His apartment was in a purpose-built Victorian block. The sitting room was painted a soft white and, equipped with rattan furniture, comfy emerald-coloured silk cushions and beautiful blue and green Persian rugs, felt unexpectedly homely, as if it had enjoyed a woman’s touch. Four tall oriental-looking lamps stood in the corners of the room casting a soft patterned glow on to the parquet flooring. Billowing white curtains framed a fine view of tall trees in the street beyond, a polished coffee table sat in front of a sofa and a small desk was pushed up against one wall. Another wall boasted floor-to-ceiling shelves of teak packed tightly with books almost to overflowing. Pleased to be in his apartment, and smiling to herself, she felt at ease. She walked along the length of the shelves, glancing at the book titles and running a finger over their spines.

‘You have eclectic tastes.’

‘I have to in my game.’

‘Game? Is that what journalism is to you? A sport?’

He grinned. ‘You’re very hard on me.’

She laughed. ‘Am I?’

He went into another room, and she could hear the clunk of china and cutlery as he prepared their coffee. After a few minutes he came back carrying a tray with the coffee already poured into dainty white cups, accompanied by a selection of unusual biscuits, or maybe they were cakes.

He saw her looking. ‘They’re Indian. Try one.’

She picked one and bit into the scented sweetness.

‘So what was it you wanted to show me?’

22.

Diana, Cheltenham, 1922

Douglas rarely comes to my room, but today he has, and I can’t imagine what he wants. No, that’s not at all true. He must be here to talk about the Grange. Again. I resolve to remain as calm as possible, give him no excuse to send me away, but in my agitation I can’t stop walking back and forth.

‘I’ve been talking to Simone,’ he says, and I notice how stooped he has become. There had always been a hint of it because he is so tall, but now it’s more pronounced.

‘Oh?’

‘She seems to think being here in this house is doing you no good.’

I stop in my tracks, chest constricting. ‘I won’t go to the Grange.’

He frowns. ‘Don’t glare at me, Diana. I understand you don’t want to go but, my dear, I fear Simone is right. Your being here is not helping.’

I smell the hint of cumin and orange on his skin as I pass and I stare at his beautiful deep eyes behind those spectacles and the once dear face, but I don’t speak. Why should I make it easy for him?