Everything seemed normal yet exciting to her, as she busied herself in the house. Her only anxiety was that she had not been able to tell Anton that she had been married before. The first night in his room, she had tried to explain that she was not the innocent French teacher and chaperone he seemed to think. She held his hand tight and repeated herself; but he had been too transfixed by her nakedness to take in what she said. Then she hadn’t wanted to break the spell he was under because it was too exhilarating to be the object of such awe.

One day she would spell out the unremarkable truth about Georges Duvivier, how she had been pushed towards him by her father, how much he drank and the arguments in their small apartment near the Place des Ternes. For the time being, it didn’t seem to matter. Anton had at least registered that her past had been eventful. One day she would also tell him that she was unable to have children. For the time being, for the life they expected to lead, it was of no relevance.

When Anton arrived the following day, he found that Delphine had set up a work table for him at the window looking over the park.

Having never lived with a woman before, still less with one who fascinated him so much, he found it difficult to settle down to work. Panama seemed more than remote, it seemed unreal. Emerald and her devotions, Maxwell and his brandy bottle, the giant wheel that turned the lock gates lying flat in its braced iron bed … Perhaps he had in truth caught yellow fever and hallucinated all these things.

What was real was the smell of coffee from the kitchen next door, the sound of Delphine singing to herself as she tidied, her footstep on the wooden floor. He went in, stood behind her and put his arms round her waist, then pressed himself against her. She turned and let her fingers trail across his shirt front and kissed him on the lips.

‘This won’t do, Anton,’ she said. ‘Work for two hours, then I’ll bring you more coffee.’

He took her hand and kissed it, then went back sulkily to his desk and began to type.

If she felt her presence was distracting him, Delphine took one of the bicycles and went into town. There was often a quiet smile on her face as she left, which Anton took as confirmation that she enjoyed her power over him – and was content in their life of suspended time.

Their bedroom looked over some rhododendrons and out onto a cobbled lane. The brass bedstead had been painted in a shade of magnolia pink that Delphine tried not to notice. The straw mattress was thin; no amount of pummelling could make the brick-like pillows yield. Over the whole room the scent of mothballs mingled with something damper and more vegetable, like boiled asparagus. After a few days Delphine said the bed was making her back hurt and suggested they move to the second, smaller, room at the rear of the house. Here the bedhead was made of polished cherry and the mattress was deep; at the market, she bought two soft pillows and some old linen cases to go on them.