The Kobes were Czech. Not Slovak – Eva had made a point of the national difference when conducting the interview with Laure over the phone – and had been living in Paris for the past five years. ‘My husband works for a pharmaceutical company and travels all over France. I need help with the children, particularly as we are planning to spend much of the summer in Prague.’ She spoke so rapidly that Laure had trouble following her. ‘We will return to Paris in the autumn.’ She paused and added something which Laure found odd. ‘We must return to Paris in the autumn.’

Eva was precise in her requirements which included fluent French. The details of terms and conditions of employment were laid out in a letter of contract which arrived on headed writing paper. ‘Petr Kobes. Director of Exports, Potio Pharma.’ They included the specification: ‘no nail varnish’.

No nail varnish it was.

Eva was blonde, faded and given to brooding and long periods of silence. Since returning to Prague, she had also appeared distracted and distressed. Laure had no precedent on which to pin it down other than to say that she couldn’t help feeling that Eva was concentrating on something far removed from the everyday but which did not lie within the remit of her experience. So far.

Eva’s husband was the opposite to his wife. He was tall with flat, good-looking features, eloquent brown eyes, wore his French clothes elegantly, sported an expensive haircut and used aftershave. He had good manners and seemed genuinely pleased that she was working for the family.

‘In Paris, we are communists in a capitalist country,’ Eva explained, speaking very rapidly as she sometimes did. ‘And have to be careful. But when we go to Prague you must be careful. You will be the foreigner. We’ve had to get special permission to allow you to accompany us.’

If the treatment of the Kobes on arrival at Prague airport was anything to go by, Petr was a player in his country. It didn’t take her more than a few minutes to deduce that some communists were more equal than others. The family had been ushered past the arrival queue to a special exit where a glossy black car awaited. As Laure climbed in and sat back on the leather seats, she noticed that the steering wheel looked like it was made from ivory.

None of these recollections were helping her to obtain ice cream.

‘J’ai envie d’une glace…’ said Jan.

‘Pipi…’ whispered Maria clutching at Laure.

‘Hold on and I’ll try and find somewhere.’

One side of the square was taken up with a row of old buildings behind which was a church whose spires rose up with fairy-tale crenulations. The sight took Laure’s breath away and she longed to be on her own to take it in.