After that, all my holidays were spent at Barvikha with Nana and Genghiz and I only saw my mother and father two or three times a year when they came on leave to Moscow or I spent a few unwilling days over Christmas with them in Damascus.

From then on, I devoted myself to my studies, determined to become a workhorse of the state, instead of a ‘weak woman’. I was top or near the top in my class and I learned to speak fluent English. I read everything I could, including the banned foreign books my mother’s family had access to. I wrote poetry and short stories and dreamed of travel to foreign countries and I passed my exams with flying colours. As the Soviet empire began to totter in the middle of the eighties, I was a young trainee in the KGB.

From a thin, gangly, sulky schoolgirl, I grew into a woman. I let my black hair grow long, down to my waist, and it accentuated my height. Slavic cheekbones appeared out of the puppy fat on my face. And my green eyes, Vladimir told me, could be seen from across the street. I became, Vladimir said, a classic Russian beauty and, in response to this flattery of Vladimir’s, I chose not him but my fencing trainer as my first real lover. Occasionally I would be approached at a party to play some Soviet heroine at the Mosfilm studios outside Moscow. Of course, I could never accept these offers.

By the time my parents returned to Moscow on long leave, they’d become estranged from each other. My father stayed in a separate apartment, although careful to maintain the fiction of their marriage. To my father’s disgust, when Gorbachev came to power in the middle of the decade, my mother began to work for the Sakharov human rights organisation.