“I may bring a friend along,” I said, for Lydia’s benefit. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he answered, and then with a gleam in his eye that told me he was getting his own back, he added, “Is it Diana? I’ve missed her.”

“I think she’s in Alexandria,” I told him, making a face.

Then I set about convincing Lydia that she would be safe with us.

It was an uphill struggle. She wavered between worrying that she had already been away too long, that Roger might believe she wasn’t coming back, and the certainty that all would be well once she could see him face-to-face and tell him she’d been wrong.

Watching that inner battle, I was well aware that it wasn’t wise to pry. But I was beginning to think that knowing who Juliana was might help me understand why Lydia had fled to London. She couldn’t have known how badly her face would be bruised. She must have needed to put distance between her and something-or someone. And where were the other members of her family-or Roger’s-to let her go without making certain she was properly clothed and had the money to support herself for a few days?

I waited for an opening to ask questions, but it was clear that she wasn’t ready to talk to me or anyone else.

In the end I don’t think it was my persuasion that convinced Lydia to let Simon take us to lunch as much as it was her own need to escape from the torment in her head. All the same, she went down the stairs warily, as if she expected this to be a trap. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d suddenly dashed away as soon as she reached the street.

Instead, just as we arrived at the door and were about to open it, she put her hand to her cheek and said, “No. I’d forgot. I can’t go out like this. I can’t face the stares. On the train it was awful, people would look at me and then look away. I was mortified.”

“Natural curiosity,” I said bracingly. “Here in London they’re more likely to assume you were in an accident of some sort. Or fell.”