She held her smile steady. This isn’t a bloody game, she wanted to shout. ‘I do Como and Garda a lot. Beautiful.’ Her answers, she knew, were monosyllabic and unconvincing. But to engage properly with Jared felt impossibly dangerous. She was certain she would give something away.

‘Desenzano, on Lake Garda, is one of my favourites,’ Jared was saying. ‘Do your tours go there?’

Connie refused to rise to the bait. The night he was deliberately reminding her of, the one that had started it all, now made her feel sick with shame. Levelling her gaze, she replied, as calmly as she could, ‘They do. I like the town but I prefer San Felice.’ She deliberately named a town further round the lake, which had no associations.

Jared smiled. He’s enjoying himself, the bastard, she thought.

‘I feel I’m way behind you two in the travel stakes,’ Devan said. ‘I really need to catch up. I’ve been stuck behind the surgery desk too long.’ He pushed the dish of sausage pasta towards their guest, who took another spoonful. Connie was struggling with her first helping. The food felt claggy and solid in her mouth, as if she were chewing tennis balls, but she choked it down and said again how delicious it was.

‘I was in Warsaw earlier this year,’ Jared, relentless, was saying. ‘What an extraordinary place. The way they rebuilt the old city after the war is mind-boggling. Although I sometimes wonder if, by doing so, they’ve papered over the reality of what happened.’

Jared was gazing at her again, but luckily Devan engaged him about an article he’d read recently about the Warsaw ghetto and her heartbeat was allowed to subside, her cheeks to return to their normal colour.

‘You were sent that lovely Warsaw snow-globe, Con.’ Devan had turned to her. ‘Where did it go? We were going to give it to Bash.’

‘It’s around somewhere,’ she said abruptly, pushing back her chair and making for the door. She couldn’t stand it a second longer. With the loo door firmly locked, she sank onto the seat and buried her burning face in her hands. She wanted to cry, but she knew she couldn’t.

When she returned to the kitchen, Devan had cleared the pasta bowls and put a wedge of Manchego and a dish of mango chunks with pomegranate seeds on the table. The supper seemed interminable. But at least the men were still talking about the war.

‘Bloody hell, Con, you made hard work of that,’ Devan said, when they finally shut the door on Jared. ‘You were almost rude to the poor guy.’

Connie, busy scrubbing the surface around the cooker, did not look up as she said, ‘Sorry. Not feeling my best.’