‘We need to look like a couple,’ said Ingrid.

Dad nearly died of a heart attack. It was late on Sunday afternoon. He thought he had snuck out to his greenhouse unseen. He had been carefully repotting his tomato plants. But Ingrid’s silent arrival had so startled him, he jumped and threw potting mix all over himself.

‘Goodness, why?’ he wailed.

‘People will be watching,’ said Ingrid enigmatically.

Dad looked about at the inside of his greenhouse, checking for hidden cameras or even hidden people. ‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Who knows?’ said Ingrid with deadpan seriousness. ‘But they will be watching, taking photographs. If we make one mistake – that’s it.’

‘They’ll kill us?’ asked Dad.

‘No, they’ll deport me,’ said Ingrid.

‘Oh,’ said Dad. ‘Of course, that would be bad too.’

‘I will go in this mud race,’ said Ingrid. ‘You will come and cheer for me.’

Dad winced. ‘Do I have to? I hate sport. It seems so pointless and sweaty.’

‘Yes, you have to,’ said Ingrid. ‘It is a big event. Everyone in town will go. It will look odd if we’re not there. Your children are competing.’

‘I suppose watching children play sport is what normal parents do,’ said Dad to himself. He spent so much of his life worrying about being killed by enemy agents that he had not done much normal parenting. Constant fear of death was a good excuse, but children didn’t care about excuses. They wanted their parents to be like other parents, or at least not weirder than other parents. He really should make an effort. ‘Will it take long?’ He was thinking of his seedlings again. He didn’t like to leave them on a hot day in case they needed misting.

‘Hours,’ said Ingrid.

‘Oh,’ said Dad.

‘And when we are there together …’ said Ingrid. She paused because she knew he would not like what she had to say next. ‘We should hold hands.’

Dad dropped the pot he was holding. Now he had potting mix all over his feet. The poor young tomato plant lay prostrate on the concrete, but Dad didn’t even glance down.

‘Why on earth would we do that?’ he pleaded.

‘It’s what couples do,’ said Ingrid.

‘I never held my wife’s hand,’ said Dad.

‘Of course not,’ said Ingrid. ‘She was an international super spy. She needed to keep both hands free at all times in case of attack.’

Dad was taken aback. ‘She told me it was because I had dirty fingernails.’ He looked glumly at his short, stubby nails. Ever since his wife’s comment nearly two decades earlier, he had conscientiously scrubbed his nails and kept them clipped every day. But it must have been a lie. She wouldn’t have cared about dirt. She didn’t care about getting blood on her hands that time in the restaurant when she broke the assassin’s nose with her fist.

‘There will be no need for kissing at this stage,’ said Ingrid impassively.

‘Thank goodness,’ said Dad, clutching his chest as his heart started to palpitate at such a terrible thought.