. Alexandr Klimec was a few years older, he seemed properly grown-up to them, with a real life. They had met him when he taught French classes at their university; in those days you still had to do some French, as part of an English degree. Probably he’d hardly noticed them, two girls in a mixed group of students – although men usually noticed Lydia. Anyhow Alex had seemed entrancing to the girls, with his foreign handsomeness so exact and polished, his peculiar hazel eyes like cat’s eyes, his intelligence harsh as a knife, his disdain for their ignorance, his slightly guttural French accent. He hadn’t even taken the trouble to flirt with them, as other male teachers did. They had felt exquisitely crushed.

When the French classes ended, Christine hardly thought about him again – she only remembered Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère! But in the autumn after they’d graduated, Lydia confessed that she had found out where Alex lived, and that he was married with a child. She had introduced herself to Juliet as one of Alex’s students, said that she was looking for babysitting work. Juliet had taken her number, and had already called her.

— I want you to come with me the first couple of times, Lydia said to Christine. — So they don’t think it’s anything sinister. Although it is, of course.

— But you don’t even like children!

— I’m not doing it to get close to his child. Chris, I’m desperate about this man. I’ve let him into my dreams – I don’t mean daydreams, I mean actual dreams in my sleep at night. In these dreams I’m always stumbling after him, and then he turns around and doesn’t even know me, or looks right through me. Or I’ve got blood on my skirt or something, or I’ve done my homework for him but it’s dirty because I’ve dropped the pages in the street.

— This is awful though, Lyd, snooping around his home.

— I have to know, if I’ve got any chance. I swear, if we find out they’re contentedly, blissfully married, I’ll abandon the whole thing. I’ll tell Juliet I’ve given up babysitting because a dog bit me or something. Or a baby. I won’t mention the name Klimec to you ever again. I’ll retire to a nunnery.