‘I was afraid you’d gone,’ he says, and stands up to go to her. Force of a lifetime’s habit makes him pause to straighten the bedcovers, and as he lifts the top sheet he sees, on the bottom, two dark red stains, one a neat circle, the other smeared. ‘Oh. Oh, Christ.’ He takes her in his arms and at once his body remembers the feel of hers, her narrow frame, its contradictions of hard and soft. ‘I’m so stupid,’ he says into her hair. ‘So, so stupid. What can you think of me?’

She raises her head. He doesn’t know what to expect: tears? Reproach? But her face is calm. ‘Would you kiss me?’ she says.

They sit on the bed, he leaning against the headrest, she sprawled across his lap, her head in the crook of his neck where if he turns he can find her lips in an instant. ‘It didn’t hurt,’ she says, after a while. ‘There was no way you could have known.’

‘But I wish I had,’ he says. ‘I would have …’

‘What would you have done? Something polite and English? I am very happy, Tom.’ She glances at him, and he sees something like amazement in her face. ‘I am so happy.’

‘Then so am I. Unbearably,’ he says, and stretches his legs. The bed is barely big enough for him, let alone the two of them. ‘Zoë …’ He closes his eyes and feels her name on his lips. ‘Zoë Valavani. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. You know, I don’t think this was meant to happen.’

‘No?’

‘No! I mean, they had a war, and almost killed the both of us. We meet, by the purest chance, and go our separate ways. Then I turn up again and cause all sorts of problems for you … The Fates have been trying to prevent this.’

‘Hmm.’ She thinks of something and giggles. ‘The Fates set your trousers on fire!’

‘Yes! Think how different things might have turned out if I hadn’t managed to put them out.’

‘I don’t want to think about that. You shouldn’t really joke about fate, Englishman. Greeks don’t joke about fate.’ She kisses him.

‘No more jokes. I promise. I’ll be serious. I feel serious.’

‘Do you?’

‘Well … I do. I feel serious about you.’

‘Oh, Panagia mou … you shouldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘The war. You don’t know what will happen. Let’s not talk about it.’

‘But it’s because of that: the war and everything else. It’s as if the whole thing has been designed to kill us – us and everyone else – but instead it’s brought us together. Something broke. Some mix-up. It’s failed.’

‘A mix-up.’ She spreads her palm over his breastbone. ‘Mistake. Or like a strike, perhaps? But I don’t think the bosses will give us what we want, in the end.’