‘No need. I’ll get it all from Harvest Moon,’ said Pete. ‘Just bring yourself.’

*

The taxi continued up the hill and into Highgate. It had long been one of my favourite parts of London, one of the few places in the city that had maintained a village atmosphere. It was picturesque in all seasons, with the Georgian houses surrounding Pond Square, but particularly so now with the snow-covered trees that were twinkling with Christmas lights. We drove through the square, along the High Street, down the hill and at last I was home, a one-bedroom terraced house where I’d lived for the past ten years.

As I put my key in the door and stepped into the small porch, I was struck by how quiet it was in contrast to where I’d been for the last two weeks. The whole world and everyone in it had appeared to be out on the streets in India, a life where people spent so much of their time outside, as opposed to the closed doors and curtains sealing everyone inside in their homes in the winter in England.

The house was lovely and warm, a lamp on in the kitchen and a note propped up by the kettle. It was from Stuart. Welcome back to the snowy UK, it said. Milk, bread and a few provisions in the fridge. I’ve put on the heating. Get out your thermals! What a sweetheart he was. I’d given him a key because, after he’d heard about a recent spate of burglaries in the area, he’d been insistent about calling in from time to time while I was away to make sure everything was OK.

I had met Stuart almost a decade ago in the autumn, just after I’d moved into my house in Highgate. I had been out on the Heath with my dog Boris, and he had dug his heels in at the bin area by the gates and was refusing to move.

‘That’s how I feel some days,’ said a voice behind me, and I’d turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in a long herringbone overcoat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck. He was smiling at me while trying to control a golden Retriever puppy. He looked interesting, not conventionally good-looking, but there was something attractive about his features and I immediately felt drawn to him.

‘He will not budge,’ I said as I pulled on Boris’s lead. ‘I think I might have to carry him home.’

Stuart laughed. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘I know. I’d need a wheelbarrow.’ Boris was a big dog, a black German shepherd.

‘How old?’