Gemini. Mark Burnell

      ‘During research, S3 came across some of the names on the list but there were also other names. Same context, different identities, suggesting Pearson’s list could be incomplete. We might be talking one, or a dozen …’

      ‘Or none?’

      ‘Possibly. But it’s wiser to assume the worst. We also believe that there is another list. A reciprocal list, if you like. A list of new identities for the names on the original.’

      She looked at Rosie. ‘Do you believe this?’

      ‘Of course.’

      It was impossible to tell whether she did or didn’t. Her tone and expression could not have been more neutral.

      Stephanie turned back to Alexander. ‘Assuming I get hold of these names, then what? Is Savic a contract?’

      ‘Not yet. He’s on the Limbo list. Nothing happens to him until we know, one way or the other, about the names.’

      So many lists. Life was a long list of lists. She wondered how many she was on. And whether she was on one or more of Magenta House’s. Probably. The Limbo list was rather like a credit rating; you never knew there was a problem with your own status until it was too late.

      ‘Supposing I find Savic but can’t get close.’

      ‘You’ll think of something, I’m sure.’

      ‘I’m serious.’

      ‘If all else fails, use your charm.’

      ‘The way you use comedy?’

      ‘A man like Savic will always find a use for a woman like Petra.’

       This is the worst part. Before Mark it never bothered me that much. Once I’m Petra I’ll be fine. Rosie once compared it to being an actor preparing for a role. She said that once you are performing you become the character. That’s not true for me. Petra isn’t a role. She’s me. And when I’m her I won’t have time to worry about Stephanie, which will be a relief.

       We’re in Kensington Gardens. It’s a beautiful, warm evening. Branches creak and leaves shuffle in the breeze, their tips just beginning to rust. The air cools quickly and has a taste to it, a sure sign of an imminent change in season.

       Mark’s arm is around my shoulder. I find its weight reassuring. I’m holding onto his fingers. My hand looks ridiculously small next to his.

       ‘Will you miss me?’ I ask him, immediately regretting it because it makes me sound needy.

       ‘From time to time.’

       I look up at him. ‘From time to time?’

       ‘Well, I’ll be pretty busy, I imagine. Pub crawls, football, poker nights …’

       ‘Not to mention Cameron Diaz’s hip flexor.’

       ‘Exactly.’

       ‘Bastard.’

       ‘Bitch.’

       We stop to kiss.

      We’ve had an idyllic day: a lazy morning in bed with Bloody Marys for breakfast, lunch at E&O, a restaurant on Blenheim Crescent, then a movie. This evening, when we get home, Mark will cook something simple for me. The wine we drink will be special: Cos d’Estournel 1989. This has become part of the pre-Petra routine. Mark knows how tense I get the night before I leave, even though he has no true idea why. We’ve never talked about it. We’ve never had to.

      When I was a child my mother did the vast majority of the cooking at home. Occasionally, though, my father, who was a poor cook, would make my favourite dish, spaghetti bolognese, for us. Except it wasn’t for us. It was for me. And he did it when he knew I was upset. He didn’t do it for the others when they were upset. Just me. And it was never because I’d made a scene. On the contrary. It was always when I was doing my utmost to hide it. Yet he could always tell. And spaghetti bolognese was his way of putting his arm around my shoulder without letting the others know.