To avoid unpleasant scenes at home, it became natural to employ the distancing platitudes of the office. His words missed their mark deliberately, as wrongly sighted as a fairground rifle, until the moment arrived in the sixteenth year of their marriage when they both felt they understood each other enough and this feeling went hand in hand with the sense that they had nothing more to say, or could risk saying. When questioned by a third party Wavery chose to abdicate responsibility. “Who is my favourite modern author, darling?” “What newspapers do we take on a Sunday in England?” “When is our farewell party?” Penny knew that by deferring to her he was able to satisfy himself that a dialogue had taken place.

Wavery was content to live with his unfulfilment. Penny was less content. She had been inflamed by his passion, loving things in him even he found repellent. When his passion subsided, fading imperceptibly, she continued to feel the scalds.

So they proceeded in the pantomime horse of their marriage, towards the Lisbon Embassy, followed by compulsory retirement at sixty –“Just when you know what you’re talking about!” – in a cottage on the Sintra hills, where he planned to lay out a garden modelled on Monserrate and look at the sea through olive trees.

Then one evening towards the end of his time in Lima, they were invited to supper by the American Chargé d’Affaires.

“It’s very informal,” said Penny. “He won’t be wearing a tie.”

Wavery had not wanted to go. The Tennysons’ house was lah-di-dah gone mad and party games were promised. But Penny insisted. Rita was one of the few diplomatic wives Penny liked. Attractive to men, Rita reserved her fiercer sympathies for women.

Penny said, “You can’t pretend Denver’s thrilling, because he isn’t. He’s a perky bore. But Rita does throw good parties.” Besides, Rita was the President of the Damas Diplomaticas. “She’s not your type, but she’s doing a lot for the young wives.”

He returned home late. A bomb had exploded near the Pan-Americana, killing a policeman. The traffic thinned beyond the Gold Museum. Wavery turned right, past an empty playground from where the shouts of children woke him in the morning. He hooted twice at his gate. Antonio reached in to take his attaché case.

He said, “Gin-tonic, Antonio.”

He tumbled a week’s worth of Times onto the sofa.

“Penny?”

He walked towards the bedroom, untying his tie.

“I’m ready.” She came into the bedroom from the bathroom. She was over-dressed. She wore her fair hair in curls, a treat she liked to give him. He preferred her hair long and unbrushed, but by the time he had acquired the courage to tell her, it was too late. The curls bobbed against the earrings he had bought in Buenos Aires – her favourites, she claimed, overlooking their tendency to inflame her lobes.

“How was the office?” It was a courtesy question. Out of courtesy he answered that the Ambassador suspected two policemen guarding his residence of involvement in drugs trafficking. “And there’s a letter from Lawrence.”