There was no goodnight kiss, no invitation to join him in his single bed for some silent lovemaking. Val lay in her own bed feeling bereft. It was the first time they’d argued and she hated the way he had withdrawn from her.

What he’d said in the bathroom was true. She was a poor judge of character. How could she ever hope to have a healthy relationship?

Her misery deepened as she lay awake listening to his regular breathing. She had fallen in love with this man and couldn’t bear to lose him. If only there was something she could do to make things better; but for the life of her she couldn’t think what.

Chapter 60

Leningrad, summer 1976

MARIA WAS IN THE BEDROOM LOOKING FOR A CARDIGAN when Stepan arrived home from work. She heard him call a greeting to Peter, who was listening to the radio in the kitchen, then he came through to find her and perched on the end of her bed.

“You’ll never guess who visited me in the office today, Mama,” he said. “I still can’t believe it myself.”

Maria continued to rifle through her knitwear drawer. The cardigan she wanted was dark blue: not too thick for summer, but not too thin either. She felt the cold more than she used to. “Who?”

“The daughter of Anatoly Bolotov.” He paused for effect.

Maria turned to stare at him. “You’re not serious! It can’t be the same one.”

“It is, one and the same. Come and sit down.” He motioned her over to the bed. “She gave me some photographs developed from film she found in an old camera after her father died. Look.” He pulled out the envelope and, once Maria had shuffled across, handed it to her.

Maria only had to flick through the first few pictures to realize they were hers. “I took these!” she exclaimed. “Why did Bolotov have my camera?”

“Not just that: he had a photo album of yours, and a sketchbook, some icons, and a Fabergé sun, moon, and stars box containing two wedding rings marked M and A.” Stepan put an arm around her. “Are you OK? This must be a shock.”

Maria thought back over the years. “They were in the bag I packed when we were told we were leaving the house. It was with me in the basement. Not the wedding rings—I don’t know about them—but everything else.” She came to the picture of Peter and cried out in joy. “Look how handsome he was! . . . And that’s a lovely shot of Tatiana. I’m thrilled to see these.”

Although the quality of the prints was poor, her memory filled in the details: where each one had been taken; what was being said as they posed.