As the light faded they came to the hut where they would spend the first night. It was small and when they had all crowded in the place was bursting at the seams, but the food was filling, the beds narrow but adequate and there was an air of jollity that carried them through the evening.

It amused her to see that as soon as they arrived Renzo became the target of attention again. The women gazed at him with pleasure, the men with jealousy. He accepted it all as his due, and Mandy had to admit that he had plenty of what the Italians called bella figura. More than mere good looks, it implied confidence, style, charisma, panache.

He was never at a loss. When someone produced a battered guitar he led the singalong with all the aplomb of a natural showman.

Now and then Henry butted in, making a noise-as someone observed-like a terrified monkey. But he was shouted down and vanished, scowling. After that nobody thought of him until bed time, when the sound of a slap followed by a yell showed that he’d had no luck there, either.

The next day they climbed up nearly three thousand metres and ended in a larger hut, perched on the edge of a ridge, staring down into the valley where the lights of Chamonix were just visible, like winking signals from another planet.

Mandy slipped outside to catch the last of the light, which had an unearthly quality here, in the heart of the snowy peaks. In the distant sky she could see a blaze of glorious scarlet, such as she’d never expected in February, and held her breath, longing for it to last.

A door behind her opened and she glanced back to see Renzo emerge. To her relief, he didn’t speak but stood in silence while they both watched the blazing colour fade swiftly into darkness.