‘Then why you here?’ she asked. ‘I busy. Is day when I scrub dead skin from heels of feet.’

‘Might I come in?’ asked Beverley, not wishing to continue this conversation on the doorstep.

‘To my home?’

‘If that’s all right.’

‘But why?’

‘Just to talk. I can explain better if I’m inside. I don’t like standing out here like a Jehovah’s Witness.’

‘Who is this Jehovah’s Witness? You are on trial?’

‘No, it’s a … it’s a religion. Or a cult. I’m not sure. Forget it. It’s neither here nor there. Please, if I could just come inside, then I can explain.’

The woman considered this for a moment before stepping aside, directing Beverley in with all the grace of Donald Trump greeting a gathering of black female Nobel Prize-winners.

‘I have gun, so you know,’ said Dr Tataryn. ‘Any trouble, I shoot you in vagina.’

‘What a bizarre target,’ said Beverley. ‘Although I’m sure it won’t come to that. I only want to talk, that’s all.’

She made her way down the hallway, which opened up into a large living room, and was immediately impressed by what she found. It was bright and well appointed, one wall holding a full library of books with broken spines, while the occasional tables and shelves all held interesting objets d’art.

‘You keep a very nice home, Dr Tataryn,’ said Beverley approvingly, running a finger along one of the bookshelves and examining it for dust. It came back spotless. ‘It’s a pity you don’t live in London. You could do very well as a cleaner.’

‘Why I want to clean in London?’ asked the woman. ‘I brain surgeon. I no clean for anyone. I have slut who comes clean for me.’

Beverley smiled. Perhaps, she decided, Dr Tataryn thought slut was a term of endearment.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Pylyp did mention that.’

‘You know Pylyp? He tell you of my slut?’

‘No, he tell me that you are brain surgeon.’

‘I best brain surgeon in Ukraine. Ask dogs on the street. They all know this.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Beverley. ‘And many congratulations on rising to such an important position.’

Dr Tataryn shrugged her shoulders and sat down. ‘Is brain surgery,’ she said. ‘Is not rocket science.’

‘Indeed. May I take a look at your books?’

‘Please,’ said Dr Tataryn, looking a little baffled as to why this complete stranger had entered her home and was now examining her library.

‘All very highbrow,’ she said. ‘Tolstoy, Dickens, Virginia Woolf. I have a Ukrainian publisher, as it happens. I don’t suppose you’ve read any of my books?’

‘You are writer?’ asked Dr Tataryn.

Beverley reared back in horror, as if she’d been accused of doing her weekly shop at Lidl. ‘I’m Beverley Cleverley,’ she declared. ‘I’m a very popular writer.’

Dr Tataryn frowned and thought about it before nodding. ‘I hear of you, I think,’ she said. ‘You write the romances, yes? With the sluts and the doctors who want to save them from life as slut.’