‘Ian says they’re going to get back to him in the next couple of weeks. And I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up,’ he adds, perhaps sensing her reserve, her caution, ‘but I could tell by the way he was talking that he thinks it’s in the bag. And this is Ian we’re talking about – he’s super-cautious. Almost as cautious as you!’

His excitement is infectious and they both laugh and she drinks from her water glass, allowing herself, just for a moment, to get caught up in his dream. What would it be like, she wonders, to have her boyfriend a successful actor? Even modest success would be life-changing.

He picks up the bottle and refills his glass. ‘Aren’t you drinking?’ he asks, noting her full glass, and she shakes her head.

‘I’m fine.’

‘All the more for me,’ he replies.

His happiness matters to her, in some ways more than her own, and she thinks of how charged he is these evenings after a shoot, the pump of adrenalin through his veins making him garrulous and full. Distantly, she hears the bleat of his phone from inside the flat, hopes he will ignore it, which he does, and for a few more moments, they talk about the opportunities such a career move would involve, allowing themselves to occupy the fantasy for a little while.

She decides to tell him as soon as the meal is over, after the table is cleared and they’re sitting, relaxing, looking up at the moon. But as he’s gathering up their plates, she hears the ringtone of his phone start up again, and when he goes inside, she hears the small clatter of the dishes on the counter, followed by Jake’s voice saying: ‘Hey there, what’s up?’

A warm breeze wafts across the patio carrying the scent of cigarette smoke from a neighbouring garden. From a few doors down, she can hear the clink of glassware, laughter, soft jazz in the background – Leah and Jake are not the only couple dining al fresco this evening – and she feels a warm glow of belonging, of community, that is both unfamiliar and welcome. Leah wonders briefly about the other people living on the street. Apart from the first day, carrying their furniture into the house, when that man had got out of his car to help them – Greg was his name – she hasn’t met or spoken to another neighbour. She has seen Greg’s wife walking past the flat, glimpsed her from the bedroom window. A small stout woman, being pulled along by a big dog on a lead, Leah had caught her glancing up at the house, with a harried look, as she rushed past. Leah remembers the way she had sat in the car that evening, something cold about her, stand-offish.

‘I know, but can I just talk to him for a sec?’