She watches as Greg picks up one end of the piano and between the two men, they carry it down into the house. Number 14. Anton’s house.

The woman stands back so they can pass, tucking a lock of stray hair behind her ear. There is a sort of dreamy self-absorption about her – a distracted quality – that makes Hilary rethink her initial architect/graphic designer conclusion. And something else – a familiarity, as if she’s someone Hilary might already have met. But before she can figure it out, the young woman picks up a chair from the pavement and disappears down to the basement, and Hilary is left alone.

The street is empty. No one there to witness the deep, cold stillness that has come over her.

It’s just a house, she tells herself, forcing her eyes to gaze up at it.

Concrete paving slabs, long given over to moss and weeds, lead to the stone steps. The front garden, which had once been carefully clipped and manicured, is choked with bindweed and briars, any semblance of order lost in the mists of time. The lower part of the house is being consumed by Virginia creeper. The upstairs windows appear fastened, the shutters open, curtains half drawn. Hilary’s mind travels to the rooms beyond, wonders at the cool, airy spaces inside, all that heavy furniture now shrouded in dust. The rooms crowd her memory, making her head ache, and then a voice whispers in her ear, ‘I just came to say I’m sorry,’ so close and so real, it raises goosebumps on her skin.

When the car door opens, she jumps with fright.

‘You all right?’ Greg asks, sitting in the driver’s seat, the car rocking a little beneath his weight. ‘I thought you’d come in to say hello.’ She feels him watching her expectantly. But she keeps her eyes fixed on their own house a little further up the road on the opposite side. A more recent addition to this otherwise Victorian street, in the lengthening shadows of evening, it looks small and squat next to its more imposing neighbours.

‘Another time,’ she says wearily. ‘Please, love. Let’s just go home.’

‘Jake and Leah,’ Greg tells her, as she puts together a salad, salmon fillets baking in the oven.

‘Are they married?’

‘I don’t think so. I get the impression they’re not together very long,’ he remarks, unscrewing the Riesling and pouring her a glass.

‘D0 you indeed?’ Hilary says drily, teasing him. ‘And how did you reach that conclusion?’

‘The way they looked at each other. The excitement between them. Remember that? The excitement at being together?’ He comes to stand behind her and she feels his chin rest upon her shoulder as she checks the boiling potatoes with a fork. He feels too close, and she turns her face, pecks him quickly on the cheek. ‘Here, help me with these plates,’ she instructs.