‘You know, there were many different types of people in my family in the past,’ he said. ‘But mostly they were shepherds, goat chasers. Peasants, in other words. Sometimes men would come to our village from the city. If they wore long leather coats and had moustaches, we knew they were from the police, from the local administration or from the Party. The law was theirs. One word from them could have changed our lives. It’s difficult for you to understand the way we lived.’

Kotsev’s English wasn’t quite perfect, after all. She was starting to detect a tendency to pronounce the past tense of certain verbs as if there was an extra syllable on the end. Liv-ed. Chang-ed. She put it down to a lack of opportunity to practise conversation with native English speakers. It was understandable, too – since sometimes there was an extra syllable. Fry wondered whether she should correct him when he did it, or if he’d be offended. She decided not to mention it, unless he asked. It wasn’t a problem. In fact, she found it rather appealing.

‘Was this near Pleven?’ she said.

‘No, in the far south of our country, near the border with Greece. Quite a remote region of Bulgaria. No one spoke English there. Generally, it seems that all Bulgarians learn Russian, and a few learn German. But outside of Sofia, English is not commonly spoken. I was glad to go to the capital with my family. Otherwise, I might still be living with the goats.’ He put down the menu. ‘Have you chosen?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

Kotsev looked at the waiter across the restaurant. That was all he seemed to do, yet the man was instantly at their table to take their order.

‘But it’s good to know a little of your family history,’ he said a few minutes later. ‘My grandfather worked in a macaroni factory. When we were living in the countryside, my father used to talk of a girl, the daughter of a jeweller. I think he fell in love with her, you know. But they could never have married. Her family were bourgeois exiles from Sofia.’

‘Bourgeois?’

‘Yes. You understand what that means?’

‘Of course.’

Fry hadn’t heard the expression ‘bourgeois’ for a long time. Not since her student days, when there were still some old-fashioned Socialists around in Birmingham. It sounded rather quaint now.

‘Sadly, my mother died when I was very young,’ said Kotsev. ‘I don’t remember much of her. Only a green scarf with glittering threads woven through it. And I remember she had beautiful teeth. As white as Greek cheese, my father used to say.’

‘Good grief, what sort of compliment is that?’

‘A simple one, but honestly meant.’

A bottle of wine arrived, and Kotsev waited while it was poured.