Laure made to clear the dishes but Petr indicated that she should take Eva’s vacated chair. Petr propped his elbows onto the table and began to talk about the children, the weather, sights he had seen in Paris. Anything but Laure’s involvement with the marionette theatre.

The sky darkened and a group of pigeons patrolled the roof top outside the window. Petr lit a cigarette. A welcome coolness slid into the room.

Laure relaxed. Here she was again – inadvertently – trying on for size what it was to be a woman of a house. It was rather fun to contemplate and utter nonsense. Petr smoked quietly, every so often glancing at her from under his lids. ‘Did you know my favourite English book is Winnie-the-Pooh? It appeals to us Czechs because it so absurd. And funny. We understand the combination. And, it’s easier to get hold of than most publications.’

‘It must be so awful,’ she said without thinking. ‘To not be able to read what you wish.’

Petr shot a look at the ceiling as if he expected the cornicing to be bugged. ‘What’s yours?’ He got to his feet, took a slice of bread from the bread basket on the table and went over to the window.

Laure considered the flippant answer: anything with sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll. ‘Not sure.’

He beckoned to Laure. ‘Do you want to feed the pigeons? Eva doesn’t like me doing it as she thinks they’re pests. Which they are. But nice pests.’ He tore a piece off the slice, balanced it on his palm and held it out. She pitched it towards the bird and it missed, rolling down the roof to the gutter.

‘You’re no good,’ said Petr teasingly. He threw a second fragment. This time the pigeon pounced while his smaller companion fluttered his wings in protest. ‘Mine, I think,’ said Laure and lobbed a bread pellet towards it. A yellow beak jabbed down.

‘One all,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘Right. You’re on.’

They stood companionably at the window throwing bread pellets at the pigeons who couldn’t believe their luck. Two to Petr. Three to Laure championing the smaller pigeon which had a slight pink tinge to its wings. ‘His missus,’ she said. ‘Her name is Tina Turner.’

‘Mine’s Karl Marx,’ said Petr.

‘My culture versus yours.’

‘If you like.’ He turned a smiling countenance on Laure.

‘Did you notice something?’ He shook his head. ‘They’re both as greedy as each other,’ she said.

Petr laughed. After a moment, Laure joined in.

With a flap of wings, the satiated pigeons took to the wing. Laure and Petr remained at the window, looking down at the darkening city with the cooler air flowing over their faces.

‘See the buildings?’ He gestured to the roofs, domes and spires that punctuated the cityscape. ‘Some were palaces, some were the town houses of the aristos. Some belonged to rich merchants.’