Her initial reaction was pain. A wounding rejection when all she had wanted was to reach out and show him she cared. That she loved him. Why on earth would he hurt her like this? But then, once she had taken time to think it through properly, to analyse what it meant, she realized why he had done this. It was painful for him. Of course it was! After all, she was on the outside while he was locked up, paying the ultimate price for their love. And what did it matter if they didn’t write to each other? It meant she would have so much more to tell him once he got out and they were together. She would store it all up – her thoughts, her feelings, the little things she knew would move him. She would save them. They would have the rest of their lives to tell each other these things, share all their different experiences, however hard or painful. She would wait.

It has been weeks, and still there has been no word from him. No sign. No indication. It keeps returning to her – that image of Leah in the window, wearing Charlotte’s dress. And every time she relives it in memory, she feels the same sucking in of breath, the same tension in her forehead. The way Anton had stood behind that woman, his hand reaching out for her hair. It meant nothing, Hilary tells herself, steeling her thoughts against her own anxiety. Once more she draws on her reserves of patience, feeling, as she does, that those reserves can’t last for ever. Very soon, they will run dry.

Now, Hilary looks out on the street, sees the lean figure of their neighbour, Jake, walking up from the tennis courts, a shopping bag in each hand. There’s something slumped about the young man’s posture. ‘Straighten up,’ she says quietly, as if he could possibly hear her. His glasses catch the light briefly as he looks up, then turns his gaze to the pavement once more.

Quickly, she slips on her shoes and hurries downstairs. She is across the road, affecting surprise to see him, by the time he reaches his gate.

‘Out doing some shopping?’ she asks brightly, and he glances up, transferring one of his shopping bags to his other arm and, with his free hand, puts a finger to his eye, presses behind the glasses.

Good God, has he been crying? Hilary wonders.

‘Hi, Hilary. Yes. Just getting a few bits and pieces.’

‘How is Leah? I haven’t seen her around much lately,’ she asks lightly, with a smile.

She notes the hesitation in his manner, the uncertainty in his air.

‘Actually, she hasn’t been very well,’ he says. Her attention sharpens. With an air of apology, of sorrow, he adds: ‘She lost a baby recently, you see.’