Her attention is caught by Jake’s rising tone, a whine of impatience in it. She sees him standing by the couch, his back to her, the phone pressed against his ear, and knows that he is talking to Jenna, his ex.

‘Okay, just calm down,’ he says, and Leah shifts in her seat, listening carefully now, alert to the change in his mood.

‘Fine,’ Jake says, a note of unhappy resignation there, and adds, ‘About fifteen minutes,’ then ends the call.

She watches him, the phone in his hand hanging down by his hip, the bend in his neck, before he straightens and turns. When he comes out on to the patio, there is an expression of apology on his face.

‘It’s Matthew,’ he tells her.

‘What’s happened?’

‘I don’t know. Some fight at school. He’s upset.’

On the occasions she has met him, Leah has found Matthew to be quiet to the point of stubbornness. A shy boy, he averts his gaze from her in a way that feels pointed. Even his interactions with his father seem strained and tense.

Jake sits down opposite her, reaches for her hand. ‘I’m sorry, babe. I hate to do this.’

‘It’s okay,’ she tells him, forcing herself to smile, forcing herself not to betray any disappointment. ‘You should go to him.’

‘It’s probably nothing, just Jenna overreacting.’

‘Really, it’s fine,’ she assures him. ‘You should call around there, make sure he’s okay. You know you’re not going to be able to think about anything else until you do.’

He squeezes her hand, smiles his apology. ‘I won’t be long. I promise.’

‘I’ll wait up.’

He kisses her quickly, then he’s gone, and the breath Leah has been holding releases. Another puff of warm air into the hot night. Alone once more, she sips from her water glass, fingers the petalled head of the rose, feels a tear roll down her cheek.

‘Stupid,’ she tells herself.

Stupid to feel this disappointment. Stupid to have allowed the evening to become so freighted with hope.

She shakes her head a little – a quick twitch – masters her emotions. He will be back soon, and she will be waiting with the wine and the soft night air, and then she will tell him. In the meantime she will wait. She goes indoors, into the bathroom where she wets a flannel with cold water and holds it to the back of her neck. In the bedroom, she kicks off her shoes and takes her book from the night-stand – Old School, by Tobias Wolff – a favourite that she rereads for comfort whenever she’s in need.

Back outside on the patio it seems darker, as if the sun has dipped lower and faster in her absence. She resumes her place, feels the quietness of the garden behind her, and something else – a low, whispery presence.