It’s a little after eight when he hears the rattle of a diesel engine pulling up outside the house. A succession of noises tells him that his wait is finally over: the slamming of a car door; the squeal of the garden gate that’s been waiting patiently for the Three-in-One oil since the end of summer; the rapid double-click of a woman’s heels making their way up the slabbed pathway to the front door.

The doorbell rings.

He shivers, and then thinks, Idiot! She’s here to do a favour for a friend.

Despite the self-reproach, he can’t stop himself from checking his reflection in the long mirror before he steps forward and pulls open the door.

“Hello,” she says, smiling up at him. He’s forgotten how diminutive she is, only a few inches over five feet even in her heels, and so slight, he could scoop her into his arms with barely an effort.

“Hello there,” he says back, trying to portray a cool detachment he doesn’t feel.

“Sorry I’m late.” She’d told his wife that she’d be there by seven-thirty.

“No need to apologise.” He steps back, holds out an arm to invite her inside. “You’re the one doing me the favour.”

“I would have been on time,” she says as she passes him. Her perfume is light, evocative of citrus and sandalwood. Jasamber? In her right hand, she carries a cumbersome-looking bag that he assumes contains her sewing kit. He holds out a hand, but she doesn’t see it or chooses to ignore it.