And then she saw James.

He was ahead of her, walking with that achingly familiar long, easy, loping stride of his. She let out a strangled cry and began to run on her high heels. He turned a corner next to a supermarket. She ran ahead, calling his name, but when she, too, turned the corner, he had disappeared. She had once seen the French film, Les Enfants Du Paradis, and this felt like the last scene where the hero desperately tries to catch up with his beloved.

A Turkish soldier blocked her way and asked her anxiously in broken English if he could help her.

“My friend. I saw my friend,” babbled Agatha, staring up the side street. “Is there a hotel along there?”

“No, that is Little Turkey. Ironmongers, cafés, no hotel. Sorry.”

But Agatha ploughed on, peering at deserted shops, stumbling over potholes. Then she saw a light shining out from a laundry called White Rose, Beyaz Gül in Turkish. A man in shirt-sleeves was working at a dry-cleaning machine. Agatha pushed open the door and went in.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

He was a small man with a clever, attractive face.

“You speak English?”

“Yes, I worked in England for some time as a nurse. My wife, Jackie, is English.”

“Oh, good. Look, I saw this friend of mine come along here a moment ago, but he’s disappeared.

“I don’t know where he could have been going. Sit down. I’m called Bilal.”

“I’m Agatha.”

“Would you like a coffee? I’m working late because it’s cooler at night. Trying to get as much done as I can when lean.”

Agatha felt suddenly tired, weepy and disappointed.

“No, think I’ll go back to the hotel.”

“ North Cyprus is very small,” he said sympathetically. “You’re bound to run into your friend sooner or later. Do you know The Grapevine?”