‘It’s the not knowing that’s the problem.’ He pulled her to him and his leg nudged between hers. Bending over he kissed her thoroughly and the sweet, sharp sensations took over. Resting his forehead against hers, he said, ‘That was nice.’

Her hand was on his back and she splayed her fingers to feel the bumps of his vertebrae: I love him.

Tomas kissed her again and another thought flashed: I would die for him.

Laure followed him into the kitchen where Milos was drinking mint tea. He smiled at Laure and made a remark to Tomas in Czech. Manicki and Leo, plus Vaclav the electrician, also rolled in and a heated debate struck up which was, as far as she could tell, something to do with storing Anatomie’s instruments at the theatre.

She was conscious that a pane of glass had inserted itself between them and her through which she was observing. They were like the men she knew back home and, yet, they weren’t. They were smaller, paler, less nourished, more volatile. Tomas had his back to her but Vaclav, with whom she had struck up an infant friendship, smiled at her.

She knew they were discussing her. ‘Tomas?’

He explained. ‘They wanted to know about your employer and Manicki agrees with me that he works for the KSČ.’ Laure frowned. ‘The KSČ is the Communist Party.’

Manicki interrupted in broken English. ‘And/or the Russians. It fits. They only let the most trusted ones work abroad. He’s probably controlled by someone high up in the party.’ He stepped up to Laure. ‘You must say nothing ever. Ever.’

Manicki smelt, not entirely unpleasantly but significantly, of unwashed clothes, and she wondered if he was living on the run.

Laure thought rapidly. ‘OK. I take the point.’ Tomas made a rapid translation. ‘I know you think I’m problem but remember that I could always relay information on him.’

Where on earth had that come from?

Milos gave a soft whistle and looked up at the ceiling. The others stared at Laure and she realized she had made an error.

Manicki said, ‘We don’t joke about those sorts of things.’

She wanted to protest that she wasn’t joking but realized it was better to shut up. Everything was suspended – almost breathing – until Tomas dropped his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek. ‘That was sweet of you, Laure, but… don’t play. Please.’

Later, as she packed up for this session, her cheeks burned. She had been guilty of flippancy, of unprofessionalism, of treating something very serious as a game.