And my breath sticks in my throat because standing right next to Evelyne is my mother.

‘That’s her,’ I say.

‘Your maman?’ Nina looks at me and then back at the photo. ‘She looks sympa. Very nice.’

‘She was,’ I say, fighting to keep my voice even. I stare at the photo, at this version of Mum that existed before I was born, and I wonder what was going on in her head that day. Was she excited about her trip? Did she like being in Switzerland? She’s wearing a heavy Afghan coat and flared trousers, a purple bobble hat on her head, and she looks so young. It’s strange to think that those were the hands that later held mine, that was the smile I knew so well, yet right then, at that point in time, she was completely unaware of everything that was to come later. Did she even know she was pregnant?

Nina cocks her head as she looks at the photo and I can almost see the memory coming to her. I wait, not wanting to disturb the flow.

‘En fait,’ she says eventually. ‘I think I do remember a journalist visiting. And it was the same time as Evelyne’s brother. Yes, that’s right. They arrived on the same night, just before the demonstration. He must have taken this photo.’

‘A brother?’

‘Yes. A younger brother. I think he was here in Lausanne, staying with Evelyne. A few weeks, a month, perhaps. After that, I don’t know. I hear nothing of him since.’

It’s a glimmer of hope. Evelyne may be gone, but perhaps this man might remember something, anything, that could help me hurdle the brick wall I’m facing.

‘Do you remember his name?’ I say.

Nina squeezes her eyes shut and purses her mouth while she thinks.

‘Daniel,’ she says finally, a note of triumph in her voice. ‘Daniel Buchs.’

MARCH 1976 London, UK

SYLVIA

‘Pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

‘You?’

She nodded.

‘Fuck, Sylvia.’

‘Yes, that must have been how it happened,’ Sylvia said, even though she didn’t think this was anything to make light of. Maggie, sitting next to her on the sofa in their tiny Clapham flat, was fiddling with the frayed end of her tunic like it was a string of worry beads, a gesture that provoked a flood of panic in Sylvia. Maggie rarely worried, her essential optimism was one of the things Sylvia admired most about her. She turned back to the television and the two of them watched – or, at least, stared at without seeing – as Columbo peered at some dirt on the carpet and then transferred his inscrutable gaze to a tall man with white hair and a dastardly air.

Maggie turned back to her. ‘Seriously though, how?’

Sylvia shook her head. ‘That’s what I’ve been asking myself.’