‘Here,’ she says, finding the packet in her bag. He takes it from her. They are her favourite brand, Santé, in a scarlet and gold box with the face of a blonde starlet gazing seductively from a sky-blue circle in the middle. He takes one of the oval cigarettes but doesn’t give the box back straight away. She watches him tilt it into the light. He glances at her and back at the box.

‘She’s a real person,’ she says. ‘Zozo Dalmas. An actress. Apostoli says she looks like me, to tease me – and she’s called Zoë, that’s my name. Zoë Valavani. In Greek, we make that Zozo.’ I’m rambling, she tells herself. I suppose it’s because I haven’t spoken English for so long …

‘He certainly is teasing. The hair, perhaps, but … no, she looks nothing like you,’ the Englishman – Tom – says, handing back the packet.

‘Oh.’ Zoë thinks she might be offended. ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Notorious. She had an affair with Kemal Atatürk himself.’

The grey eyes pass across her face. ‘Truly beautiful girls don’t end up on cigarette packets.’

‘Oh.’

‘There’s some, um, some water left,’ he says. It is hard to tell through the sunburn, but Zoë thinks he might be blushing. She almost giggles again, but instead she takes the canteen and sips at the warm, slightly brackish water.

‘And where are you from, Captain Tom Collyer?’ she asks, when they have both drunk.

‘I’m just a humble lieutenant,’ he says. ‘And I’m from a place called Devon, in England. Though I was born in India.’

‘India! What is India like?’

‘I can hardly remember. We left when I was five. Very hot. Very green. There were great big butterflies in the garden. I used to pretend they were angels.’

‘Butterflies as big as angels!’ Zoë says. There is something she can’t quite touch, something just out of reach. Has she seen butterflies like that? Pictures in a book? No, someone told her once, someone …

But whatever it is vanishes in the whine of the starter motor. The engine coughs and growls. ‘Looks like we’re on our way,’ Lieutenant Collyer says. He shoves the car into gear, then pauses. ‘Would you like to sit in the front? Actually no, don’t. This way I can pretend I’m your chauffeur.’

‘But you mustn’t! You’re a … a lieutenant!’

‘Believe me, Miss Valavani, I’d much rather be a chauffeur. Right. To the Acropole Palace. Then I’ll take you wherever you need to go.’