He returned to the flat and pulled out the bacon from the back of the food safe. At least the crow hadn’t pecked at the foods. He unwrapped the wax paper, took the eggs out of their box, spooned out some dripping. The frying pan was heavy and old, black with age. He lit the gas, watched the fat melt and sizzle, laid out the rashers, poked them with a spoon. Breakfast for two. They could cook while he laid the table, put the kettle on, sliced some bread. He’d fry that up, too. He wondered if she liked pickled onions, or whether it was only him who ate them with his bacon and eggs. Her key turned in the lock.

‘Smells good. I’ll be back in a second.’ She shut the bedroom door. He wanted to watch her dress. How strange to be modest, now. She emerged a few minutes later. She’d rolled her hair into a French twist, and her skin glowed. She was, he thought, even more beautiful than he dared imagine.

And even more fragile.

‘Do you like pickled onions?’ he said.

‘At breakfast? No thanks.’

He served the food in the kitchen, carried it through to the sitting room.

‘I only have tea, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I don’t even own a coffee percolator, and I can’t stand the instant stuff.’ He wondered whether that’s what they served in the Partisan.

‘Tea’s fine.’

She cut a slice of bacon, dipped it in the yolk, swallowed it down. He knew so little about her. How could he love someone he knew nothing about?

‘You’re not eating?’ she said. ‘This is delicious.’

He smiled. He was yearning for her already, missing her with a pain too sharp to bear.

‘You’re very quiet,’ she said. ‘Eat up. It’s getting cold.’

He lifted the bacon onto the bread, placed the egg on top, the way he always ate his breakfast, had done since he was a child. He stared at his plate, at the fat congealing round the edge, at the rind he’d left on the bacon by mistake.

‘Penny for them.’

If it was Anatoly he’d seen, then he had to protect her.

‘Miles away,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He cut into his breakfast, forked it into his mouth, dribbling egg yolk. He reached over to the drawer of the sideboard and fished out two napkins, giving one to Betty, wiping his mouth with the other.

‘Forgot the refinements,’ he said, adding, ‘Must you go?’

‘My father will be worried,’ she said. ‘We didn’t leave on the best of terms yesterday, so he probably thinks I’ve stomped off in a huff.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Now you tell me. London wasn’t so spur-of-the-moment after all.’

‘I wanted to see you.’

He reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m glad you did. What was the row about?’