Then, in 1959, she decided to treat herself to a trip to the Edinburgh Festival. It was the most glittering of the festivals, and she had seen the programme. She splashed out on the best tickets for the big concerts; she booked a room at the North British Hotel, a room with its own bath.

She went to the opening concert in the Usher Hall. She was sitting in the fifth row from the front, among people who were formally dressed: dinner jackets, long dresses. They were elegant people from New York, London, Geneva. She felt out of place; she had stayed in rural Suffolk too long. During the interval she went outside to get some fresh air, and that was when she saw Feliks. He was standing under a light on the steps, reading the programme notes.

She wanted to embrace him, but did not. They looked at one another, discreetly, assessing the impact of the years. He looked the same: smarter, of course, but otherwise unchanged.

There was so much to say. He told her that he was in the same job, but more senior. He was a manager now, and had a share in the business. He had done well.

‘Any family?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I am divorced,’ he said. ‘Some Catholic, but there you are. She left me. I have a son. He is six. He stays with me.’

‘You must come and see me,’ she said. ‘Come down sometime. Bring your little boy.’

He gave her his address and a telephone number.

‘How about you?’ he said. ‘Same place? Same house?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The same.’

13

She had hoped that he would contact her, that he would at least telephone, but he did not. She almost telephoned him on several occasions, but stopped herself. If he had wanted to be in touch, then he would have been. She should not pester him.

In 1960 she went to Italy for a month. She travelled as far down as Naples, where she was robbed. Everything was stolen: her passport, her money, her camera. She did not feel bitter; in fact, she was surprised at how calm she felt. That is because nothing happens in my life, she said to herself. This is the most dramatic thing that has happened in years, and so I don’t really mind it. A friend said, ‘You’re very philosophical, La. If that happened to me, I’d be furious. Incandescent.’ La smiled; the word made her think of Vesuvius, the volcano at Naples.

Then, the following year, something happened. It happened a long way away, across thousands of miles of ocean, but it seemed to La as if it were happening right next door, as if, oddly, it were personal. An American spy plane, cruising high over the Caribbean, photographed a missile installation in Cuba. Suddenly this was in the news; grave words were uttered. She read a front-page article in a newspaper which said: This is very, very serious. This could be the end.