‘It seems a shame to give these away,’ she says, her tone changing abruptly, becoming businesslike, and he watches with dismay as she gets to her feet. ‘But the charity shop will be pleased.’

He watches her move away from the bed to resume her task. Outside the evening light is fading. Soon she will go.

‘Why don’t you keep them?’ he suggests, and she laughs suddenly.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Why not?’ He looks up at her appraisingly. ‘You’re about Charlotte’s height and size. They would fit you.’

He doesn’t tell her that at times she is so like his dead wife that it leaves him reeling.

‘Right now, they do. But soon I’ll be too big. And, anyway,’ she says, dismissing the notion with a quiver of discomfort, ‘it wouldn’t be right.’

‘They’re just clothes, dear.’

‘Jake wouldn’t like it,’ she says, a warning there.

Her eyes are kept deliberately on the task at hand, avoiding contact with his, and as he watches her folding the Diane von Furstenburg, annoyed by that reference to the meddling boyfriend, Anton is seized with a great longing to see her in it.

‘Here,’ he says, getting to his feet and taking the dress from her. ‘Allow me to show you. Just for a minute,’ he continues, countering the objection that flies up into her face. ‘Now, look, it’s a wrap dress, you see? Like this.’

He gets her to stand still. Then, taking his place behind her, he guides the dress over her shoulders, her arms slotting into the sleeves. She is wearing a T-shirt and skirt, light, flimsy materials – they barely show beneath the silk of the dress.

Guiding her to the bay window, he positions her in front of the long mirror. Her resistance is still there, but it’s waning now, and he can sense that she’s captivated by her reflection as he pulls the fabric around her, bending to her hip, then tying a loose bow.

‘There,’ he says.

He can see the bump now, the low swell of it beneath the patterned silk. His eyes glide over it, to the curve of her hip, the roundness of her buttocks. He is just a little behind her. Were he to take one step forward, he could press himself flat against her back.

‘Look how beautiful you are,’ he whispers, and he puts a hand to her hair, draws it softly away from her neck.

‘What’s going on here?’

She jumps away, and he sees the swerve of panic in her face – it corresponds with the sudden pounding of his heart.

Jake is in the doorway, his eyes dark with suspicion.

‘Nothing,’ she tells him, and Anton hears his own voice explain that Leah was helping him with his wife’s things.

‘Let’s go,’ Jake tells her, and obediently, she sheds the dress, and follows.