Felicity stares at her old friend for a moment, then gives a nod. She starts rubbing her sore knees. Checks her watch, as Cordelia opens her handbag and checks her sleek mobile phone for messages. There are too many to deal with so she scrolls through them until she finds the one she wants. It’s from her grandson, Arthur. He will be graduating from university on the same day she is due to be presented with an honorary doctorate from her old college at Oxford. He wants to know if they could dress to match. He will be there to report on the day for the Daily Telegraph, though in truth, he is only using the job as a stepping stone to a book deal. He has always been a scribbler. Always loved stories. Arthur is her favourite grandchild. He makes her smile just by thinking about him. She was not around enough when her own children were growing up but she has been a doting grandmother, whatever her son and daughters might imply when they have had a glass of wine too many. Arthur always talks to her frankly. Asks her about the service. Where she was based, how she was trained, how many agents she recruited and how many spies she brought to the side of Queen and country. She rarely tells him the truth, and if she does, she makes it sound like a lie. She is very good at this.

‘Will they drive me to the train station?’ asks Flick, pointing at the driver and the large, surly bodyguard in the front passenger seat.

‘They’ll drive you all the way home,’ says Cordelia.

‘No, everybody will look if they see me getting out of a great posh car,’ protests Felicity.

‘Let them look,’ says Cordelia.

Felicity shakes her head and sighs. ‘You’ve a wicked side to you, Cordelia,’ she says with a smile.

Cordelia reaches out a hand and takes her friend’s fingers in her palm. She turns to her and gives the kind of smile that the staff at Thames House do not know exists.

‘You’re so much more than you let yourself believe,’ says Cordelia. ‘You’re strong and loyal and brave …’

Felicity squeezes Cordelia’s hands with her own and tuts, embarrassed at the fuss. They sit in silence, warm and comfortable, heads resting against one another’s. Felicity does not speak for a time. She is thinking of Fairfax and Christopher and all the things that were and are and might have been. Finally she nods.

‘Seems wrong to make that the end of it,’ says Felicity, quietly. ‘Seems wrong to just leave it at that.’ She peers at her friend, all innocence. ‘Your grandson. Arthur. He’s a writer, isn’t he? Have I got that right?’

Cordelia grins. Her eyes are bright and there’s a blush to her cheeks. Then she switches off the recording device in her handbag and gives a nod.