‘Anton,’ Hilary says, drawing his attention back to her face, two spots of high colour in her cheeks. She’s staring at him intently, but her eyes are darting about, as if they cannot find a feature to settle on. Her grip around his wrist is clammy and hot.

‘What is it? What do you want?’ he asks, sounding irritable but really it is confusion that is blurring his thoughts, obscuring clarity.

Perhaps it was not shame or embarrassment he had glimpsed in Leah, but fear.

‘What do I want?’ Hilary asks, and the smile on her face falters. He is surprised to see shyness coming over her, as she says, almost coquettishly, ‘Why, you, of course. What else did you think?’

He pulls his hand free of her grasp and, still clutching Leah’s tray, he hurries down the stairs. She follows him, hot on his heels.

‘I’ve waited and waited,’ she tells him. ‘Why didn’t you send for me? Why didn’t you give me the sign?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he declares, panic starting to spread through him. There is an intensity about her that he wants to draw back from. It’s like standing too close to a fire.

‘We agreed that we would wait until you were free. Until the time was right. And it is right.’

He wants her out of his house, but balks at the idea of manhandling her out of the door. This woman was once his lover, yet the thought of touching her now makes him feel queasy and unclean.

She follows him into the sitting room, babbling about letters and promises, about recompense for deeds done, sacrifices made. He puts the tray down on the coffee-table while his mind races. He feels fenced in, cornered, and even though the room is large, the ceilings lofty, somehow the space shrinks with her in it, such is the force of her presence. The way she keeps coming at him with her words, her smile, those eyes hungry for something from him, but it’s hard to decipher just what she wants.

‘Hilary, please. I think you should leave.’

‘No,’ she tells him firmly. ‘We’ve waited nineteen years for each other. We cannot wait any longer.’