She turns her eyes away, but after what he saw at Ralph’s she knows she can’t hide from him. ‘Can we just go home now?’ she says. ‘I can’t talk about this now. I’m sorry.’

She turns her eyes up the street, in the direction they just came from, mostly to avoid looking at George. There are only a few people hurrying through the drizzle, maybe headed to the movies or to get a beer. But her eyes settle on a man leaning against a doorway next to a souvenir shop fifty metres further up the street. He looks like he might be of Middle Eastern descent, has a short, neatly trimmed beard, is wearing tracksuit bottoms and a dark puffy jacket of some glossy material. He looks like he’s waiting for somebody while staring at his phone. A completely unremarkable situation in other words. But something about him makes her heart beat faster, despite the alcohol and beta blockers. There are a thousand strangers who look like him. But she can’t help noticing he’s dressed in the exact same style as the men in Bromma and Zaventem, and she starts to tremble.

‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s get going.’

*

George lives in a small one-bedroom on Rue Berckmans, just behind the legendary Hotel Conrad, which has been renamed something long and German-sounding since Klara left. They step into his hallway, and she’s surprised by how ordinary and impersonal the apartment is. George’s personality – or at least his former personality – promised something more spectacular.

‘It’s only temporary,’ he says apologetically, hanging up Klara’s jacket. ‘I had a sweet place down by Place Lux, but I bought a two-bedroom in Stockholm to get ready for the move. Renovating the kitchen now. Gaggenau, a wine fridge. The works.’

It’s clear that his old, flashy personality isn’t completely gone, and Klara smiles a little as she walks past him into a living room that looks out over the street. ‘Nice to know that deep down inside you’re still the same superficial arsehole I used to know.’

‘Oh, come on,’ George mutters behind her. ‘Am I supposed to live like a Social Democrat just cos I got a government job?’

Klara turns back to him and smiles more widely.

‘No offence, of course,’ he adds. Klara used to work for the Social Democrats in Brussels. ‘You know what I mean.’

He walks over to the window and turns on a small lamp and soft light fills the room, then he takes out his silver lighter again and lights a few candles on the coffee table.

‘This place is nothing special,’ he says. ‘I just rented something furnished until I was ready to move. Just one month left.’