“Parts are flat, parts are mountainous. Growing up there in the eighties . . .” I hesitated; she waited. “I knew things were wrong. I felt it as a child. But I didn’t fully understand. Now I do but I’m here.”

What was I getting at? Speaking about this could be awkward. The music from the earphones in Sabine’s hand had changed to a tune with a strong beat.

“It’s complicated,” she said.

I nodded. Ten minutes later, an apple jelly bean clipped my shoulder. When I looked up Sabine had popped her earphones back in. Her English was almost perfect; the tone of her voice was mesmeric and low. I sucked the tart sweet slowly.

For the rest of the day, I imagined conversations in which I said the things I wished I had and asked the things I wanted to know.

2

Sabine wasn’t a big talker and my fantasies of meaningful conversations stayed no more than that: fantasies. If she’d hinted at intimacy in our first chat, she rebounded from it afterwards. Yet had she distanced herself from me consistently, I’d have lost interest. Instead, right from the start, there was a push and pull between us. We had moments of sudden openness, affinity even, and their promise kept me hooked.

Many of our exchanges centered on food. Every day Sabine brought in a cooked dinner. She put it in the fridge in the morning. At lunch, she heated it in a pot on the hot plate. By the time she ate at her desk, the whole floor smelled of her meal.

One day, the CEO and the HR director came to our office for a meeting with clients. As they left, the CEO wrinkled his nose and looked around. Sniffing suspiciously, he walked down the aisle between the desks.

He stopped when he got to Sabine. “That smells delicious.”

“It’s cuisse de canard confite,” said Sabine.

The HR director said hastily to the CEO, “I sent round an email, and we removed the microwave. She must have used the hot plate—”

“Duck leg?” the CEO said.

“Candied,” Sabine said. “Would you like to try?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

She took a plastic fork from next to her takeaway coffee mug and gave him a taste.

He chewed slowly, swallowed, and nodded approvingly. “Takes me back to a fabulous meal I had at the George Cinq Four Seasons Hotel.”

“I know it,” said Sabine.

“Are you from Paris?”

“No, but I lived there. I worked near the Four Seasons.”

“What work did you do?”

“I was with Crazy Horse. You have heard of them?”

The CEO looked goggle-eyed.

I put “Crazy Horse” into Internet Explorer.

One of the secretaries called the CEO to the phone. “Wonderful to meet you,” he said to Sabine. “Next time you’re at our Victoria offices, drop in for a chat.”

According to the internet, Crazy Horse was an upmarket strip show.