During the week, William’s escape is Scudamore, but he quickly realised he needed something else for the weekend; to get him out of the house, out of himself. A poster for a Millais exhibition at the Tate Gallery got him there for the first time. One visit was all it took.

Big, beautiful and free; the Tate, the National Portrait Gallery and the V&A invite him in, to sit, to wonder, for as long as he wants. Paintings quickly become old friends to revisit, and no matter how long he spends strolling through the galleries, there is always something new to win his heart.

By ten o’clock on a Saturday, he’d usually be on a bus and on his way. But this morning, stepping onto the landing, the air feels still and cold, as if he’s the only one in. He washes, dresses, then runs lightly down the stairs, feeling the relief of solitude. He pulls some bread from the waxed paper bag, lights the grill and lays the slice under the popping flame, turning it just at the right time. There’s a new jar of the lime marmalade Mrs Finch sometimes buys because she knows he likes it.

He drops two spoons of tea into the dark earthy pot. He flicks on the radio and pulls the toast out; perfectly brown and crisp each side. His bare feet are warm and comfortable. Tony Bennett is singing ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco’ and the margarine is melting nicely on his toast. He sips the tea and wipes the crumbs from the counter before taking a bite of the bread. Leaning against the worktop, he hums, then sings softly, blending his voice with Tony’s, so used to not singing it feels transgressive. He sings louder, and it’s good to feel the vibration in his chest and throat.

He turns the radio up and takes his plate to go into the dining room.

Gloria stands in the hall in her coat, cheeks red from outside, delight all over her lovely face. ‘My God, William!’

‘Sorry!’ he says. ‘I didn’t hear you come in! I wouldn’t have made such a racket if I’d known I wasn’t on my own.’

‘Racket?’ she says quietly. ‘It was bloody beautiful!’

He smiles at the floor. She comes closer and touches his hand, seeking eye contact by dipping her face below his.

‘Talk about hiding your light under a bleeding bushel.’ She puts her bag on the floor, unbuttons her coat and swirls it off her shoulders, talking all the way down the hall to the coat hooks. ‘Why on earth aren’t you in a choir or something?’