On one occasion, she arrived early to discover a meeting was being held in the auditorium. A man guarding the entrance prevented her from entering. He flapped his hand in the direction of backstage. The double doors were open a crack and she glimpsed a black-clad group of twenty or so, smoking furiously and clustered around a figure typing out a document.

Obediently, she went backstage and did not refer to what she had seen. By the time of the performance, the meeting had dispersed.

Tomas kept his distance.

Would he or would he not seek her out? She had a dreadful presentiment that he had been playing with her or, worse, he had forgotten about her and she felt, insanely, irrationally, jealous of the people around him. Yet, when he turned up one evening and told her to fetch her bag because he was taking her out to dinner, she was irritated by his high-handedness.

He sensed it. ‘Forgive me, Laure?’

She answered a little stiffly. ‘Nothing to forgive.’

He put his hand on her shoulder – and her flesh burned. ‘I’ve been with Leo. He’s had a bit of crisis. A woman.’

They headed for a place he knew in the Malá Strana and, as they crossed the Charles Bridge, he said, ‘You’ve not really explored the city, I think.’ She shook her head. He pointed to a statue. ‘St John of Nepomuk. He was a… what’s the word? A martyr. He was thrown into the river because he refused to give up his beliefs. People touch him for luck.’

The restaurant was so modest that it scarcely merited the term, being a small room at the back of a shop that sold leather goods. But it opened onto a small back garden where tables had been set out covered in brown paper peppered with stains from previous diners.

Tomas regarded the glass of beer placed in front of him. ‘I don’t know how to say this but I’m afraid you’ll have to pay your half.’ He raised rueful eyes to hers. ‘I wish it was not the case but a musician like me is not allowed to earn much money.’

The confession, and the humiliation of it, sent an arrow into her heart. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does. We are considered decadent and the State makes sure we don’t earn much. But, if I was a miner, it would be different, even though as a miner you might not be that productive. But don’t worry or pity us. We know how to handle it.’

He was watching her carefully.

She leant forward and asked in a low voice, ‘Is it safe to talk like that here?’

He did his trick of raising an eyebrow. ‘Why do you think we’re eating outside?’

She ducked her head. ‘I’m ashamed of my ignorance.’

‘Don’t be.’