He was right, it was. The back of the house faced north. And the more I looked around, the more I liked what I saw. He’d hung his own pictures, which were modern and huge and cheerful, most unlike the gloomy Victorian oils in heavy gilt frames Michael favoured, and he’d flung colourful throws over the sofas and even the table. His papers and files were spread chaotically over a lovely deep red, fringed paisley shawl. The whole house, even the kitchen – the sofa had a cream linen throw – looked completely different and I was pleased. I told him so.

‘Oh really? I rather imagined you liked it the way it was since you’d clearly had it that way for years.’

‘My husband didn’t like change. He came from the sort of family who only decorate once in a generation.’

‘Ah, OK. Some grand, baronial pile in Scotland?’

‘No, a mock Tudor in Esher, I think. He just had delusions of grandeur.’ Josh glanced at me in surprise. There it was again, that unfiltered thought. ‘Sorry. I must stop speaking ill of the dead. It’s a habit I’ve rather got into and it’s very unattractive. Lead me to the ticking radiator.’

He opened the cupboard door to the boiler above the sink and turned on the heating. We listened. In a few moments, things began to get a bit ticky, as I knew from experience they would as it revved up, but also, if I turned it off, then quickly turned it on again, at length it would all calm down.

‘See?’ he told me triumphantly.

‘Yes, but give it a moment. Or even a few minutes. It usually stops.’

‘Not in my experience, but coffee? While we wait?’ He was going towards an attractive blue fifties-style kettle. Brown feet, I noticed. Tanned.

‘Please.’ And that did feel weird. Someone making me a coffee in my own kitchen. I perched on a stool.

‘I do that too,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Speak ill of the departed.’

I looked at him. ‘Oh – you mean …?’

‘Agathe. I try not to, but it’s so close to the surface, I sometimes can’t help it. And weirdly, it feels dishonest not to, even though it’s disloyal and people think badly of you, if you know what I mean.’

‘I do.’

‘I’d like to say we went our own amicable ways, but we didn’t. She buggered off with my best friend and I can’t forgive her for that.’

‘No. Nor him, I imagine.’

‘Nor him.’

‘So you lost both of them.’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose. But I hate them both anyway, so it’s fine.’

‘I’m sure you don’t really,’ I said gently.