I followed him in, and went upstairs. The flat was unrecognizable. Draped in white sheets, still as snow, the furniture piled into corners, the floor a drift of fragrant dust. Freed of Thierry’s clutter I could see how large the flat really was; the high ceilings with their plaster mouldings; the wide doorways; the intricate balconies on the street side.

Roux saw me noticing. ‘Rather pleasant, as cages go. Mr Big spares no expense.’

I looked at him. ‘You don’t like Thierry.’

‘And you do?’

I ignored the gibe. ‘He isn’t always so abrupt. He’s usually very nice, you know. He must be under stress, or maybe you were winding him up—’

‘Or maybe he’s nice to important people, and says what he likes to those who don’t matter.’

I gave a sigh. ‘I hoped you’d get on.’

‘Why do you think I haven’t walked out? Or hit the bastard in the face?’

I looked away and did not answer. The charge between us intensified. I was very conscious of him standing close to me, of the streaks of paint on his overalls. He was wearing a T-shirt underneath, and on a cord around his neck hung a small piece of green river-glass.

‘So what are you doing here?’ he said. ‘Hanging around with the hired help?’

Oh, Roux, I thought. What can I say? That it’s because of that secret place just above your collarbone where my forehead fits so perfectly? That it’s because I know, not just your favourites, but every twist and turn of you? That you have a tattoo of a rat on your left shoulder that I’ve always pretended not to like? That your hair is the colour of fresh paprika and marigolds and that Rosette’s quick little drawings of animals remind me so much of the things you make from wood and stone that often it hurts me to look at her and to think of her never knowing you—

Kissing him would just make it worse. And so I kissed him, little soft kisses all over his face, pulling off his cap and my overcoat, finding his mouth with such scalding relief—

For the first few minutes I was blind; beyond thought. Only my mouth existed just then; only my hands on his skin were real. The rest of me was imaginary; coming to life at the touch of him, little by little, like melting snow. And in a daze we kissed again, standing in that empty room with the scent of oil and sawdust in the air and the white sheets spread like the sails of a ship—

Somewhere at the back of my mind I was aware that this had not been the plan; that this would complicate everything beyond measure. But I couldn’t stop. I’d waited so long. And now—