There would be such wonderful things to do …

His voice cracks and he stops, raises his hands quickly to his eyes, which are wet with tears. ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry. I can’t sing … I’ve never been able to sing without crying,’ he says, trying to swallow down all the feelings that are rising. ‘There,’ he adds hoarsely. ‘That’s my other secret.’ But then he feels his hands being drawn away, and the singer’s face is there. Her fingertips brush away the tears that are running down his stubbled cheeks and then she kisses him, hesitantly, and then again, fiercely this time.

Zoë stands up, her hands still on Tom’s rough face. She has always left herself a way to escape, a place to hide, she thinks, looking down at him. And now I’ve lost it. I’ve run out of luck. But it doesn’t matter. The world stops outside this little paper box. She takes his hands in hers. ‘Come,’ she says. ‘Come with me now.’ In two steps they are at the bedroom door. The lamp on the table casts a warm yellow fan of light through the doorway, which brushes the end of the white painted iron bed, the trailing corner of the white quilt. Beyond, it is quite dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY

When Tom wakes up he finds himself alone in the narrow bed. He sits up and looks around, but it is obvious that he is the only occupant of the tiny house. The bedroom is squeezed between the room where they sat last night and the kitchen, walls bare except for a mirror and a silver-framed icon. Both doors are open. She’s gone, he thinks. Perhaps she was never here. But his skin smells of her perfume, and there is a red slash of lipstick across the pillowcase. Dim light is coming in through the slats of the shutters and there are voices outside, women’s voices. Is it early or late?

His clothes are in a pile on the floor near the foot of the bed. Next to them, a blue pleated skirt spreads out like a giant cornflower. He gets up and dresses hurriedly, hating the feel of the rough battledress fabric against his skin, hating the idea that the coarse khaki wool is rubbing her smell from him, but he is still doing up his shirt when there is a creak of hinges from the kitchen and a moment later, the singer appears. Her face is damp and she is wearing no make-up. Her heavy dressing gown looks like a piece of costume from The Firebird, and her feet are bare. When she sees him she drops her eyes to the floor.

‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Kali … Kali …’

‘Kaliméra,’ she says, and raises her eyes. Tom feels his face grow hot.