He puts them on the grass, says: ‘I want to go through Charlotte’s things and I’m afraid. I’m rather dreading it. I wonder … Would you mind helping me with it? Not now, obviously. But some evening next week, perhaps.’

The request unsettles her. She puts a hand up to her face, draws a stray strand of hair away from her eyes. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if Mark helped you with that once he’s back? They’re his mother’s possessions after all.’

His face falls with disappointment, and for just a second she regrets her answer, wishes she could change it. Then he nods quickly, forces a smile. ‘Yes. Of course. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘No, that’s all right. It’s just …’

‘I quite understand.’

Then he says he’s getting tired. He picks up his cup and saucer, takes hers from her hands, and she watches as he goes back inside.

It is late in the evening when she gets home on Thursday. She had gone to the shops after work to pick up groceries, taking the trouble to buy a few essentials for Anton. It’s unclear to her whether he is ready, yet, for the outside world. Earlier today, she had a text from Mark: ‘Everything going okay?’ She had responded positively, reassuring him that Anton was fine, improving a little each day, but he didn’t reply. She has no idea of when he will be returning.

‘I haven’t heard you playing,’ Anton tells her that evening. ‘Not for a long time.’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’

‘But why not?’

She offers him a rueful smile. ‘My piano got water-damaged.’

He sits forward, his expression changing. He looks as if he’s been struck.

‘It’s no big deal!’ she says. ‘I’m sure it can be fixed. The tuner is coming the week after next.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. Then, seeing she’s about to shrug it off, he says firmly, more insistently, ‘No. I really am. Your piano. My God.’

He closes his eyes, puts his hand to his face. He looks anguished, so much so that she leans forward, touches his knee.

‘It’s just an old piano,’ she says softly, but his eyes fly open.

‘Your parents gave it to you. I know what it means to you.’

For a moment, she is too taken aback to speak. How does he know this? Did she tell him? She tries to think.

‘You must come upstairs and play mine,’ he tells her.

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’

‘You must,’ he says again, this time forcefully.

Then, softening his tone, he tries again: ‘Please, Leah. I would feel so bad if you didn’t. I would feel even more guilty than I do already.’