“It began so simply, on a liquid sun-steeped day – late afternoon, I recall – in the family’s summer residence by the river. I got up from the piano, where I’d been playing a Chopin sonata, to stand in the open veranda doorway. The trees on the far bank and those on the hillside beyond were cloaked in an undulating deep-gold lucent light. An occasional warm breeze brushed the lace curtains. There was no sound in the sultry laziness of the approaching evening. Then I saw her. She sat beneath a parasol in a skiff moving effortlessly along the river, her hand trailing in the water. Her female companion was rowing, her featherlike strokes barely rippling the surface. The boat – vermilion orange in the sunlight – was vivid against the cobalt blue of reflected sky, the sunshine seeming to dissolve the line between hull and water, causing a shimmering interlacing of colours.

“Approaching the bed, she put a finger to her lips. I pulled the covers back and gestured. Putting the candle down and shedding her nightdress, she slipped in beside me, undoing my nightgown and releasing the ribbon that held back my hair. Naked, we lay together. She stroked my skin, my hair, kissed me and held me tight. I had no urge to stop her. I wondered if being caressed by a man would be as enjoyable and comforting as the pleasure to which I had surrendered. Not letting go of me, she fell asleep. I was locked in her arms, whose grip I had no wish to loosen.

“As I turned to follow him, I noticed a sheet of paper on the floor near his desk. I picked it up.

“Here, Émile, you dropped this.”

He lunged at me, fury on his face. For the second or two the paper was in my hand, I saw from the heading it was a telegram from Paris. A chill snaked down my spine.