‘But true. Just doesn’t appeal. Your turn. Something about you that—’

‘I’m learning Russian. I take classes every Tuesday evening.’

‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Why Russian?’

‘Don’t know. Just felt like it.’

‘I guess you’ve left school by now so … are you in college?’

‘Yes, I’m training.’

‘To be what?’

‘A musician. A harpist, to be precise.’

He sat back in his chair, smiling a little. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now I don’t know whether you’re messing with me or not. A harpist? Seriously?’

‘I’m completely serious. Why would I make that up?’

‘I made up that bullshit about me being a spy.’

‘Yes, but that was to impress me. And it wasn’t credible anyway. I’m not sure being a harpist is all that remarkable.’

He considered this, then shook his head. ‘Actually, I think it is,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if I have a whole bunch of harpist friends who get together every Saturday night for a jam session. All right, then, let’s test you. How many strings does a harp have?’

‘Forty-seven.’

‘Why are some strings different colours?’

‘So the harpist can find his or her place. The C-strings are all red. The F-strings are all black.’

‘Impressive,’ said Achilles. ‘But you may have tried this trick on other innocent schoolboys in the past, so you’ve learned them off.’

‘I doubt you’re particularly innocent.’

‘What are the strings made of?’

‘Usually metal, nylon or catgut.’

‘And what is catgut when it’s at home?’

‘The intestine of a sheep.’

‘So can a vegetarian be a harpist?’

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment as if she was hoping to find the answer there. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘And actually, that’s a very good question. I’ll ask Dr Lefèvre when I next see him.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Achilles. ‘Dr Lefèvre is your harp teacher.’

‘He is, yes.’

‘I can’t quite get a hold on you, Rebecca,’ said Achilles, finishing his Americano. ‘I don’t know if you’re making all this up or not.’

‘Everything I’ve told you is true,’ she said. ‘Whether you believe me or not is up to you.’

She stood up, gathering her bags, and he frowned.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked. ‘You’re not leaving?’

‘I have a lesson.’

‘Then where’s your harp?’

She laughed. ‘It’s not a violin, Achilles. I don’t carry it around with me. It’s at the music school.’

‘That does make sense. So, are you going to give me your number?’

‘One dick pic and you’re blocked.’

‘Scout’s honour.’

‘Were you ever a Scout?’

‘I was a Cub,’ he said.

‘You’re still a cub,’ she replied, scribbling her number on a napkin and handing it across. ‘Don’t wait too long to call, though,’ she said. ‘I might meet someone else before the day is out. I’m a very popular girl.’