“July 1964. Leukemia.” I supply this extra detail in a tone of voice that I hope will shut him up. I’m trying not to take much notice of him, preferring to remember instead those cans of olive oil from Moulin Alziari. We were given some more Alziari olive oil when we finally had the money to take Tom to France. An epic journey with the Hillman and a tent, a stay with Maman and Papa in Nice. A sea that didn’t reduce Tom to a shivering, purple-lipped waif. And ice cream for him every day in a little cut-glass dish served to him by his grandmother with a silver spoon, and every day I prayed he wouldn’t drop the dish. His grandfather showed him photographs by Félix Bonfils of the temples and tombs of ancient Egypt, and drawings by Georges Bénédite, the books he had set out for me in his study in Alexandria, after the war, to help me escape from my thoughts. His daughter once wished aloud that I could borrow the Bénédite. I didn’t speak my mind on that occasion. I should have told her that because I was a pilot I had no expectations, but she should know all the same that I thought she was quite lovely.

Never mind. I found her in the end.

And here she is, laughing.

“I can’t understand,” Philip says, sniffling. “I didn’t think you knew . . .”

“I’ve only just found out.”

I don’t explain. Instead I make a gesture at the painting. “I didn’t imagine in my wildest dreams that anyone could cheer her up back then. But it seems you cast quite a spell on her. A woman who’d almost taken leave of her senses from grief. Did you think of that, when you began your affair? That she might not have known what she was doing?”

He flinches at my level tone. I can see it’s far worse for him than shouting. It’s worse for me too, as the pain of the idea burns only inward and fixes like bright-blue-and-yellow enamel on tin. Moulin Alziari: there is the can in her hand, her slim small hand as she beams at her lover, tainting that holiday in Provence, one of our happiest times, indelibly.

He’s shaking his head now, his eyes small with distress, his lips dry. “No, it wasn’t an affair. Honestly, nothing happened—”

“Why should I believe you? You’ve lied and lied.” The anger, I find, is feeding me. I gather strength. “You’ve covered everything up, all along. If you’re so innocent, why were you so worried your mother would speak out of turn and betray you? So worried you wouldn’t even help her say she knew Yvette? Did she know about your affair?”

“No. I mean, we didn’t have an affair—”