She takes her seat on the edge of the sofa near the door. From the kitchen, she can hear the clink of glasses, the gentle pop of the cork leaving a bottle. The tread of his slippers comes slowly down the hall, and when he enters the room, he gives her a melancholy smile, then hands her a glass. He has brought the bottle with him and places it on the coffee-table, then steps forward so that they can clink glasses.

‘Your health, my dear,’ he says, with benevolence, and she takes a cautious sip, leaning back a little into the sofa.

She expects him to sit in the armchair closest to her, but instead he stays on his feet, moving slowly to the marble mantelpiece. She watches as he reaches out to put his wine down on it. Through the foxed glass of the ancient mirror, she sees the reflection of his face. He looks tired, the lines running through his tan like deep grooves, harsher, more permanent than she remembers.

‘What made you decide to leave?’ he asks, in a speculative tone, still with his back to her, his gaze fixed on the wine glass, his fingers stroking the stem.

‘I don’t know. I just thought I should. I’ve been feeling so down. Maybe it might help.’

‘I thought I was helping,’ he tells her softly, and she hurries to reassure him.

‘Yes, of course you were. You’ve been amazing. But I don’t want to intrude on your kindness any longer. I can’t stay here indefinitely.’

‘Why not?’

‘Anton … I just can’t …’

He nods, still smiling, still not looking at her. There is an inwardness about his behaviour, a quiet containment, that does not feel quite right.

‘I went to the market this morning,’ he tells her, ‘while you were sleeping. I bought olives and salami, treats to tempt you. I had it all planned, that I was going to set up the table in the garden and spread out our little feast. In my head, it was perfect.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Her nerves are back again and she takes a sip of wine but it tastes sharp, too fruity and acidic.

‘What time are your parents expecting you?’ he asks lightly.

‘I said I’d get the evening bus.’

‘Ah.’

She glances towards the window. From the way the light falls through the glass, she can tell it is almost evening now, although with her phone downstairs, she cannot be sure of the time. The day seems stretched and elongated, as if time is passing too slowly for her to measure it accurately.

‘Actually, I should really get going, if I’m to make my bus,’ she says, putting her glass on the coffee-table.

‘But aren’t you waiting for Jake to come for you?’ He’s looking at her now, but still with that unnerving calm.