Afterwards, they sit at the new kitchen table, and sip coffee with the French windows open on to the patio, breathing in the morning air. The room is littered with cardboard boxes, some still waiting to be opened. They’d gone a little mad in Ikea. ‘Everyone does,’ Jake had assured her, after they’d returned home and her buyer’s remorse had set in.

Her salary is due on Friday, and when Jake’s shoot ends, there will be more money. Leah knows from experience how fragile her optimism can be. But she is determined not to let their new life together be spoilt by worrying over their finances. She has her position at the patents firm, and Jake’s getting work. There is always the option for him to pick up the odd courier job. They will be fine. We’re lucky, she tells herself. And then, because she has committed to being more open with him, she says it aloud: ‘We’re so lucky.’

Jake’s putting their cups on the draining-board, and wipes his hands quickly on his jeans. ‘Don’t I know it,’ he tells her, and grabs his bag from the sofa, looping the strap over his head and fixing it on his shoulder. ‘I’d better get going.’

He kisses her quickly, with a promise to call her later. He wheels his bike outside and she hears the front door closing behind him and knows she is alone.

There’s a sort of relief to the silence in his wake. Not that she doesn’t welcome the warmth and noise of Jake’s presence, but somehow Leah, so used to living a solitary life, feels more authentic – more at peace – when she’s alone. In the bathroom, she stands in the bath, and listens to the pipes gurgling as the shower above her splutters to life. She washes her hair, then combs it, and dresses for work. She is small-framed – like a bird, Jake says – and her work wardrobe consists of an assortment of plain dresses in muted colours. A light dusting of face powder and a dab of lip-gloss, before she slips on her shoes and checks her bag.

She has a few minutes to spare, and decides to use the opportunity to hang out the laundry. In the time it has taken her to shower and dress, the clouds have cleared and the sun is beating down, even though it’s only ten past eight. The wet clothes tumble out of the drum into her basket and she hurries outside, stepping up into the grass and through the garden to where the washing line is strung between two trees. She works quickly, pegging the things to the line, conscious all the time of the house behind her. She cannot resist taking small glances up at the windows.