In a flashlit scene before one of her film premieres, the faces and smiles around her seemed to drift into the background, their owners blurred and lifeless. It was as if they had stepped back into a whirlwind. And, in the centre of it all, she stood gazing into the camera. Yes, you could see in her eyes that the whole world could go to hell and she would still be there in that light. That blaze of light. I understood why Nick had been unable to leave her in his past.

My hands trembling, I put the magazine back as I had found it and fought to control myself before casually returning to the outer room, where Charles was writing something.

‘When is Nick’s next appointment?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss patients’ details,’ Charles replied, without looking up.

I paused. ‘I just want to know when he’ll be back.’ He put his pen down but eyed me coolly and didn’t reply. I spoke as calmly as I could. ‘Is he with someone?’

He took one of those foul Soviet cigarettes from a packet and put a match to it, sending a stream of smoke to the ceiling. ‘Dr Cawson has gone for a walk.’

It felt as if the smog were seeping into the room. I went to the window and looked out. With my back to Charles, I gripped the sill and closed my eyes. The words left my mouth but felt distant even as I spoke them. They could have been someone else’s. ‘Is he with Lorelei?’

In the corner of the room, the clock ticked and the sound of rumbling traffic came and went again. There was a long silence before Charles spoke. ‘He has gone for a walk.’

I felt myself collapse inwardly. ‘Would you tell me if he were with her? No, don’t answer that,’ I laughed bitterly. ‘I already know.’

‘Will there be anything else, Mrs Cawson?’ he said, with an unmistakable undertone of anger.

‘I … Just …’ I couldn’t stay there another second with the seed of humiliation growing in me.

Standing on the kerb, I knew that what I was doing was a mistake, that nothing good would come of it, but I couldn’t help myself. I put out my hand and a car stopped. It looked like one of the black vehicles that Party officials used and I wondered if the driver were really a Party chauffeur making a little cash on the side. I gave him the address in our sector on the north-eastern side of the river, close to the Tower of London – an address that had been Nick’s too until their divorce. He still received mail there occasionally. The driver mumbled a price, let out the grinding clutch and we moved into dirty traffic ringing with the sound of tram bells and car horns.