‘You must be a spy,’ my father used to tell me. ‘Must be.’ He’d watched me as a child sneaking about with binoculars, hiding for hours in bushes and trees. I was the invisible girl; someone tailor-made for a secret life. ‘No, really I’m not,’ I’d say for the hundredth time. ‘I’m not!’ ‘But of course you’d say that.’ And he’d laugh delightedly, because there was no way I could persuade him otherwise.
