There was a sick feeling in her stomach. ‘We? Do you mean Tomas?’

Lucia didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no.

‘It’ll happen,’ said Lucia, slotting the box back into the cupboard. ‘You’ll go. Soon, I hope. Gone like the snow. You are no use here, only a problem.’ The cupboard door was warped and required pressure to shut it and she exclaimed angrily. ‘God help us, we have no furniture, no locks, no fucking future.’

CHAPTER 25

ARE YOU ENGAGED TO LUCIA? ARE YOU MARRYING HER? Have you decided to marry Lucia?

There were so many ways to pose the question which – with choking intensity – trembled on her tongue. Thinking about which one to choose, and how and when to broach it, made her faint. And, also, angry.

But no need to be gormless, lass. Her father’s sayings didn’t help much either, except to remind Laure that she did have another existence and that she could choose to return to it. The fall-back position didn’t help. Laure wished to be where she was. Here. Now. In the thick of it, entangled in the sticky strands of politics and passion.

It was late on Sunday afternoon and Tomas was taking her for a beer in a dive by the river, run by one of his friends. His telephone still didn’t work – no surprises there – and he had taken to leaving messages at the marionette theatre when he wanted to make contact.

As usual, they chose to walk through the hidden alleys and passages. Being acquainted with their intimacies, often rubbish-strewn and with broken cobbles, almost persuaded Laure that she had become an insider. They were part of the enigma of the city, and these out-of-sight routes had become one of her pleasures. But not today.

Tomas led the way and she watched his slight figure with a hunger that grew sharper each day. She tried to put herself in the other woman’s shoes. Any woman – Lucia – must love the hunch of his shoulder, the thin hands, the thick brown hair in the passionate, ravenous way that she, Laure, did. Any woman – Lucia – would feel the combination of exquisite joy and pain as she did.

Perhaps, in return, Tomas would see a softness in her (the half-French girl) that Lucia, who had been (of necessity) toughened by anger and suspicion, no longer possessed.

Could he see instead in Laure someone in whom he could place his trust and imagine a bright, certain future?

Tomas waited for her to catch up. ‘You do take care when you’re on your own?’

Her lips were suddenly dry. ‘You do mind about me?’

He looked at Laure. ‘What do you think?’ He seemed impatient with the question.

Her senses swam, and she was electric with longing. ‘I hope you…’

He cut through. ‘Laure, I have fallen in love with you. Very deep. Very intense. That you should know.’